Giving up on her linen origami maneuvers, she sank heavily into one of the four mismatched ladder-back chairs arranged around the small, refurbished antique dining room table. For the umpteenth time she went over her conversation with Eric the day before. She still couldn’t believe this was happening to her.
After leaving the restaurant, she’d met him at a park near his home in Adams Morgan. His beautiful, bronzed features had been the picture of abject apology as he’d taken her hand. So strong and comforting, his deep voice all masculine and calm as he explained that he wanted his life back, but he couldn’t screw her over to get it. She’d asked him—not entirely calmly—just how he thought backing out of his agreement seventy-two hours before he was to sit for the cover of their launch issue, wasn’t screwing her over?
Eric had explained everything, from childhood on up. And though she’d felt for him—any woman looking into those piercing blue eyes would have to have a heart made of stone, and panties made of moisture-repellant fabric, not to—she was still pissed at him. No matter that he even blushed gorgeously. She was going to lose her job! What would she do? Where would she go?
She’d tried to talk him—and herself—into believing that it wouldn’t be so bad if he came out. She had gay male friends she turned to for advice all the time. In fact, they were the only ones who’d honestly answer two of life’s most burning questions: “Does this skirt make my ass look J. Lo curvy or like the rear end of a truck squeezed into spandex tubing?” and “What can I cook for my date that looks fabulous, tastes like heaven, guarantees me at least thirty minutes of foreplay . . . and doesn’t actually require, you know, cooking?”
But they also weren’t the ones who had signed a six-figure contract. In the end, that argument had lasted a grand total of five minutes. Of course it was going to matter. Eric’s legions of devoted readers—who the godmothers were banking on becoming their devoted readers—saw him as the man of their dreams; the man who made them believe that one day their prince might, indeed, come; the man they put up as the example to their husbands and boyfriends of what all women want their men to be. And now he was just going to say, oh, by the way, I’m gay? Those same men would laugh themselves sick. Women everywhere would feel betrayed. And Glass Slipper magazine would become a national joke.
He swore to her he’d think of some way to salvage things, but with less than forty-eight hours left before the cover shoot, she didn’t see how. Then he’d called her last night and said he had it all worked out and would be over for dinner Saturday night to explain everything. A dinner for three.
She looked at the plates and linen napkins and wondered if Eric’s attorney cared about coordinated table settings. Because who else could he be bringing with him?
She’d spent a sleepless night trying to come up with her own plan. But she had to face facts. She’d have to come clean with the godmothers. It would kill the magazine before it even launched, causing the loss of her job and God knew who else’s, along with a whole lot more money than what they’d paid to Eric. But what choice did she have? And if Eric paraded in here with his lawyer and thought he could wriggle his way out of his contract, their little dinner party would end before the hors d’oeuvres got cold. She was not going to be bullied around. The godmothers had their own team of legal beagles. If that’s the way Eric intended to play it, he was going to have a fight on his hands.
Not that she’d be around to witness it. She’d be too busy standing on the unemployment line.
She reached for the glass of wine she’d poured herself the instant it had become socially acceptable to do so. Okay, so it had been shortly after lunch. But it was Saturday, and she’d spent the day wrangling editors and making phone calls, trying to reschedule everything. She deserved an early glass of wine. Or three.
“Sue me,” she muttered, then choked a little when it occurred to her that if litigation was going to be the outcome of this situation, she was no doubt going to be featured prominently in the courtroom proceedings.
She absently wondered if her retro black Chanel would be considered tastefully penitent . . . or icily aloof. Not that it mattered, of course. Jailhouse orange was still completely unbecoming with her short brown bob and fair skin.
Her phone rang and she dragged herself out of the chair, automatically smoothing her hair, and the two-piece business suit she wore, despite the fact she was entertaining at home. It was best to maintain professionalism in case Eric brought in the big guns.
She hoped it was Eric, telling her that he’d had a change of heart, had decided to go through with the cover shoot and honor his contract. She snagged the phone on the second ring, surprised to hear her father on the other end of the line. “Hi, Dad, is everything okay?”
There was a pause, then, “Yes, of course it is.” He cleared his throat and Valerie had the brief impression that he was somewhat miffed with her assumption that he’d only be calling if something was wrong. Except that was exactly the case, so she refused to feel guilty.
“How is Mom?” she said, mentally kicking herself for rushing in to smooth over the awkward moment. Her relationship with both her parents was basically one long string of awkward moments.
“She’s fine. Busy as usual. In New York at a conference for the next couple of days. I just, ah, that is to say, we both just wanted to let you know we’re wishing you success with the magazine launch. Things still going well?”
Which Valerie took to mean, “Do you still have the job?” Her mother was a corporate attorney and her father was a financial analyst, both far more at home in a boardroom than in their own living room. And far more comfortable rearing litigation briefs and stock portfolios than children. Valerie was a late-in-life accident—and a huge surprise to her very careful parents. Which was a fitting start, as she’d pretty much mystified her parents from conception onward. But she gave them credit for trying.
“Yes, Dad, things are going very well.” Which was technically the truth. Her career apocalypse wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another fifteen minutes. “Tell Mom I said hello when you talk to her. I’ll send you both a copy of the first magazine as soon as I get one.” Which might be never, but no point in mentioning that now.
“Good, good. Okay, then. Take care of yourself. And be careful. An alert citizen—”
“Is a safe citizen,” she finished for him. “Yes, Dad, I know.” She tried not to sigh and roll her eyes like the teenager he always managed to reduce her to in ten words or less, but it took effort. After all, she’d been raised in a succession of big cities, had lived alone in a half-dozen more since becoming an adult. She’d never once been mugged, raped, or gotten caught in the cross fire of a gang war, though she’d gotten lectures on all three. God only knows the lectures she’d get on road rage and the statistics on women murdered during roadside emergencies if she told them about the driver’s license she’d recently obtained. Which is precisely why she hadn’t. She said her good-byes and hung up, knowing he meant well—both of her parents did—but that didn’t keep her from wishing they’d made another contraceptive error so at least she’d have a sibling to bitch with about them.
The timer went off in the kitchen, so she snagged her glass of wine and sipped her way into the small but cheery yellow kitchen. She glanced out the window, noticed it was raining, and took it as a sign. It had been a perfect, sunny June afternoon when she’d met the godmothers for lunch yesterday. Then wham! Eric called, dumped his big news on her. And God was now dumping the heavens on her in return. Not that she needed divine intervention to tell her that her last-gasp chance at career happiness was an entrée away from being over.
She shoved oven mitts on her hands and pulled out the tray of canapés she’d thawed and heated—thank you, Sutton Place—and slid them onto the counter. One hundred and fifty pounds of angst chose that moment to scuff into her kitchen, give her a baleful look, then flop into a boneless heap right in the middle of the narrow floor space, heaving a long sigh as he did so, just in case she
missed all of his other mood indicators.
“I know, Gunther, I know.” For once she commiserated with her less than passionate, overgrown watchbeast. “I should just accept that I wasn’t intended to have a glossy career dealing with glossy people. Maybe I should throw it in, move to a small town, open some sort of boutique in a trendy restored building with a nice apartment right over the store. I could actually get to know my neighbors, become a member in the community, put down roots.” She leaned back against the counter and crossed her ankles, sipping as she looked down into the soulful eyes of the mutant part mastiff/part Great Dane. “You don’t look all that enthusiastic. You could be my shop dog, you know. Everyone would come in and say hi to you. Kids would bring treats by the store on the way home from school, stop by to tug on your ears and pet you with sticky hands. You’d become a town fixture.”
Gunther merely sighed again and rolled to his side with a thud.
“Yep. That’s pretty much how I feel. We’re not cut out to grow old in Mayberry.”
The door buzzer sounded. Sighing herself, Valerie straightened and, after a last fortifying sip, put her glass on the counter. “No, no,” she said mildly as she stepped over her inert mound of dog. “Don’t get up. I’ll just tell the ax murderer not to go into the kitchen if he values his life, right? You protect Aunt Velma’s hideous china. I’ll cover the rest of the fort.”
Gunther’s only response was a snuffling snore.
“ ‘Single girl in the city has to have protection,’ ” Valerie intoned, mimicking her father. “Of course, it would help if said protection actually had a clue about his supposed duties.” She’d gotten Gunther from a rescue shelter in Chicago as a puppy. Mostly to get her father off her back. And, okay, partly because he had been the ugliest, biggest one there. Those beseeching eyes and floppy ears should have been a dead giveaway even then. Forget Mercedes, Gunther totally channeled Eeyore. All the other puppies had been yapping and leaping about. Not Gunther. He’d just leaned against his gate, staring at her with that baleful gaze that followed her as she trolled the other kennels.
“I passed up three Dobermans and two Rotties for you,” she reminded him. Seven years and as many cities later, they were still a team. Although she was pretty sure he still saw her as “potty provider and kibble dispenser,” while his job description pretty much began and ended with “consumer of everything not put above counter level.” But he was there for her every day when she got home. So what if he wasn’t overly adoring? She fed him, walked him, and kept him stocked in foot-long rawhide bones. In return he kept her company with few other demands. There was definitely something to be said for that arrangement. If only men were so easily maintained, she might not still be single.
The buzzer sounded again. She paused to check her hair and lipstick in the hat-rack mirror. “Like he’s going to care.” Not that she’d been interested in pursuing anything personal with Eric, since she didn’t mix business with pleasure. Which was severely limiting, given her hours. But he was a very attractive man and, because of some kind of biological imperative, she wanted to look her best. Even if his biological imperative was likely to be more interested in what label she was wearing than how nicely her suit hugged her body.
Of course, his lawyer might be straight, but honestly, what were the chances he’d be as hot as Eric? She pasted on a smile and opened the door. She had to work to keep the smile in place. She hadn’t thought anything could top Eric’s blond prince perfection.
She’d been wrong. Sort of.
The man next to Eric was no golden Adonis. Quite the opposite, in fact. Dark hair streaked with the kind of highlights no salon could create, a tanned face with chiseled features that probably required a twice-a-day shave, a bit lined as well, from extended time spent in the great outdoors. Rugged was the first thought that came to mind. Damn fine was the second. She skimmed over the pale green, ribbed knit pullover, noting how nicely it showcased the pecs and shoulders, down to the faded, perfectly aged jeans that were just the right amount of snug on his thighs, to the beat-up Dockers—no socks—on his tanned feet.
If this guy was a lawyer, she might finally get around to writing up that estate management plan her father was always bugging her about.
Belatedly realizing she was staring, she stuck her hand out. “Valerie Wagner. Pleasure to meet you.” It was only when she met his eyes—an almost eerily clear shade of gray . . . and quite sardonically amused at the moment—that she felt the heat creep up in her cheeks.
“This is my friend, Jack Lambert,” Eric replied by way of introduction.
But Jack didn’t take her hand right away. Instead, he lifted his arms away from his body. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to pivot or something? Do you need the rear view as well?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?” God, had she been that obvious?
Eric aimed a quelling look at his friend. “Don’t start. She’s too smart to fall for your lame come-ons.”
Jack gave him a mock wounded frown. “That wasn’t a come-on. I don’t do anything as pedestrian as come on to women.” He smiled at Valerie. “He’s gay, what does he know of coming on to women, right?”
“About two million in book sales,” Eric shot back.
Valerie stepped back. “Please come in,” she said with a bewildered laugh. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.
“I swear, he’s housebroken,” Eric assured her as he stepped inside.
Jack maintained his amused expression as he stepped past her into the apartment. Then he paused and glanced over his shoulder, catching her openly sizing him up. “And?”
She shrugged and brazened it out. “Eh. On a scale of one to ten, you’re in the upper twentieth percentile.”
Jack’s eyes widened slightly, then he glanced toward Eric. “You know, about that paycheck we were discussing . . .”
“I told you,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re out of your league here. Don’t even try. Save yourself the slap down.”
Valerie caught the look that passed between the two men. Easy camaraderie, a no-words-necessary kind of communication that proved they went back a ways. Well, they could be chummy all they wanted if it meant Eric was going to honor his contract. They seemed pretty damn relaxed about everything. Of course, it could still be an ambush; get her to let her guard down, flirt a little, then drop some kind of legal bomb on her. But she was admittedly curious, whatever their game plan was. “Why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you some wine? A beer?”
Jack prowled around the room, which was really both living area and dining area combined. Rather than sit, he moved toward the small tiled fireplace, pausing to look at the framed pictures lining the narrow mantel. “You have anything stiffer?” he asked, picking up a picture of her mother and father, both grinning and standing proudly in front of her mom’s first law office in Boston, before Valerie was born.
She wasn’t sure why Jack’s familiarity with her things disconcerted her. Yes, the man was a stranger, but what difference did it make if he looked at a few family photos? Something about those clear gray eyes, she thought, as he put the picture back and turned to face her and Eric. How was it they could be so piercing and yet somewhat insouciant all at the same time? He was not to be taken lightly, this one.
“In fact,” Jack said, “I might want it contractually stipulated that a stiff shot of something be handy at all times.”
“Contract?” Valerie’s gaze shifted questioningly to Eric. Where was her wine? she thought suddenly, quelling the first little rise of panic. “What’s going on?”
Eric shot a glare at his friend, then put on his most engaging smile for Valerie. “I told you I’d come up with some way to salvage things. And I have. Or, we have, anyway. I’m going to honor my contract.”
She sighed with such deep relief she almost swooned. “That’s fabulous!”
“I’m going to write the columns,” Eric went on, sounding a bit tense, h
is smile looking a bit more forced. “And Jack has agreed to step in and model for the cover. Be the face of Prince Charming, so to speak.”
Her smile of vast relief froze on her face. “What?” she asked, jaw stiff.
“No one knows what he looks like, right?” Jack interjected. “So I’m your cover boy.”
Mouth still open, her head swiveled from one man to the other, but they might as well have been speaking in tongues. The words wouldn’t compute. However, Jack’s little runway-modeling exhibition began to make more sense. “You can’t be serious,” she finally spluttered. “We can’t do that.” She sat down on the nearest available surface, which happened to be her coffee table, heedless of the magazines that spilled off the side. “Can we?”
And that was the moment she realized just how desperate she’d become to keep her job.
“Listen,” Eric said, his voice all deep and smooth and reasonable, catching her before she could jump up and resolutely refuse to listen to another crazy word. “Who’s going to know besides the three of us? If we want to make this work—and I think it’s safe to say you and I both have too much at stake not to at least consider it—we will find a way.”
She needed more wine. Hell, she needed more than that. Like a reality check. She’d be insane to consider this crazy scheme of theirs for one second. She looked to Jack and said the first thing that came to mind. “What’s in this for you?”
Jack’s easy smile tightened somewhat. Well, she thought, he’d just have to get over it.
“I’ve offered to—”
Jack cut off Eric’s reply. “Let’s just say I owe him and leave it at that.”
“Okay, great,” she said. “We’re supposed to pull off the charade of the century here and I’m just supposed to trust you? I don’t even know you.”
Eric sat on the arm of the couch. “Does this mean you’re okay with the plan?”
Dear Prince Charming Page 4