Operation Prince Charming

by Phyllis Bourne

  “I’m a mountain climber,” Samantha squealed.

  Ali watched in horror as the little girl lost her grip and fell backward. “Oh my God!” she gasped, charging toward her.

  In what seemed like slow motion, the man extended his arms and a laughing Samantha fell into them, seconds before she would have slammed onto the hardwood floor.

  “You okay, kiddo?” He set the child back on her feet.

  “Yeah!” Samantha said. “Wanna catch me again?”

  “I think you’d better save your climbing for the monkey bars. You don’t want to give me or your teacher here a heart attack.”

  Still shaking, Ali recovered enough to snatch Samantha into a hug. “You scared me.” Ali gave the little girl a tight squeeze.

  “Hey! Those are my cookies,” Samantha yelled over Ali’s shoulder at another child, oblivious of the near miss. She squirmed and Ali reluctantly released her.

  “I told you he was Prince Charming,” Tiffany said. Hero worship shone in her eyes as she looked up at the detective.

  Ali followed her gaze and for a split second wished she could indulge the same childlike belief, but her ex had forever tainted any romantic fantasies of handsome princes or happily-ever-after.

  “Seems you have your hands full,” Detective Coleman said, moving in the direction of the door. “I’ll just let you get back to work.”

  Oh, no, you don’t.

  Ali had no intention of letting him get away or returning the fat payment for his classes already deposited in the school’s account.

  She spotted some of the girls’ mothers walking through the door.

  “My office is the second on the left, Detective,” she said pointedly.

  The corner of his mouth tugged upward in the hint of a smile.

  “Wow! Who was that?” Tiffany’s mother asked, practically drooling as he walked past her.

  “My next appointment,” Ali said.

  The mom beside her raised an eyebrow. “Lucky you.”

  Lucky? Ali nearly laughed aloud.

  In her experience, fine men didn’t bring luck. All they’d ever brought her was trouble.

  What in the hell are you doing here?

  Hunter dropped into a chair in Alison Spencer’s office.

  “Trying to keep your relationship from going up in smoke,” he muttered, ignoring the tiny voice inside him whispering it might already be too late.

  Lingering irritation from the other morning sparked up in him, but he mentally extinguished it. Erica’s good sense would eventually return.

  Clinging to the memories of the old Erica, his Erica, was the only way he could justify returning to the Spencer School of Etiquette, almost three decades after he and his brother had been kicked out.

  He’d braced himself for the unpleasant task of facing the strict, no-nonsense woman who’d run the school for as long as he could remember, but luckily she hadn’t been there.

  Unfortunately, his chance to escape had been thwarted.

  Resigned to his fate, he glanced around the office. Sunshine streamed through windows so clean they practically sparkled, bathing the small space in light. The office, as well as the rest of the old building, was immaculate. The worn hardwood floors gleamed, and the faint scent of lemon cleanser tinged the air.

  His eyes roamed over a shelf of books behind an antique, polished wood desk. Several bearing Alison Spencer’s name on the spine caught his eye. His curiosity aroused, he walked over and plucked one from the shelf.

  “Manners Count”, he murmured.

  He flipped it over and a photograph of the woman he’d just met smiled serenely at him from the back cover. Her hair fell in glossy curls around her shoulders, and a string of pearls encircled her neck. She wore a sweater in a shade of pink so bright it seemed blinding. However, something about the rich, honey tones of her caramel skin made it work for her.

  Hunter skimmed the short bio beneath the photo.

  Author and south Florida lifestyle columnist, he read, and wondered what had brought her to Tennessee. He shrugged as he placed the book back on the shelf and picked up the one beside it.

  “Manners Count II: Turning Men into Gentlemen.” He read the title aloud and began thumbing through it. He stopped at a chapter on television protocol. The words relinquish and remote control jumped out at him, along with the phrase turn off the sports channel.

  Hunter snapped the book shut and took another look at Alison Spencer’s likeness on the cover jacket. “How am I going to get through three weeks of this shit?”

  “Sounds like we have our work cut out for us, don’t we?” a feminine voice said from behind him.

  Aww, hell, Hunter groaned inwardly. He turned around slowly still holding the book in his hand. Alison Spencer stood behind him with her arms crossed over her chest. Her pink-tinted lips were turned down in a frown.

  If he hadn’t been so embarrassed, he would have laughed aloud. It was hard to take the disapproval of a woman who reminded him of sugary sweet cotton candy seriously.

  She stood at least a foot shorter than his six foot three inches and wore a dress so pink it looked as if she’d been splashed with a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Her hair was tied off her perfect oval face with a ribbon the same obnoxious shade of pink, which made the fresh-faced Alison Spencer look more like one of her pint-sized students than a teacher.

  His gaze followed her to her desk. It was then he noticed the bright yellow pelicans dotted all over her dress and the killer curves she hid beneath it.

  Despite her petite stature, this was no girl.

  Alison Spencer was all woman.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said finally.

  “Obviously.”

  He returned the book to the shelf, nearly brushing her as she retrieved a folder from her desk. He caught the scent of her perfume, a light citrusy mix that brought to mind sliced limes and oranges.

  “Thanks for waiting,” she said, then paused. “And thank you for coming to Samantha’s rescue back there.”

  “No problem,” he replied, glad the attention had veered away from his blunder. “Besides, seems like that one would be happier playing T-ball than tea party.”

  She sighed. “You’re probably right.” She seated herself behind her desk and gestured for him to take the chair in front of it. “Unfortunately for her, she’s the daughter her parents kept trying for after five sons.”

  Hunter nodded his understanding.

  “Her mom’s hoping my class, and interacting with other girls her age, will generate some interest in…” She hesitated as if searching for the right word.

  “Sugar, spice, and everything nice,” Hunter finished.

  “Yes, that’s it,” she said, “but Samantha would rather tag behind her big brothers. Poor thing, I know just how she feels.”

  “You have brothers?” he asked.

  She pulled a notepad from the top drawer of her desk. “No. As a child, I dogged my father’s footsteps. I wanted to go everywhere he went and do everything he did.”

  She stopped talking and rose from her chair. “How does an etiquette teacher forget to properly introduce herself?” She extended her hand. “I’m Ali Spencer.”

  “Hunter.” He stood and briefly shook her outstretched hand, before they both took their seats.

  “I understand this class was a gift, but it would help if you told me a little about yourself, and why you’re here?” She held a slim, pink pen poised in her hand for his reply.

  Hunter took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I need you to turn me into Prince Charming, for real.”

  Chapter Two

  It figured. The first man to flip the switch on her long-forgotten libido was living in a fairy tale.

  Ali dropped the pen and stared up at him. “Pardon me?”

  He scrubbed a hand down his face and made a noise that came out as a half sigh, half groan. “My girlfriend says I’m rude.”

  “I see,” Ali said, averting her gaze from his chiseled ja
w, full lips, and intense brown eyes. Ordinary features, but on him they came together in a way that made her feel warm all over.

  Ali had caught a glimpse of the woman who’d paid a bundle for his course when she’d come to the school a few days ago. Tall and reed thin, the supermodel look-alike had insisted on talking to the person in charge, so Aunt Rachel had dealt with her.

  Now that Ali had seen Hunter Coleman, she couldn’t help thinking what a striking couple he and the beautiful woman must make, turning heads in their wake.

  Biting back a twinge of disappointment, she picked up the pen and jotted the word girlfriend on a blank page in her notebook.

  His being taken was a good thing, she reminded herself. She didn’t have time to obsess over him or any other man. She had things to do, namely get her aunt’s school and then her own career back on track.

  He fished a crumpled gift certificate from his pants’ pocket and slid it across the desk.

  “These classes were her gift to me.” He said the word gift as if his girlfriend had presented him with a rabid skunk.

  Typical, Ali thought. One thing their male clients had in common was etiquette school was never their idea. It usually came at the urging of a boss, public relations rep, or love interest. Even then, the man in question was a reluctant participant.

  So her first rule was to get them comfortable with the notion, and second, show them there was more to etiquette than saying “thank you” and knowing which fork to use at a formal dinner.

  “Detective Coleman—”

  “Hunter,” he corrected.

  “Well, Hunter, I thought you might like to hear about some of the other gentlemen who’ve recently benefited from our classes.”

  “So I’m not the first to get roped into this?” A humorless chuckle accompanied his question.

  Ali watched his eyes grow wide with interest as she rattled off the names of several prominent Tennessee Titans football players.

  “Him? You’re kidding me, right?”

  Ali shook her head. “My aunt says he was one of her best students.”

  “But why?” Hunter asked, obviously trying to reconcile the image of one of the National Football League’s most dominant linebackers with what he knew of etiquette classes.

  “His job doesn’t end when he leaves the field,” she said. “His calendar is chock-full of charity fund-raisers and formal dinners.”

  Hunter nodded his understanding and seemed more receptive. So Ali went for the coup de grace. “We’ve even worked with Percy Tompkins Jr.”

  Hunter shrugged and shook his head, indicating he had no idea who she was talking about.

  “Percy’s better known as rapper Buck-tooth Killah.”

  Hunter’s eyes widened. “That foulmouthed little punk was in charm school?”

  “Percy was overwhelmed by his sudden fame and not handling media interviews or communicating with executives at his record label very well,” Ali said. “So his handlers brought him to us, and he hasn’t thrown a tantrum with reporters or his label since he completed the course,” she said proudly.

  Ali was relieved to notice Hunter had relaxed into his seat and was no longer eyeing the door.

  “And like our other gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll find a working knowledge of the rules of proper etiquette will have a positive impact on other areas of your life.”

  Hunter held up his hand, forestalling the remainder of her prepared spiel. “Look, I appreciate you trying to put me at ease, but save your breath.”

  He blew out a weary sigh. He looked like a man who had something to say, but wasn’t quite sure how to put it.

  “Here’s the deal. Erica’s recently come into money, and now she has her heart set on rubbing elbows with the city’s elite. She envisions herself as an up-and-coming socialite-slash-philanthropist, and she believes I’m the reason those snobs haven’t taken to her.”

  “Are you?” she asked, picking up on the note of disapproval in his tone. “Could it be you’re unconsciously sabotaging her efforts?”

  Hunter shrugged. “I’m not the kind of man who stands by and lets his date, or for that matter any woman, be insulted. It doesn’t matter if we’re having lobster at a fancy dinner or peanuts at a sports bar.”

  Ali didn’t need details on the insults. She had a pretty good idea. After all, she’d come to Nashville after leaving one of south Florida’s ritziest communities divorced, unemployed, and utterly humiliated.

  “Erica’s strategy has been to donate enormous amounts of money to the pet causes of the chairwomen of the so-called best boards and committees,” Hunter continued. “While they have no problem accepting her checks, they don’t seem any closer to inviting her to join their groups.”

  Ali started to tell him that Erica’s approach was all wrong, but the pitying look on his face told her he already knew.

  Ali found herself envying the woman, not for her wealth or having this hunky cop’s heart, but because she had someone who cared enough to stand up for her. Not only had no one jumped to Ali’s defense when she was being trashed, but the man who’d vowed to love her forever had been the one out to destroy her.

  Ali forced back the ugly memories. Her focus should be on her client right now. His girlfriend was paying them a lot of money to get him country club ready, the funds they’d already put toward repairs on the school’s dilapidated building.

  She swallowed the lump of emotion lodged in her throat, before speaking. “I think our Manners Makeover for Gentlemen will smooth out some of your rough edges,” Ali said.

  She explained the details of the school’s training for men, which would be handled by her aunt. “The flexible one-on-one coaching covers everything from greetings to table manners to socializing, especially with difficult people,” she added pointedly.

  “Your class sessions will be followed by real-life dress rehearsals,” Ali said. “For example, after the formal dining lesson, you’ll demonstrate your skills at a four-star restaurant.”

  “Well, I guess I’m in good hands,” he finally said.

  “Okay, let’s get you signed up.” She opened the folder on her desk and extracted a registration form. Once he filled it out, he’d be her aunt Rachel’s problem.

  He looked up from the form. “So, what’s your success rate?” he asked, shifting in his seat. “Do you ever have students drop out or maybe even get kicked out?”

  “You don’t have to worry. My aunt Rachel will be your instructor, and in over forty years of teaching she’s only had to expel two students,” Ali said, “but that was years ago.”

  “Whoa!” He abandoned the form and raised his hands in a halting gesture. “I thought you would be my teacher.”

  Ali shook her head. “No, but I’m sure you’ll be pleased with my aunt.”

  “I don’t want her.”

  Ali cringed, taken aback by his blunt tone. “Excuse me?”

  His dark brown eyes locked in on hers.

  “I want you,” he said slowly, making each word sound like a sentence on its own.

  Goose bumps erupted on her arms, and she couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped from between her lips.

  “What I mean is I’d prefer a class you taught,” he said hurriedly.

  She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. “Sorry, but I’m only teaching youth classes right now.”

  When she joined the school, one of the first things she’d done was take over the children’s classes. Aunt Rachel’s stern, no-nonsense teaching style didn’t go over well with today’s kids.

  Hunter shook his head. “I knew this was a dumb idea,” he muttered under his breath. He rose from his chair. “Thanks for your time.”

  Panic mounted in Ali’s chest as he strode toward the door. If she allowed him to leave like this, his girlfriend would demand a refund. Even worse, word could circulate around town that the school refused to accommodate him.

  Ali couldn’t chance either scenario.

  “Wait! I’ll be your instructor,”
she blurted out before she could think about it.

  He stopped and slowly walked back to her desk. “Great,” he said, visibly relieved. “How soon can we start? I want to get this over with.”

  Hmmph, Ali silently fumed. He wasn’t the only one.

  “So, you actually went through with it?”

  “Yep.” Hunter pulled his heel to his backside and held it until he felt the stretch in his quadriceps. He dropped his foot to the ground and repeated the prerun stretch on the other side.

  Looking up, he caught his longtime friend and fellow detective’s incredulous stare. “Close your mouth, Pete. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  But Peter Jameson continued to gawk at him as if he’d turned down tickets to the Super Bowl to host a Tupperware party.

  Hunter pushed off, beginning the pair’s early morning run along the five-mile trail winding through the wooded park near Hunter’s town house.

  Pete fell into step beside him. “Damn, I thought for sure you’d punk out,” he said. “Now I owe Bishop and Morrison twenty bucks.”

  “Don’t tell me you told those two? They’ve got the biggest mouths in the precinct.”

  “It might have slipped out,” Pete said with mild shame.

  “Thanks a lot,” Hunter said, wishing he hadn’t confided in his friend. The other night, when he’d shown up at Pete and Sandy’s house for poker without Erica, the whole story had tumbled out.

  “Come on, man. You know I can hold my tongue. But charm school?” Pete sucked in a gulp of air as he pounded the paved trail. “What’s next, ballet lessons?”

  “First off, it’s not charm school, it’s a school of etiquette.” Hunter emphasized the word as if putting some bass behind it would make it manlier.

  “Whatever,” Pete harrumphed.

  “Secondly, I’ll bet you didn’t run your mouth to Sandy about it.”

  His friend nearly stumbled over his own feet, confirming Hunter’s suspicion. At six foot four and over two hundred pounds, Pete’s intimidating build and booming voice made him a cop most criminals didn’t want to tangle with. But when it came to his wife and three young sons, the grizzly bear was more like a koala bear.