Dear Prince Charming

by Donna Kauffman

  “It was an accident,” she protested, like it was something that could happen to anybody. “This past April when we had that freak snowstorm, he got filthy rolling in the mud in the backyard. The hose was frozen, so I had to wash him off in here.” She leaned back and pointed to the lever that operated the shower. “All you have to do is shift it to the left or the right for the water to come on. He’s so damn big it got knocked on and off over and over while I was trying to rinse him off. He’s not fond of baths, but when he saw the stream of water coming out of the faucet, that got his attention. He loves to drink out of the hose. It’s the only way I can keep him still long enough to get him washed outside.”

  “Good thing he doesn’t have opposable thumbs.”

  She quelled him with a look. “Anyway, when I was done washing him, I turned off the water and he nudged it back on with his nose. I made the grave mistake of laughing. It sort of became a game. One I could kill myself now for thinking was remotely cute. I’ve been meaning to get a plumber in here to put in a different fixture, but I haven’t had the time. So I just keep the door shut.”

  Jack wrung out another towel and tossed it in the tub. “Still, how did he flood it? Has he learned to put in the plug and take his own baths now, too?” A shame human-interest stories weren’t his venue. He could think of a half-dozen ways to play this story into an article.

  She leaned into the tub and pulled out another nasty-looking, chewed-on Frisbee. “He carries one of these with him everywhere. He comes in here, nudges on the water with his nose, drops the Frisbee so he can take a drink, and well, you can put the rest together.”

  “A shame you can’t teach him to take the Frisbee with him when he leaves.”

  “Oh, he tries.” She sighed. “But he’s afraid to put his nose underwater.”

  Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again when her eyes narrowed. She probably wouldn’t appreciate him falling over laughing right at the moment.

  The doorbell rang just then. “That’s Jenn. Dammit, look at this mess.” Valerie jumped up as the buzzer sounded again, then slipped as her feet went out from underneath her on the slick floor.

  Jack lunged from his crouching position just in time to grab her around the waist and prevent her from falling back into the heap of wet towels half-filling the tub. The momentum of her weight shift caused his feet to slip, sending them both crashing back onto the sink vanity so hard his head rapped soundly against the medicine-chest mirror.

  “Jesus Christ,” he swore, seeing stars as he tried to disentangle himself from her.

  Valerie grappled with his shirt and shoulders, trying to push off of him, only to cause him to groan when she inadvertently kneed him.

  “Sorry,” she said as the buzzer rang again. “I’m really sorry.” She slid away from him, but her feet hit a wet towel, sending her toppling right back into him.

  He grabbed her before she could move another inch. He wanted to at least have the option of having children one day. “Just hold on there a moment, okay?”

  She lifted her head and blew at the damp hair sticking to her face. “I feel like I’ve landed in the middle of a bad Three’s Company spin-off.”

  Despite the fact that his head was competing with his balls to see which could throb more painfully, he looked into those hazel eyes and found himself grinning. “That’s assuming there could be a good one?”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  He was painfully aware of where he had her, all right. “Of course, my name is Jack.”

  She smirked. “I guess that makes me Janet.”

  “Not Chrissy?”

  “My life is hard enough, thanks.”

  He laughed as the buzzer sounded again. “Sounds like Mr. Furley is getting impatient.”

  “Yeah, I imagine so,” she said, but neither of them made an immediate move. “You watch a lot of late-night television, do you?”

  “I log a lot of time in small foreign hotels. I can’t afford to be choosy. I count myself lucky if there is one English-speaking channel.”

  “I didn’t think it mattered what language Baywatch is broadcast in.”

  He just grinned. “True, very true.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Men.”

  “Yeah, I know. We can’t help it. Ogling women in revealing red bathing suits is programmed into our DNA.” Gripping her hips, he carefully set her on her feet. “But, hey, what would you do without us?”

  She straightened her now damp and rumpled suit. “Well, with a big enough battery supply, probably quite well.”

  Choking on a surprised laugh, Jack stared after her as she left the room and tiptoed across the damp hall runner to the living/dining room area, on her way to the front door. “Not a bad exit line. Not bad at all.”

  He checked in the mirror to see if there was a lump at the back of his head. Sucking in his breath as blood flow was once again restored to the rest of his aching body parts, he finished surveying the damage to himself and the rest of the bathroom.

  It occurred to him, as he finished mopping up and putting the remaining wrung-out towels in the tub, that spending time in the company of Valerie Wagner was quickly becoming a full-contact sport. The kind that made a guy wish for a helmet and knee pads. Not to mention a cup.

  But despite being a bit on the bony side, not to mention a half-foot shorter, Valerie’s body had still managed to line up quite nicely with his.

  He heard her talking to another woman in the front room, which mercifully diverted his mind from the Path to Peril. True, it had been a while for him, but surely he could find some diversion other than one that entailed getting involved with the woman in whose bathroom he was presently standing. One that was more his speed of late. Meaning blonde, built, and not prone to long discussions. Rational or otherwise.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, brushed at jeans he’d pulled on before leaving his place, which were now soaked from the knee down. He smoothed out his splotchy wet T-shirt, then stopped when he realized what he was doing. Primping. He was not a primper. Besides, how he looked now didn’t matter. They were going to have at him, anyway.

  It was the only instance he could imagine where the prospect of letting two women do with him what they willed didn’t excite him. Three’s Company, indeed.

  “Jack?” Valerie called out. “Don’t worry about the mess. Come meet Jenn. She’s a big fan,” she added, half-announcement, half-warning.

  Or perhaps only Jack had heard it that way. Whatever the case, the news had him pausing in his tracks. He’d dug out Eric’s books yesterday, thinking he’d skim through them, just as a precaution. He’d yet to crack a spine. It was a freaking photo shoot. How tough a test could that be?

  The first inkling of what he’d truly gotten himself into hit when he stepped into the living room and Jenn’s mouth dropped open with a gasp.

  “Omigod,” she gushed, “I can’t believe I’m meeting the real Prince Charming. Wow . . . you’re . . .” She turned to Valerie, all openmouthed smile and wide eyes. “Women are going to eat him alive.” She laughed and looked back to Jack, all five feet of her quivering in excitement. “Sorry, no offense.” She took out her tape measure, flipped off the rubber band, and unfurled it with a snap. “But, damn, you’re going to be fun to dress.” And undress, if the somewhat glazed look in her eyes was any indication.

  Under normal circumstances, Jack would have been all for this apparent bonus. But even he drew the line at taking women to bed under false pretenses, which included letting them think he was someone he wasn’t. Of course, there was nothing to stop him when the photo shoot was over. . . .

  And that’s when it hit him.

  It must have registered on his face, because Valerie frowned and said, “Is something wrong?”

  “Can I see you in the kitchen for a minute?” He looked to Jenn. “This won’t take long.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but turned and hightailed it into the other room. It was probably a good thing he hadn’t driven over here tod
ay, because debt to Eric or no, he was about two seconds away from running screaming into the street, hailing the first cab he found, and heading straight to National Airport. Destination: Anywhere but here.

  “What’s the matter now?” Valerie asked as she stepped carefully over the wet towels still lying on the kitchen floor.

  “I can never tell anyone. Ever. Can I?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He paced the narrow aisle between the counters, stopping long enough to stare at lounge-prone Gunther, before pacing back to her. “Lying,” he said, stopping right in front of her. “I don’t make a practice of it.”

  “Good,” she said, obviously not following him.

  “I might not be the guy women take home to Mama—which is fine by me—but I’m not a cheat and I’m not a liar.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s bothering you specifically.”

  “Women. Specifically women who come to know me as Prince Charming.” He folded his arms. “Just what kind of circulation do you think this magazine is going to have?”

  “Wait, back up. You mean, what if women recognize you as Prince Charming?”

  “This deal is supposed to be one photo shoot of me, and Eric gets to keep his job and get a personal life. Done, game over. Except, judging by your friend Jenn’s reaction in there—”

  He saw the light dawn in her eyes. “Oh. You think you’ll have to pretend to be Prince Charming—”

  “Forever.” He waited through several seconds of silence, hating the edge of panic welling inside him when she didn’t immediately say something to squash his concerns.

  She bit her bottom lip. “I— Didn’t you say you worked mostly overseas? In . . . remote areas?”

  His eyes bugged. “What?”

  “Quarter-million once the subscription service kicks in,” she said quietly. “And that’s just the U.S. and Canada. Glass Slipper’s circulation,” she added when he looked confused. “Although, you know, Eric’s only signed on for the first six issues.”

  “You’re saying readers will forget what he looks like.”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “What?”

  “Well, yes, they probably will. Enough that you wouldn’t necessarily be recognized on the street. At least not the crowded ones.”

  He was going to have a heart attack. Right here in her kitchen. “Except?” He’d heard the hesitation in her tone.

  “Except as our spokesperson—our well-paid spokesperson—we expect to get some mileage out of his face. He’s—you’re—a good-looking guy. It’s a known fact that women enjoy looking at good-looking guys. I think Jenn’s reaction more or less proved that point. So we’d probably run a photo of you with his column.”

  He took up pacing again. “Okay, okay. So it’s six months, then.” He could get a job as a stringer somewhere overseas for that long. Hell, he’d shuck prawns in Portugal if it meant getting the hell out of here for the duration of his little lie.

  “Well . . .”

  He spun around. “Well? What well? Eric said it was six months.”

  “Six issues. We’re bimonthly.”

  “A year?” He raked his hand through his hair. “Fine, fine. But still, it’s only one cover.”

  “Plus the photos we’ll run with his column.”

  “Yank those.”

  She just stared at him.

  “It’s my life here, too, Valerie. I don’t want to have to lie to people outright if I get stopped in the street.” He looked at her. “Eric’s sold millions without ever revealing his face, surely your magazine will do just fine without mine in every single issue.”

  She sighed. “I don’t really have control over that, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You do that. Let’s get this circus over with.” He went to move past her, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. It was the closest they’d been since she’d been sprawled all over him in the bathroom.

  “One thing,” she said.

  He looked from her hand on his arm to her eyes. He wished he saw more confidence there; in him, in this whole arrangement. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. “What?”

  “I need you to stay here.”

  “Excuse me? I’m supposed to hide in your house? What for?”

  “No,” she said, “I didn’t mean here as in my place. I meant here as in the U.S. Preferably in the D.C. metropolitan area. When the magazine comes out, I can’t predict exactly what the demands on Eric are going to be. You know I’m going to do my best to deflect them, but I can’t very well go turning down every promotion opportunity that might spring up. I am their publicist, after all. How would I explain that to the godmothers?”

  “You said it was one photo shoot.”

  “I’m going to do my best. I promise.” She held his gaze. “But that’s all I can promise.”

  He lowered his arm and her hand dropped away. “Then you’d better hope like hell your best is damn good.”

  Character

  How a man dresses can tell you a little. A man’s comfort in his own skin can tell you a lot. The tux doesn’t make the man. The man makes the tux.

  Chapter 6

  The following morning Valerie paced outside the dressing area, waiting for Jack to emerge. The photographer and his two assistants were almost done setting up. The godmothers had yet to arrive. And Eric and Jenn were taking forever to ready Jack for the first series of shots. At this rate, they’d need the use of the loft for the entire day. “What’s the holdup?” she called past the screens that had been set up to section off a changing area. “Nigel is ready and waiting.” And charging us out the ass for the pleasure.

  Of course, getting the famous Nigel Cole to shoot the cover had been the second feather in her war bonnet. She’d only dared to ask him because, well, you don’t get anything if you don’t ask. To her shock, it turned out Nigel was a closet Prince Charming fan. Which was pretty much the only thing Nigel had left in the closet.

  “No holdup,” Eric assured her as he strolled out from behind the screens. “He’ll be out in two shakes.” He grinned. “Just don’t ask me what he’s shaking.”

  She and Eric had been working together this morning for a couple of hours, and yet Valerie still had to work not to stare. Although staring was at least a step up from the jaw-dropping gape she’d delivered when they’d met up at her place at the crack of dawn. But then, how could she have predicted such a major transformation would take place in under forty-eight hours?

  Instead of the more typical Eric look of pleated Boss trousers, tan leather Shelleys, and a crisp Pierre Cardin button-down, he was wearing obscenely snug black D&G leather pants, along with a washed fuchsia Dsquared2 knit pullover that was bonded to his skin like, well, skin. His boyishly tousled mane was gone, clipped down to a close crop that hugged a beautifully shaped skull, except for a bit right in the front. The spiky-bang look lived. And worked. He’d gone from George Clooney to George Michael. During his really hot phase.

  I want your sex, indeed, Valerie caught herself thinking.

  Jenn’s face popped into view just then, around the side of one screen.

  “Please tell me you’re done,” Valerie pleaded. Three cups of coffee might not have been the best idea. Her nerves were humming along a live wire and she couldn’t shake the feeling that the words lying fraud were blinking over her head. In bright neon. She told herself she’d feel better once the shoot was under way. And better still if that could happen before Mercedes, Vivian, and Aurora showed up. As long as Jack was trapped in front of Nigel’s lens, they could only admire him from afar. And the more afar, the better for Valerie.

  “We’re done,” Jenn assured her. Even with her serious Tina Fey glasses on, she still looked like a twelve-year-old pretending to be a grown-up. “Okay, a little warning first.”

  Valerie’s nerves twanged. “What?”

  “Nothing bad, stop stressing, will ya? You know I would never let you down. He�
�s perfect. What could go wrong?”

  If only you knew, Valerie thought. But, of course, Jenn didn’t know. No one knew. Except Eric, Jack, and Valerie. Valerie and her big, stinkin’ neon sign.

  She and Jenn had been at Vanity Fair together. Jenn looked twelve, but she had the fashion sense of an industry elder. She’d been responsible for putting Hugh Grant in leather and metal mesh, shattering his casually suave Brit look for good. Shockingly, for the better. One of VF’s best-selling issues, landing Hugh his first action-adventure-hero leading role. Who would have guessed? Then it was Russell Crowe in Harris tweed, posed in an English day garden, and she was off to the races.

  Jenn became synonymous with image-breaking covers. Photographers loved to work with her. Even Nigel. And while Valerie might be short on lifelong friends, she figured she made up for it with a list of industry contacts that would make most editors weep. So when she’d heard through her personal grapevine that Jenn was looking for a new challenge, Valerie had lobbied for her with Vivian, once a fashionista to the stars herself. A third feather and the completion of a to-die-for triumvirate.

  At the moment, dying sounded like a less painful alternative to what she might be about to face. “We all know you like to tweak things,” Valerie began, “and you’re brilliant at it. But we both agreed yesterday during the fitting that you’d let me have my more traditional cover and then you could play with the file shots we want for upcoming features.”

  Frowning now, Jenn emerged completely from behind the screen. In baggy cargo pants and a tiny tee, she didn’t look old enough to baby-sit. “You wanted me; you got me. All of me. Last-minute inspirations included.” She held up her hand. “Don’t pitch a fit until you see him.”

  “We’ve only got the space until three. Nigel’s schedule is—you’ve worked with him before; I don’t have to tell you. I thought we agreed on the fairy-tale thing. The tuxedo, the hair, the works. How hard—”