Dear Prince Charming

by Donna Kauffman

  “Not hard. Boring.” She lifted her hand again. “He’s in the tux. But if he’s every woman’s fantasy, then we needed to go a step further than traditional fairy-tale, okay? Glass Slipper’s target reader should expect more than the pedestrian.” She stepped farther away from the screens. “Besides, he is too dee-lish not to play with. Val, I swear, if you take one look at him and your panties are still dry, I’ll consider doing this your way. But I’ll want a second opinion.” She winked at Eric.

  “Trust her,” Eric said, and shot two thumbs up.

  “Ready,” Nigel called out.

  Valerie waved to the pacing photographer, noting that the energy pulsing from the lanky Brit legend was almost palpable. Was it just the standard artistic preshoot vibe or excitement over meeting Prince Charming? Could she have underestimated the impact this unveiling would have on the international stage? That even the great Nigel Cole could be wound up like a three-year-old being introduced to Play-Doh for the first time?

  Nigel was tapping his manicured hands on his loose-fitting Designworks trousers, craning his neck to try to get the first look of Jack when he finally came out. In his late forties, he had a flowing mane of dark hair that had silvered quite handsomely at the temples. His features were long and aquiline, his eyes a faded blue and somewhat hooded. Not exactly a hottie, but very appealing in his own enigmatic, tortured-artist kind of way. As she turned back to Jenn, she noticed Eric noticing Nigel as well.

  Oh, great, that’s all she needed. “This better be good.”

  Jenn just smiled and stepped back, then waved her hand with a flourish. “Women of the world—and men,” she added, with a nod to Eric and Nigel, who’d edged closer. “I give you . . . Prince Charming.”

  What felt like an eternity passed—just long enough for the tension inside her to climb to heart-stopping limits—then Jack finally stepped out from behind the screens.

  “Damn,” Valerie whispered. She would have glanced at Jenn—who was no doubt beaming smugly—except she couldn’t look away from the man standing in front of her. And neither would any other red-blooded female on the planet.

  Jack was, indeed, wearing the traditionally cut Armani tux they’d chosen for him, but that was about the only thing remaining from the conventional Prince Charming look they’d decided on.

  The suit was unrelieved black. The jacket had been perfectly fitted to his shoulders, and sported narrow black satin lapels. He wore a pearl-gray, starched linen shirt with flat, stitched pleats, open at the collar. Jenn had undone two buttons, just enough to enhance his tanned throat and rugged jaw. The matching pearl-gray satin bow tie was undone, draped around the open shirt collar and left to dangle, as if to showcase that little teasing view of manly chest hair.

  Continuing the visual tour downward, the trousers were loosely fitted, with a thin satin stripe down the side. The cummerbund accentuated narrow hips and a flat belly, as it did the widening flare of his upper body. The cuffs shot from the edges of the jacket sleeves and were left unfolded and open over tanned, unadorned knuckles. His feet were also tanned. She noted this because they were also bare.

  And who knew bare, relaxed feet peeking out from tux pants could be so damn sexy?

  Jenn, apparently.

  Valerie finally looked him in the eye for the first time, only to encounter a gaze that was both perturbed and amused, if such a thing were possible. And yet it was exactly that expression that pushed the entire ensemble beyond earthy and virile to palpably sexy.

  His jaw bore a hint of morning-after stubble; his hair had been deliberately and artfully tousled, as if he’d just crawled from bed. And there wasn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t wish it was her bed he’d crawled from. Probably a number of men, too. She didn’t dare look at Nigel. Man drool could be so unappealing.

  Besides, she was still dialed in to those eyes. The pearl shirt and tie, set off by the black suit and tanned skin, made his gray eyes appear almost translucent. Even without proper lighting, it was as if they looked right through her.

  A corner of his mouth kicked up in a sardonic grin. “Do I pass?”

  And pow! The hint of a smile did it. Jesus. She turned to Jenn, not giving a damn how smug she was. She’d totally earned the right. “Brilliant.”

  She beamed. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” Jenn turned to Nigel, who was also assessing Jack quite frankly. Quite admiringly, too. “I’ve got more; I hope you don’t mind.” She scooted over to the staging area, motioning them to follow her. She scooped up a purple velvet and gold-tasseled pillow, along with the trademark full size glass slipper that the company always gave to its makeover guests upon arriving.

  She handed them both to Jack. “I was thinking, instead of balancing the slipper on the pillow, or kneeling with it in your hand, as if asking the reader to let you slip it on her foot—though we definitely want those for interior shots to go with the article—” She broke off and shuffled Jack in front of the white drape backdrop where he was going to pose. She positioned him as if he were a mannequin—hips squared, shoulders just so, legs like this—heedless of the somewhat bemused look he was sending Valerie over her head.

  Valerie just smiled at him, lifted her shoulder a little. Who knew, this might be more entertaining than she’d expected.

  “Okay, now, hold this,” Jenn instructed. She handed him the pillow. “Like this.” She tucked it under one arm, so he held it in sort of a negligent manner. “Now, hold the slipper like this, by the heel.” She moved his hand, positioned the slipper so it looked like he was holding a cup. “Now, we need the bottle of champagne.” She turned, all boundless energy, and raced back to the dressing area, quickly emerging with a half-empty bottle.

  Valerie sent a questioning look to Jack, who gave her a half-shrug, and smiled in return. Damn, but the man was sexy. Tux or no tux. Right now, no tux was definitely dominating her fantasies.

  “Keep the pillow tucked, hold the bottle in the same hand,” Jenn instructed. “The cover shot is you, drinking champagne from the slipper.”

  “Jenn—” Valerie started to interrupt. For God’s sake, this wasn’t Playgirl they were shooting.

  But Jack, whose gaze had never left hers, obviously knew the direction she was going. His lips quirked a little and he continued to hold her gaze as he poured a little bubbly into the slipper. Gazes still locked, he sipped from the heel. “Like that?” he asked casually, blotting his wet lips with the jacket sleeve.

  And with that, there wasn’t a dry panty in the house.

  Nigel startled her by running off a series of shots. She’d been so caught up in Jack’s little seduction scene, she’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room.

  “Perfect,” Nigel said, then barked, “Music!” And suddenly Frankie Goes to Hollywood was beseeching them all to “Relax, Don’t Do It.” So obvious, and yet the beat pulsed and throbbed throughout the loft, in perfect counterpoint to Nigel’s clicking and whirring.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Nigel cajoled. “Keep the slipper full. Sip it, just sip it. Work your throat. Again. Fantastic! Now offer the slipper to her.”

  As if coming out of a trance himself, Jack finally shifted his gaze from Valerie to Nigel and his camera, suddenly tightening up.

  “No, no!” Nigel shouted. “Look at her, lad; yes, that’s it. Ignore me. Look at her, drink to her. Offer her the slipper. You want her to take it, you want her to drink from it, you want to pour it all over her—God, yes, yes! Well done. Don’t stop.” Nigel was almost orgasmic at that point.

  Valerie could identify. She was unable to move as Jack came toward her. His smile was taunting, teasing, deliberately pulling her deeper into this charade they were mounting. Only it didn’t feel like a charade, the way he was looking at her. So what if he was more Prince of Darkness than Knight in Shining Armor? Who the hell was going to care, if they saw what she was seeing right now?

  The air was charged with a primal sort of energy that had her pulse humming to a beat that had nothing to do wit
h the music. He was less than ten feet away when he stopped, poured more champagne into the slipper, then lifted it to his lips. He might as well have been right in front of her—the room shrank, the music swelled, her heart pounded. She forgot there was anyone in the room but him as she watched his throat work while he slowly sipped, never once taking his eyes from hers.

  Lowering the slipper, he deliberately dragged his linen cuff across his damp lips. Her fingers twitched with the need to reach out and trace her fingers over those lips, feel the heat, the dampness.

  Then he lifted the slipper to her. Frankie was exhorting her to “Relax, Don’t Do It.” Well, she wanted to do it, dammit. Right here, right now. Jack’s mouth kicked up at the corner, his eyes twinkling devilishly, as if he were reading her mind. He took another step closer, already lifting the champagne bottle. Her feet were moving before she was even aware of it.

  “Break. Reset. In five,” Nigel barked, sounding exhausted.

  Valerie jumped, then quickly stepped back. But not before catching Jack’s wink as he swung around and strolled back to the staging area. Smug bastard, she thought, but damn if she still didn’t want to follow him. And teach him to think twice before taunting her like that.

  “Damn, I’m good.” Jenn folded her arms in satisfaction. “And damn, he’s hot.” She nudged Valerie in the side with her elbow. “You’re going to sell more copies of this magazine than you can print.”

  Valerie swallowed against a dry throat. It was the only thing left dry. “That we will,” she croaked. “Christ, Jenn.”

  “I know,” Jenn said, laughing even as she fanned herself. “Prince Charming, for sure. Look, even Stanley wants to jump him.”

  “Can’t say I blame him,” Valerie murmured as Jack handed the empty bottle to Nigel’s all-but-drooling assistant.

  “If I’d had any clue when I was reading his latest book that this is what he looked like . . .” Jenn trailed off and patted her hand over her heart. “I’m going to reread them all now. Hard to believe a man who looks like that can also be so cognizant of what women want.”

  Valerie finally tore her gaze away. “He does give good advice,” she managed, neon sign blinking to life again.

  “He gives good everything from the looks of it. He’s the same in person as he is in his columns. Funny, witty, charming. And even more impressive, logical, rational, confident. Honestly, I didn’t think a man like that really existed. And to think I almost bought into that theory that they were really written by a woman.” She looked back over at Jack. “But he really exists. He really knows who he is as a man and he’s not afraid to let it show.” She sighed. “And I get to dress him.” She looked up at Valerie. “And undress him. I should waive my fee for this.” She primped her hair. “But I won’t.” With a little wave, she headed back toward the screens to get the next round of clothes ready.

  Stanley had located another bottle of champagne. At this rate, they’d all be looped by the end of the shoot, though Valerie wasn’t too sure that might not be preferable.

  As Nigel posed Jack on bended knee with pillow and slipper, Eric strolled over to her. “He’s doing really well, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That he certainly is.”

  Eric smiled. “You sound surprised. I told you this would work.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet. This is just the first step. A baby step. He hasn’t had to deal with—”

  As if on cue, the godmothers waltzed, sashayed, and stormed into the loft.

  “So sorry we’re late!” Aurora, the waltzer, said breathlessly. “I don’t know what the driver thought he was doing, taking Democracy.”

  “Following your directions, perhaps?” came Vivian’s—the sashayer’s—sardonic reply. “Helloo, darlings! Where’s our cover hunk?”

  “For God’s sake, Vivi, can’t you wait for proper introductions?” Mercedes stalked into the room, every bit the Bea Arthur of their Golden Girls ensemble. “Where’s Valerie?”

  “Over here.” Valerie waved. “Brace yourself,” she said to Eric out of the corner of her mouth. “Now the real fun begins.”

  Despite being the only one of the trio in rapier-heeled shoes, Vivian was the first to cross the airy loft space, dodging lights and stepping over cables with the finesse of a Vegas showgirl.

  Valerie wouldn’t be in the least surprised to discover Vivian had high-kicked on the Strip at some point in her colorful past. Lord knows, she still had the wardrobe for it. And the legs. Even if they were short. The rest of her, however, was built more like a fireplug than a showgirl, and even in spike heels, Vivian was the shortest of the three. It didn’t matter. Her flamboyance made her larger than life.

  A once-famous dresser and stylist to the stars in Hollywood, she still enjoyed the theatrics of an entrance made in a well-coordinated ensemble. Today, in honor of her new cover model, her flame-red hair had been teased up and sprayed. Heavy eyeliner and seriously arched brows enhanced the airbrushed blush and perfectly lined lips. Her skirt was short and made of supple soft black leather. Red heels were strapped around her ankles, matching the blouson-sleeved red-and-black slashed top that was laced, corset-style, around the middle.

  While this did nothing to enhance her thick waist, it did perform a gravity-defying feat for her breasts. Which she’d be the first to tell you she had lifted and plumped every five years. Valerie liked to think that at some point she would stop being surprised by Vivian’s outfits. She doubted her career with Glass Slipper would last that long.

  “My, my, my,” Vivian said, openly admiring Eric. Or, more to the point, Eric’s leather pants. And how he filled them. She winked at Valerie. “I can see why you kept him under wraps, darling.” She turned back to Eric. “However, I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’ve kept your light under a bushel for so long.”

  Eric grinned and Vivian feigned a light swoon. “Darling boy,” she said, hand fluttering to his arm, “be careful where you aim that thing.”

  Eric chuckled and Valerie stepped purposefully between them. “Vivian, there’s something you need to know. All of you,” she said, getting Aurora’s attention as well. “This is Eric Jermaine, but he’s actually Prince Charming’s manager.” At their confused looks, she hurried forward with her planned speech. “I know this comes as a surprise to us all, but he’s also his legal representative, so everything is in order. We all know how carefully the real Prince Charming guards his privacy. He simply wanted to make sure that nothing happened to blow his cover—and your magazine launch—until it was absolutely necessary.” She turned to Eric. “This is Vivian dePalma.”

  Eric extended his hand. “Ms. dePalma, it’s been my pleasure to work with you. A greater pleasure to finally meet.”

  “Well, darling, it’s been a pleasure listening to that voice during our conference calls.” Vivian shivered a little as she took his hand. “You know,” she went on, giving him another considering once-over. “We’re still looking for models for future issues. Have you done any work in front of a camera?” She smiled a bit wickedly. “That you’re willing to talk about, that is?”

  Eric laughed, still holding Vivian’s hand pressed between both of his. “I’m sorry to report I haven’t done anything like that. Professionally or personally,” he added with a wink of his own.

  Vivian moved in closer and slid Eric’s arm through hers. “Well, we could certainly change all that.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Vivi, let the poor boy breathe.” Aurora joined them, chiffon billowing, her voice warm and breathless, with that hint of Southern gentility that belied her Charleston roots. She extended both heavily jeweled hands. “Such a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said, all smiles and fluttery lashes. “I’m Aurora Favreaux. We’ve spoken privately on the phone.” This last part was surely added for Vivian’s benefit. The two enjoyed an endless game of one-upsmanship.

  To the untrained and uninitiated, it would often appear that Vivian had Aurora outwitted—not to mention out-m
anned—but Valerie had been around the women long enough to know that Aurora was not to be underestimated.

  Eric smoothly extricated himself from Vivian’s clutches—a feat in and of itself—and took both of Aurora’s hands in his own. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Favreaux. However, I’m sure you would all much rather meet the real man of the hour.”

  “Honey, I don’t ever mistake a real man.”

  Mercedes joined them, a flute of champagne already in hand. She gave Eric the once-over, offered him a dim smile, then turned to Valerie, clearly less than happy with her new investment. “I thought we’d agreed on a more . . . traditional look for the cover.”

  Eric extended his hand. “You must be Ms. Browning. I’m Eric Jermaine, but I’m not your Prince Charming.”

  “Depends on who you ask,” Vivian murmured, quickly sipping her own flute of champagne.

  Mercedes arched one sculpted silver brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m the manager and legal rep for your newest employee.”

  Valerie once again became the target of Mercedes’ displeasure. “What is going on here? Did we, or did we not, sign an agreement with this man?”

  Valerie quickly explained, with Eric helping as well.

  Mercedes’ frown didn’t budge. “Highly unusual,” she said grudgingly when they were finished. “And I can’t say I’m enthusiastic about this turn of events. But what’s done is done. Time is of the essence here, so I suppose we should stop wasting it.” She looked to Eric. “Not to offend, but we did agree that only essential personnel would be here at the shoot. Even Elaine has been kept out.”

  Jack came out from behind the screens just then. “Trust me, he’s essential.” He paused beside Eric, looking him down and up. “And a clothes thief. Ricky Martin called. He wants his pants back.”

  Eric grinned. “Only if I get to return them personally.”

  Valerie dipped her chin and sent up a silent, fervent prayer.