Dear Prince Charming

by Donna Kauffman

  “I don’t see where anything could go wrong,” Eric added. “Glass Slipper readers will get everything they want.”

  What Valerie wanted was a handful of Advil. Preferably with a bourbon chaser.

  Appropriate attire

  Men don’t care about fashion. Not really. Oh, they’ll care enough to look halfway decent when they’re wooing you into bed. They’ll even let you dress them up and take them out, if it makes you happy. But don’t be fooled. Behind every man who’s out there in killer Hugo Boss, there is a closet back at home, filled with ratty flannels and faded T-shirts. And if you’ve any doubt which he holds more dear . . . just try donating his college sweatshirt to Goodwill.

  Chapter 4

  “Come in,” Jack called out when he heard the door buzzer. He remained standing in front of his bedroom closet. “I’m back here.”

  He yanked a few shirts from the rack and threw them on the bed behind him. Propping his hands on his hips, he stared in disgust at the clothes left dangling in front of him. He had exactly one suit. He hadn’t worn it since he went to his ex-wife’s grandfather’s funeral five years ago. It hadn’t been all that stylish then.

  “I’m thinking this is why Queer Eye for the Straight Guy hit big,” he said, hearing the front door close. “I’m definitely not the fashion-horse type. And what is up with that, anyway? What happened to my old buddy who wore sweats with the knees blown out, and that ragged-out Penn State sweatshirt of your dad’s until it literally fell off of you.” He looked at the clothes on his bed. “I could identify with that guy. I am that guy. Now I come home and you’re wearing things with pleats and cuffs. You auditioning for the show or something?”

  “I can’t say, really,” came a woman’s voice from the doorway. “It could just be that he grew up after he graduated college.”

  Jack leaned back so he could see around his closet doors. “Valerie?” He stepped over a pile of clothes on the floor, but didn’t bother kicking them into the closet. Given that his bed looked like a rummage sale at the moment, it was a little late for that pretense. “I, uh, sorry. I was expecting Eric.”

  She let her gaze skim over him, an amused smile curving her lips.

  He didn’t have to look down to know he was wearing faded Champion sweats and his old college football T-shirt. “It’s Sunday. These are normal Sunday guy clothes.” He folded his arms. “So, what are you doing here?”

  Her only reaction to his less-than-hospitable tone was the very slight lift of one perfectly plucked brow. He’d only just met her yesterday, but he’d already neatly categorized Valerie in the Jack Lambert Ranking System. She came in as Interesting, but not my type.

  Like last evening, she was wearing a seriously tailored suit that was all business. Although he had to admit there was a hint of that Jessica Rabbit fantasy. Something to do with the way the jacket was cut to fit at the waist, and the demure, below-the-knee skirt cupped her backside just enough to make sure a man knew she had one. Hmm.

  Yet even with the help of a very good tailor, she wasn’t exactly all that curvy, top or bottom. And she was a brunette. He generally went for blondes. Shelby was a brunette. ’Nuff said.

  But that wasn’t why he’d moved her off the Possible list and put her firmly in the Not worth the grief category. First, he was dealing with quite enough at the moment without complicating things with sex. And no matter what the women who wrote those letters to Eric claimed, sex always complicated things. Of course, Jack hadn’t been all that thrilled to admit he’d finally discovered a situation that wasn’t worth complicating. Just a little. It had made him feel . . . old.

  “I’m here to help you pick out your clothes for the shoot.” She glanced at the bed, then stepped forward and peeked inside his closet. “Not a moment too soon, it appears.”

  And then you had to factor in her mouth.

  She reached past him and pulled out a faded football jersey that was missing most of both numbers, and part of one shoulder looked like it had been run over by a lawn mower. She glanced at him. “And you went to the trouble to hang it up and everything.”

  Case closed.

  Which didn’t explain why he smiled anyway as he took the shirt from her. “I’ll have you know,” he said mildly, as he hung the jersey back in his closet with the care one might give an outrageously expensive designer piece, “that I have had that shirt since I was in the tenth grade. It belonged to Misty Berlanger’s older brother Todd, who played cornerback for the Philadelphia Eagles. She gave it to me on our third date.”

  “Ah,” Valerie said, “a sports relic.”

  “Not a fan, I take it.”

  “On the contrary, I enjoy lots of sports. I’ve followed the Bulls for years. I just don’t find I need to memorialize them with apparel.”

  “Yeah, Misty thought I took it because I was an obsessed fan.” He rubbed his thumb down along one sleeve. “But, honestly? I kept it because she used to sleep in it.”

  It was probably unwise to provoke her—the Ranking System never lied—but Jack had to admit he enjoyed seeing that little punch of awareness when he glanced back at her. The kind of awareness that made her pupils dilate a little. Made her glance at his bed.

  He tried to ignore the fact that the little punch had gone both ways. Since he and Shelby had parted ways, he’d kept things light and easy with the women who wandered into his life. He’d maxed his painful breakup quota for the decade. Maybe a lifetime. And he doubted a woman like Valerie Wagner would be either light or easy.

  The interesting thing was that that was exactly what had grabbed his attention in the first place. Something about that take-charge attitude and I-know-what’s-best demeanor of hers. Rather than sending him running in the opposite direction like it should have, there was some perverse element between them that made him want to shake up her carefully controlled demeanor. Muss it up. Just a little.

  “The gift that keeps on giving,” she said wryly, recovering quickly. So quickly he almost thought he’d imagined the brief moment. Almost. Apparently, she wasn’t any more interested in the unexpected chemistry here than he was. That shouldn’t have provoked him. Really it shouldn’t.

  She shifted past him and flipped through a few other equally ancient shirts. “I understand keeping old clothes for sentimental reasons. But you do realize that doesn’t preclude a person from buying new things.”

  “That’s one of the great things about my line of work. I don’t generally have to dress for it.”

  “How . . . comfortable.” Her lips curved a little. “You must invest in a lot of sunscreen.”

  Score one for the lady, he thought, intrigued and not wanting to be. So, it wasn’t that he was suddenly turned on by minimally curvy brunettes in uptight suits. It was that he was suddenly turned on by this minimally curvy brunette with the sharp gaze and even sharper verbal skills. Talking with her was sort of like competing at some kind of sport.

  And he really loved sports.

  “I meant there isn’t much I can’t do in khaki shorts, jeans, and a handful of T-shirts. Which is fine by me.” He glanced at what he’d flung into piles. “But I’m guessing it’s not exactly cover-model material.”

  She looked at the messy heap on the floor, and the scatter of stuff on his bed—which he’d fortunately remembered to make. Well, he’d thrown the spread over the tangle of sheets, anyway. “Not exactly,” she agreed with a little sigh. “But that’s not going to be a problem. Eric already warned me about the probable status of your closet—though I see he was a bit kind in his assessment—which is why we have an appointment with Glass Slipper stylist Jenn Porter an hour from now.”

  “Stylist?” Jack frowned. “You know, I need to warn you, shopping—unless it’s for items electronic in nature—ranks about one step above Chinese water torture on my list of fun things to do.”

  “I’d ask what you know about Chinese water torture, but for some reason, I’m afraid I’d actually get an explanation.”

  He couldn’t help i
t, she made him laugh. “Yeah, but it would be rational and simplistic.”

  Her smile was wry. “And here I thought I was the one who could talk anyone into anything.”

  “So, your specialty is coercion? I shouldn’t be surprised. If I didn’t know better, I’d have assumed you’d used a completely different set of persuasive powers to convince Eric to ditch his mystery-author guise.”

  “Such a flattering depiction,” she said archly. “And ever so sexist.”

  “Not sexist, just honest. And it’s not exclusive to women. Men and women both use what tools they were born with to get what they want. Why waste them?”

  “Why, indeed? I suppose you think I should be flattered you think I have such weapons at my disposal.” She smiled sweetly and said, “But just so there’s no confusion . . . or anticipation on your part, gender preference notwithstanding, I’ve never had to resort to that particular MO to get what I want.”

  He supposed he’d asked for that one. Score two for the lady, he thought, deciding it would be wise to call the game over now, before he did anything really foolish, like keeping her in play. His Ranking System had kept his hide—and heart—intact for three years. Not to mention what was left of his bank account.

  He lifted his hands in surrender. “No offense meant, honest. A weapon is a tool is a business asset. As long as no one gets hurt and everyone understands the rules . . . no harm, no foul, right?”

  “Sort of like All’s fair in love and war?”

  He smiled. “Something like that. And considering what you’ve got me signed up for, you’re obviously skilled at deploying your arsenal.”

  “You’re not in this because of any weapon or asset I wielded. You’re in this because you owe some kind of debt to Eric.” Then she flashed him a smile. “But I will thank you for pointing out that I do, indeed, have an arsenal. Just don’t fool yourself into thinking they have to be sexual in nature to get the job done.”

  He laughed. “What I’m thinking is that you’re very good at your job.”

  She turned her attention back to the clothes on his bed. “Well, that remains to be seen. What doesn’t remain to be seen is you in anything on this bed.”

  There was nothing suggestive intended in the comment, but he couldn’t stop the image from popping up anyway. Of her, wearing nothing, on his bed. An image that was swiftly, and far too easily, replaced with one of the two of them, rolling on the bed, tangled in his clothes and sheets. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, I never said I was model material. Far from it, in fact.”

  She caught the look he sent her way, and then held it just long enough to make him wonder if she’d suspected where his mind had gone. The worst part was, he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to suspect or not.

  Then her all-business smile surfaced and the moment vanished. “Well, we’re about to take care of all that.”

  “That’s what scares me.”

  “All’s fair,” she reminded him, eyes twinkling.

  Her eye color was no definite shade of anything, and yet in that moment he found himself thinking they were really pretty. He shook that off and held his hands out in front of him, wrists up. “Take me to your stylist. Just be gentle with me.”

  She laughed. “You know, you’re a very interesting man.”

  “Interesting how?”

  “I’m not sure. You’re like an odd amalgamation of every guy I’ve ever known.”

  “You say that like it’s not a good thing.”

  The corner of her mouth kicked up. “I didn’t say which parts you were an amalgamation of.”

  “Ah.”

  She held his gaze for another moment—a moment that once again went on a shade too long. They definitely had to get out of this room. The close proximity to his bed was radically affecting his ability to maintain rational thought. He really should have stuck around in Dubai long enough to take that WTA trainer up on her offer of some personal massage therapy. At the moment, however, he couldn’t even remember what she looked like.

  Valerie looked away first. “Well, why don’t I just wait out in your living room while you change,” she said brightly. Too brightly. “Then we’ll go and see what damage we can do to Glass Slipper’s expense account.”

  “That’s really not necessary.”

  “We’re already asking a great deal of you. Trust me, we don’t expect you to fund the wardrobe as well.”

  “No, not that. I just realized that the whole stylist thing isn’t necessary.” Because there is a God, he added with a silent prayer of thanks. “Eric is bringing some stuff of his that he thinks will work. He’s a little taller, but we’re roughly the same size. He should be here any minute.”

  “Actually, no, he won’t. I was able to reschedule the magazine interview for today, which he’s doing by phone from his place right now. I’m here in his place. I have a pretty good idea what the godmothers are going to want. A very good idea, in fact.” She patted the briefcase-sized satchel she wore over one shoulder. “I brought all my notes.”

  “Notes?” He eyed the bulging side pocket she’d patted. “It’s just a few pictures, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a bit more than that, but don’t worry. We’ve got it all planned out. Fortunately, we have a number of ideas on how to achieve the look we want. I spoke with them this morning and talked over the whole idea of using this one shoot to get a number of photos for upcoming issues.”

  “Them. You mean the godmothers?”

  She nodded. “I slanted my suggestion toward budget concerns and how it would be to our advantage to get as much on Monday as we could. It will give us a great deal of latitude with upcoming features, as well as allow us more flexibility with promotional opportunities if we don’t have to schedule a shoot every time some prospect presents itself. Mercedes was a little skeptical, but in general I think I’ve got them behind me. They were definitely intrigued by the whole keep-the-mystique-going thing. We have the studio booked for four hours, but I imagine it could run longer than that, depending on how often they intervene.” She gave him a wry smile. “You can count on that being fairly often.”

  “They’re going to watch the whole shoot?” He swallowed against a little knot that had formed in his throat. This was getting more real by the second.

  “You didn’t think they were going to let their half-million-dollar boy get his picture taken without them calling every shot, did you? You don’t know the hoops I had to jump through to get Eric signed without them actually meeting. If it wasn’t for the way he charmed them on the conference calls, especially Aurora and Vivian—damn, I should have brought those tapes with me.” She waved that off. “No problem, I’ve got them at home. Remind me to give them to you. That way you can go through them tonight, get up to speed on everything that was discussed.”

  “You have tapes of their phone calls?”

  “Absolutely. Considering what’s at stake, it was best to cover all the bases so everyone knows what everyone else said or agreed to. There’s not that much to go through, really.”

  Jack grabbed a shirt from his bed and jammed it back on a hanger. More because he had a sudden need to keep busy, to stamp out the nerves that were climbing into his gut and forming a tight, queasy ball, than because he was compelled to straighten up. “So, Eric charmed them, huh?” He chuckled lightly. It came out sounding more like a gurgle. “He always was the smooth one.” He turned to face her, mangling a sweatshirt in his hands. “Do you really think the women of America will revolt if they find out he’s gay?”

  She frowned. “You can’t have second thoughts. Not now.”

  “I’m not. Not really,” he added when she folded her arms. “It’s just, advice is advice, right? Why should they care?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You really have been out of the country, haven’t you?” She snatched the sweatshirt from his hands and swiftly folded it, placing it on the bed before picking up another one.

  Bemused, he said nothing. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one b
attling nerves. Of course, her career was on the line here, too. Only she wasn’t the one standing in front of the cameras.

  “You have to understand the reputation he’s built up with his readers,” she said. “They worship him specifically because he is a man above all men to them. The man who could sweep them off their feet and carry them over the threshold. And trust me, they want that threshold to lead to a bedroom somewhere. Even if they were willing to forgive and forget, the media certainly won’t. He’d be talk-show fodder for weeks.” She shook her head. “And Glass Slipper magazine would be a joke. Not to mention the damage it could cause to the godmothers’ core business.”

  Jack let out a heavy breath. “I knew his books sold really well, but I guess I never really grasped—”

  “He shipped five hundred thousand copies in hardcover and one-point-two million trade copies on his last title. And that’s just domestic.”

  Jack whistled. “Damn.”

  “Exactly. When you couple his selling power with the mystique surrounding his true identity, well, we have no doubt he’ll be worth every penny we’re paying him. The sales force is almost giddy with the orders they’re taking.” She looked at him. “I’m surprised you didn’t know all this. You two have been friends a long time.”

  “I travel a lot. He’s holed up writing.” He lifted a shoulder, but he couldn’t help but feel a little pang of confusion, guilt, maybe. He knew Eric better than anyone on earth, and yet it was like they were discussing a stranger. “He’s a modest guy. We don’t talk business much. I knew he was doing well, but I honestly had no idea just how well.”

  “Do you read his books?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I buy them, you know, to support him. He knows I don’t read that stuff. We joke about it.”

  “Stuff,” she repeated. “Your act being so together you don’t need relationship advice from time to time?”

  He’d scooped up the rest of the clothes, intent on heaving them into the closet, figuring he’d deal with them later. He paused at her question, the wry note in her voice, then shot her a grin. “With women? No.”