Dear Prince Charming

by Donna Kauffman

  She gave it right back to him. “And yet, you’re divorced.”

  His smile faded. He wished that subject hadn’t come up at dinner last night. But, like a bad case of chicken pox, Shelby left scars that never quite faded completely away. “We all make mistakes.” He tried to toss it off, not sound curt. “I just happened to marry mine.”

  “Too much alcohol impairs even the most rational and simplistic minds.” She said it teasingly, but it tweaked him nonetheless.

  The clothes landed in a heap on the floor of his closet. He shoved the doors shut to keep them from flowing back out. “How did you hear about that?” He’d been thankful last night when Eric had responded to the swift jab he’d delivered to his shin beneath the table, and changed the subject before dragging out all the Shelby-and-Jack horror stories.

  “Eric mentioned it when we spoke earlier today.”

  Jack folded his arms, leaned against the closet doors. “Oh, he just happened to mention it? Meaning, you asked about it. Why?”

  She turned an equally level gaze on him. “I wanted to make sure no more surprises were going to come crawling out of the woodwork.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Shelby. The only contact we have is the check that gets deposited in her account on the first of every month.” He tried not to sound bitter. Or worse, hurt. Shelby was history, in his head and his heart. But the sting of failure? Not quite yet.

  “What if she happens to pick up a copy of the magazine?”

  He snorted. “Shelby, reading—there’s something you’ll never see.”

  “You picked a real genius, huh?”

  He shot her a look. “I was young. It wasn’t her brain I was trying to get into bed.”

  Valerie shrugged. “Hey, she got you to marry her, so she must have something going on upstairs.”

  “Yeah, an internal calculator. No batteries required.” He sighed. “Listen, she’s old news, okay? I haven’t spoken to her or laid eyes on her in years, other than in magazines, and not even then if I can help it. She’s from Peru, so she’s never in the States anyway, unless it’s for a shoot.”

  “Ah, she’s a model.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the knowing tone. “Exactly when did I do something to give you such a low opinion of me, anyway? I’m doing you a favor here, you know. If it’s about that MO comment earlier, I’m—”

  She raised a hand. “No. And you’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.” She gave a little self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know why I’ve been poking at you.” Her smile was softer, more honest this time. “I guess you bring out my inner snark.” A little sparkle lit those hazel depths. “Can’t imagine why.”

  He smiled at that, felt his body respond, and quickly backpedaled. “Yeah, well, I guess it takes one to know one.”

  “Partly.”

  He lifted an eyebrow in response.

  “We each have different interests at heart here,” she explained. “My job for me. Your friend for you. Maybe we’re poking at each other as a way to feel each other out. I guess I can’t help but be a little curious.”

  “About?”

  “Why you’re really agreeing to do this for him.”

  “Suspicious, you mean.”

  To her credit, she didn’t deny it. “I don’t know you. There’s a lot at stake. I don’t have any choice but to trust Eric in this.”

  “But you don’t trust me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’ve pretty much been saying that since we met last night.”

  “Okay, maybe so. But can you blame me? Eric dropped a major bomb on me. The fact that I’m playing along with this at all is a testament to just how desperate a situation this is.”

  “You could sue him for breach of contract.”

  “I promised them a cover story guaranteed to put them on the map. Do you have any idea how hard it is to launch a new magazine and be successful in today’s market?”

  “I have a general idea. But it’s not your fault Eric decided to come out now.”

  “I’ve been promoting the hell out of this for the past three months. Everything is set in motion. The sales staff has sold this thing based on proposed first-issue sales. A first issue with the mysterious Prince Charming on the cover. It hits the stands in less than a month. And the cover shoot with my guaranteed ticket is tomorrow. Not exactly enough time to replace him and start all over again.”

  He shrugged. “There are other jobs.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Publicists are in demand, especially in a political town like this.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s—” She stopped, shook her head, then pushed away a wave of brown hair that fell across her forehead. “I can’t explain it to you. Let’s just say I’m not taking this risk lightly. It’s everything to me. Just like it is to Eric. So, yes, I guess I’m looking for some kind of guarantee from you. That no matter how hard it is, or how weird or uncomfortable it gets for you, that you don’t let him down.”

  “Well, I can’t explain it to you, either. Don’t you have someone in your life you’d do anything for?” The brief flicker of hurt? envy? that crossed her face surprised him. “Well, Eric is that person for me,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable, like he’d seen something private that he shouldn’t have.

  “I know you don’t owe me anything, but—”

  “I owe Eric everything,” he said flatly. He didn’t want to care about Valerie Wagner. His dealing-with-other-people’s-shit quota was also maxed out at the moment. “That’s all that matters. You’ll get what you want because I won’t let him down. That will have to be enough for you.”

  She held his gaze for another long moment, only there was no sexual subtext to this one.

  The hell of it was, when she nodded, then handed him the shirt she’d just folded, and walked out of the room, he was more aware of her right then, than at any moment before. And he’d hardly even been looking at that hot little slit in the back of her skirt.

  A full minute later, he was still standing there.

  “The appointment is in thirty minutes,” she called out, jingling her keys. “And Beltway traffic is going to be a bitch.”

  No, Jack thought as he grabbed his wallet and followed her out of his apartment, doing a friend a favor . . . that was going to be the bitch.

  Indicators

  You can tell a lot about a man by how he reacts during an emergency. Especially when the emergency is yours. Does he stand and give orders? Does he waste time placing blame? Or does he jump in first and ask questions later? The man who jumps is a man willing to participate. And, ladies, I don’t have to tell you that participation is a Good Thing.

  Chapter 5

  Twenty hair-raising minutes later, Valerie squealed into the alley behind her row house, clipping her neighbor’s trash can, and barely missing the tall chain-link fence that circled her minuscule backyard.

  She cut the engine and Jack let out a long, shuddering breath, then crossed himself. He wasn’t even Catholic. “Where did you learn to drive?”

  She grinned widely, her eyes still gleaming. “Actually, a more appropriate question would be when did I learn to drive. If I’d known what a kick in the ass it is to play Dodgem on the Beltway, I’d have done it sooner. I’ve been a city girl all my life. I always used public transportation.”

  “D.C. is a city,” he pointed out helpfully, willing his heart to slow down to something below, say, Mach 3. “They have a thing called the Metro here. Stations all over town. Buses, subway.”

  “The magazine offices are here in D.C., but Glass Slipper itself is headquartered in Potomac. I’d need Eric’s contract to afford that cab fare. Of course, the godmothers offered me the use of a company car, complete with driver, but glamorous as it sounds, trust me, the novelty quickly wears off. My schedule is unpredictable and often frantic. I can’t always call ahead and order a car. And I just can’t make a guy sit at the curb all day in case I need a ride. Besides, I like to be in control
of my destiny whenever possible.” She shrugged. “So, I figured it was time to get my license and put a down payment on a car.”

  Jack opened his door and squeezed out into the narrow space between the brick wall of the row house next to hers. “That’s great, really. Congratulations. But next time, I’m driving.”

  “Ah,” she said, climbing out of her side. “A chauvinist who thinks men are better drivers than women.”

  “No,” he said, “A preservationist.” He smiled across the hood of her bug-sized bright red-and-white-striped MINI Cooper, only wincing a little as blood flow was restored to his lower extremities. “Who likes to control his destiny wherever possible.”

  “Just because that trucker tailgated us a bit too closely is no need to start making out your will.”

  “You cut him off. He was going to mow us down. No court in the land would have convicted him.”

  She blew that off with an “as if” sound. “And you claim to be a world traveler. Paris makes the Washington Beltway look like a real driver’s ed course, with little orange cones pointing the way.”

  He pushed open the creaky rear gate for her. “You’ve been to Paris?”

  “Several times. For the spring shows,” she clarified. “I’ve worked at a few fashion magazines.”

  She tossed it off like it was nothing, but he knew immediately it was something. He thought about her earlier reaction when he’d commented that she could always get another job. The nosy journalist in him wondered just how many jobs she’d held at how many magazines . . . and why she’d moved on. Discontent on the part of employee . . . or employer?

  It wasn’t until he closed the gate that he thought to ask, “Why are we at your place? I assumed we’d be meeting at magazine headquarters.”

  “It’s Sunday, remember? I’m dragging Jenn in for some overtime on this as it is. Besides, it’s probably best to keep you under wraps.”

  “The cover shoot is tomorrow. What difference does it make?”

  “We paid top dollar to be the one to introduce Eric to the world. There are a dozen news shows and twice that many gossip columns that would kill to get any inside scoop on the man behind Dear Prince Charming. I’m not taking any chances. Even the shoot is being done in a secret location, with a minimal number of people on set.”

  “All this cloak-and-dagger stuff seems a little over the top, don’t you think?”

  She tossed him an indulgent smile as she climbed the steps to the closed-in porch. “It’s a cutthroat world, Mr. Lambert. When you’ve invested a great many more zeroes than Eric saw on his paycheck to launch a new glossy, you protect your edge. Eric is our edge. Eric, and now you.”

  As she fished her house key from the multitude on her key ring, he glanced back at the small but tidy yard. The grass was spotty in places, but neat enough. No flowers or garden, but a row of fir trees edged the rear and right side of the fence, affording some additional privacy. A sturdy wooden lounge chair, topped with thick, flowery print padding, and a small wrought-iron side table completed the tableau. He tried not to picture her out here in some minuscule bikini, sunning herself. Or how the privacy the bigger house and trees provided would allow her to untie the tiny top in order to prevent those pesky tan lines. He tried. Really he did. And failed, though in a quite spectacular, detailed fashion.

  Then he spotted a chewed-up Frisbee and nasty-looking tennis ball, and his thoughts were thankfully diverted. “You have a dog?”

  She unlocked the door. “No, I have a Gunther.”

  “What’s a—” That’s as far as he got before an enormous dog pushed through the door, all but knocking him off the steps. Not from any enthusiasm over having visitors, either. As far as Jack could tell, the behemoth hadn’t even seen him. He’d just plowed down the stairs and headed straight for the rear corner of the yard.

  “Oh, no. No, no, no,” Valerie muttered, pushing through the door. “I’m going to kill him.”

  Jack was torn between watching the dog, who was presently relieving himself like he’d just finished running the Preakness on a full bladder, and following Valerie into the house. “Was he here last night? How did I miss a dog the size of a small European import?”

  Gunther finished his duties, which had apparently worn him out. Jack watched in bemused amazement as the dog ambled across the yard, climbed unceremoniously onto the thickly padded lounge chair, and flopped down with a rumbling, chair-shuddering sigh.

  Somehow, the exquisitely tailored, ruthlessly organized woman, the same one who’d hosted a dinner in her own home last night that was more board meeting than social occasion, simply did not compute with the term dog owner. If you could call the massive beast presently sunning himself in the backyard a dog. Valerie Wagner was the type to own a cat. Or something interesting, yet tastefully decorative. Like fish.

  He took one last look at Gunther, who was now on his back, legs akimbo, tongue lolling. Well, he thought with a shudder, that takes care of that little bikini scenario, anyway.

  “Careful,” Valerie called out before he stepped into the kitchen. “The floor’s wet.”

  Jack immediately moved back to the porch, imagining . . . well, more of what he’d just witnessed against that poor pine tree. But he quickly realized the floor of her kitchen was flooded with plain old water. “What happened?” he asked as he tiptoed his way across the tile floor, following the sound of her voice.

  “Tub overflowed.”

  “What?” He stepped out of the kitchen and rounded the corner into a small hallway, which was somewhat dryer thanks to a skinny carpet runner.

  Valerie was in the narrow white-and-black-tiled bathroom immediately across the hall, throwing big, brightly colored towels on the floor. The tub, still dangerously full, was now draining noisily. The sink was already full of several wet mounds. “Could you reach in that hall closet there and pull out another stack of beach towels?”

  “Sure.” He found the louvered doors, and opened them, not surprised to find every shelf filled with neatly folded, color-coordinated linens and towels. It was only when he looked down that he noticed the bottom compartment was filled to bursting with beach towels. He pulled out the entire stack. “You, uh, go to the beach a lot, do you?” he asked as he handed her half the stack, then moved back to the kitchen and spread the remaining half across the floor.

  She didn’t respond to the question, too intent on swearing under her breath. While he opened the hall closet to grab a few more towels, she was busy wedging one behind the commode. Her black wicker hamper wobbled precariously on the closed lid. “I swear to God, this is the last time I’m doing this. Damn dog. The pound will take you back, Gunther!” she called out. “If I have to pay them to do it.”

  “He’s still outside, uh, sunning himself. Is that okay, or do you want me to call him back in?”

  She just glared at him, then went back to work, mopping.

  It was only when he bent over to help her arrange fresh towels on the opposite side of the toilet that he saw the giant plastic clamp keeping the lid forcibly closed. He glanced over at her. “You have kids?”

  “No. Like I said, I have Gunther. You interested in taking him? Because right at the moment, I’ll give him to you. Lock, stock, and rawhide bones. I’ll even toss in a lifetime supply of beach towels.”

  “At the risk of having you throw wet towels at me, would you care to explain how your dog managed to flood half your house?”

  “He’s not a dog. He’s the spawn of Satan. Put on this earth to make certain I follow him straight to hell.” She tossed another sodden towel into the sink. The tub was only half-full now and draining more swiftly. Pushing her now damp hair from her forehead, she sat on the edge of the tub and halfheartedly nudged another dry towel across the floor with her bare foot. Somewhere along the line she’d ditched her heels.

  Something about seeing her disheveled and not so on top of things tugged at him. He wisely ignored it and began wringing out towels. “And he’s going to float you there on th
e River Styx, is that the plan?”

  “Cute.”

  He shrugged. “I do my best in trying times.”

  “I guess I can’t argue with you there,” she said, and he knew she wasn’t just referring to his pitching in on mopping-up duties.

  “So, spawn of Satan aside, just how does a dog fill a tub to overflowing?”

  “He has a drinking problem,” she said, sounding both pissed and a bit forlorn. Like she wasn’t quite sure how the little world she ran so tidily had turned on her so swiftly. Given the events of the past forty-eight hours, he figured she was entitled.

  “Do you fill the tub as some kind of giant water dish for him?” Considering what he’d seen outside, he thought this was a strong possibility.

  She tossed a wet towel in the finally empty tub. “Normally I keep the door to this bathroom and the master bath upstairs closed. This morning was somewhat frantic, with all the calls I’ve been trying to make, then tracking down Eric and making sure he could be available for the phone interview. I could have sworn I closed it, but I guess it didn’t click all the way shut.”

  Jack rocked back on his heels. “If you didn’t fill the tub, you’re telling me that Gunther did?” He glanced back to the baby-proofing clamp on the toilet-seat lid.

  She followed his gaze. “When his water dish is empty, he drinks out of the commode. Slobbers water everywhere.” She shuddered. “Not a great way to wake up in the morning. Or in the middle of the night, for that matter. I tried leaving the ring up, but I figured, hey, there should be some perks to being thirty and single, right?”

  “Hence the lock.”

  “Which, frankly, is just as much of a pain in the ass. But if I close the door at night, he just head-butts it until I get up and either open it or fill his water dish in the kitchen.”

  “Doesn’t he just do the same thing during the day?”

  She smiled smugly. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not here then, am I?”

  Jack glanced at the door, thinking she was lucky Gunther hadn’t taken out the whole frame. Put a helmet on him and he could play nose tackle for the Redskins. Come to think of it, the Skins might do better with Gunther on the line. “So, thwarted from using the toilet as his own personal bottomless drinking fountain, he learned how to turn on the water in the tub?”