Dear Prince Charming

by Donna Kauffman

  Vivian raised a questioning brow to Eric. “So, you’re . . . ?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Eric said, feigning a brief pout.

  Vivian lifted a shoulder. “Well, I suppose women shouldn’t have all the fun.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Aurora muttered.

  Mercedes turned to Jack, obviously determined to ignore her lustier counterparts, smiled graciously, and extended her hand. “I’m Mercedes Browning. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  To his credit, Jack didn’t so much as glance at Valerie or Eric in a last-minute gut check. He smiled as smoothly as if he really were Prince Charming and took Mercedes’ hand, then covered it with his other one. “Jack Lambert. Please accept my apologies for all the subterfuge. And the pleasure is all mine.”

  Vivian stepped in, sized up Jack, from his bare feet to his unbuttoned collar, then extended her hand. “I’m a firm believer in mutual pleasure.”

  Jack’s smile spread to a grin as he took her hand. “Why bother otherwise, right?”

  Vivian sighed, then winked at Valerie. “He was worth the wait.”

  Aurora stepped in and held out her hand, palm down. Only a woman born and bred in the South could pull that maneuver off and make it look natural.

  Valerie managed not to roll her eyes when Jack took the proffered hand and bent gallantly over it. They were eating this up. And so was he. Valerie should be thrilled. Everything was going beautifully.

  But she would breathe a lot easier when this part was over. Jack might handle the part just fine on limited terms, but he had no idea who he was playing with here. These three were sharper than a den of foxes. Valerie had to limit their time together, never leaving him unsupervised. And pray none of them ever saw the state of his bedroom closet.

  Thankfully Nigel clapped just then. “Waiting, waiting!”

  Jenn came out, smiled and nodded at the godmothers, and whisked Jack back behind the screens to work her magic.

  Eric followed him. “Ladies,” he said, sketching a little bow before disappearing behind the screen.

  Vivian and Aurora gave a collective sigh and sipped their champagne. “Personally, I don’t care if he’s gay,” Aurora whispered. “He’s quite yummy to look at.”

  “Downright delicious,” Vivian agreed.

  Mercedes ignored them both and turned a concerned look to Valerie. “We only have Nigel’s services for a limited time. Is there a reason you haven’t started yet?”

  “Oh, but we have,” Valerie assured her. “And wait until you see the proof sheets. We’ll have so many good ones, it’ll be a tough call on which one you’ll want to use, trust me.”

  “But he wasn’t wearing any shoes. And his tie was undone. His hair was quite unruly.”

  “Bed head,” Vivian interjected approvingly.

  Aurora nodded and sipped.

  Mercedes sent them both a steely look, then to Valerie she said, “Surely you didn’t have him pose like that.”

  Valerie laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “I know. I doubted it at first, too. But Jenn is an innovator, that’s why we hired her. Trust her instincts. Once I saw him in front of the cameras, I knew we’d hit gold.”

  Mercedes frowned. “Be that as it may, I’ll feel better when I see the proofs. This entire situation is quite unorthodox. Were you aware of their little stratagem?”

  “I only just found out about it myself,” she managed, then breathed a silent prayer of thanks when Mercedes’ attention was diverted.

  “What is he doing now?” She craned her neck a little, but didn’t actually peek behind the screens.

  “Remember I talked to you about shooting a portfolio, so we’d have the luxury of flexibility for future issues and promotional opportunities?” Valerie shifted the trio away from the dressing area, walking them closer to the small, food-laden table that had been set up off in one corner. “Jenn has several different looks she’s selected, all based on the notes I gave her from our conversations. We’ll get as many different looks and shots as we can. That way we also have the cachet of Nigel’s credits in future issues as well.” She bent her head closer to theirs. “Without having to pay his fee and leasing studio space.”

  Aurora beamed at her. “Always the smart one. Looking out for us, thinking ahead. And despite the little surprise this morning, we couldn’t be more pleased.” She turned to the other two. “Could we, dears?”

  Valerie held her breath, but Mercedes and Vivian smiled and nodded in agreement.

  Jack reemerged from behind the screens moments later.

  “Denim?” Vivian said, looking doubtfully at Valerie. “And . . . plaid?”

  They all started to converge on the staging area, but Valerie held them back. “Trust Jenn. She’s got great ideas. To contrast with the formal shots, you wanted something more relaxed.”

  “We said relaxed, not yard sale, darling,” Aurora pointed out.

  “He’s hardly thrift shop, Aurora,” Vivian scolded. “I still keep current. And if I’m not mistaken, those are Diesel—and quite a heavenly fit, I must say—and that shirt is from Thierry Mugler’s upcoming fall line. However did you score that?” she asked Valerie.

  “Talk to Jenn. She’s the miracle worker this go-around.” Score two for the Jenn-meister.

  The faded jeans hung just right on his hips, molded just enough to his thighs. The soft, short-sleeved, green-and-white-plaid shirt over a white T-shirt played well off his tan and brought out the translucence in his eyes. He looked comfortable and approachable.

  The staging had been changed to a pale oak window frame hung over soft blue fabric, fronted by a potted palm. There was a padded, dark green hassock positioned in front. Jenn was consulting with Nigel on her ideas for posing Jack for this round of shots.

  “Women want to see him as an attainable goal,” Jenn was telling him. “A guy they might actually meet on the street.” She put wire-rim glasses on Jack, who took them right back off again. There was a short conversation, Nigel made a comment, and the glasses went back on. An open book was laid across one knee, and Jack was instructed to glance up at the camera, as if someone—a woman, obviously—had called his name.

  “I must say, I wouldn’t mind meeting him on the street,” Vivian commented. “More champagne?” She topped off all three of their glasses just as Nigel called Valerie over.

  “We need . . . motivation,” he instructed her. “He’s flat.”

  When Valerie balked, Jack grinned at her. “Yeah,” he called out. “I’m flat. Come motivate me.”

  There was a quiet murmur from the godmothers and Valerie wanted to strangle Jack for not just doing his job with as few ripples as possible. She should have known he wouldn’t handle easily. Nothing in her life seemed to come without ripples.

  Sensing a problem brewing, Eric started to step forward, but Valerie waved him back. She shot the godmothers a lucky-me smile, to which Vivian winked and Aurora fanned herself. If Nigel wanted her on set, she’d be on set. There would be no scenes, nothing that would threaten to expose their carefully constructed charade. But just as soon as this shoot was over, she intended to hold a private meeting with Jack.

  Judging from the palpable female reaction to Jack on set today, Valerie knew she would have to carefully select a handful of promotional opportunities they could exploit for the sake of generating good momentum after the first issue hit the stands.

  And if Jack thought he was going have a little fun by playing games with her, he was about to learn otherwise.

  Urges

  We all have them. The problem is knowing when to act on them and when to channel that energy elsewhere. Men aren’t always great at deciphering clues, so don’t waste time being subtle. If the urge isn’t mutual, hand us a basketball or a golf club and tell us to go play outside.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m being stood up?” Jack tucked his cell phone between his ear and shoulder and kept typing while he talked. “For a stock analyst?”

  “Investment banker
. Who is better-looking than you,” Eric said. “More important, he puts out.”

  “Yeah, but would he wine and dine you with cold beer, deep dish pizza, and baseball on my big screen TV first?”

  “It’s not the size of his screen I’m worried about.”

  Jack thought he was handling this whole sexual-preference-revelation thing pretty damn well. But he was still working on the accompanying visuals. “And here I’ve always been told size doesn’t matter.”

  Eric just laughed. “They were lying.”

  Jack shut that mental track down pronto. “Hey, I didn’t say they were saying it to me.”

  “You forget, I’ve seen you naked.”

  Jack snorted. “Yeah, I recall that look of envy.”

  “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t lust.”

  “I’m crushed,” he said with mock grief. He learned early on that humor made for a great coping mechanism. Thank God for small favors, he thought. “Out of the closet two weeks and I’ve already been kicked to the curb.” He sighed. “And you said nothing would change.”

  Eric chuckled. “I’ve been watching you get stomped on for years. It’s about time you get to sit home and worry about me for a change. Besides, you’re only alone by choice.”

  “And a damn fine choice it is, too.”

  “You know,” Eric started, his tone turning serious, “it’s been a couple of years now. Don’t you think it’s time—”

  “For you to go primp for your date? Yes.” When Eric didn’t immediately shoot back a rejoinder, he sighed for real and said, “Listen, I’m fine. I’ve long since dealt with the whole divorce—”

  “It’s not Shelby you have to get over. I know you’re past that. It’s the fear of failing.”

  “Is this a performance-anxiety issue? Because if you need to talk about it—”

  “Fine, fine, don’t listen to me. The professional. All I’m saying is you seem to have closed yourself off too much. Life’s too short.”

  That one hit home, and he knew Eric meant it to. They both knew all about lives not lived. “Hey, I’m out there having fun. I’m just not all that interested in anything serious or long-term.”

  “I’m not saying go out there and find someone to settle down with. I’m just saying to be more open to possibilities.”

  Jack frowned. “Is this some kind of fix-up? What, Bruce has a sister or something?”

  “His name is Brice. And no, no sister. No hidden agenda here.” Eric’s tone turned sly. “Of course, I did happen to notice there was enough heat during that photo shoot to melt the polar ice cap, but did I say anything at the time? No, because I don’t meddle.”

  Jack snorted again. “You’re a born meddler. And that was called acting.”

  “It’s called denial.”

  Jack hit SAVE and leaned back in his chair. “Are you seriously suggesting, that with everything else going on, you want me to even consider getting something going with Valerie?”

  “I’m just telling you what I saw.”

  “Is this the same guy who always told me it’s not wise to jump into anything—or on top of anyone—too quickly?”

  “That was before I came out,” he joked, “and realized just how long I’ve been in denial. Only I know exactly what I’ve been denying myself.”

  “I can’t argue with you there.” Now it was Jack’s turn to be serious. “You might want to take a little of your own advice this evening, though. No point in rushing things.”

  “I’ve known Brice a long time. Wanted him even longer. I always thought we’d be great together, but I could never risk it. So I kept it casual. Now I don’t have to anymore.” Eric’s tone went from dreamy to amused. “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll practice safe sex.”

  “Slut,” Jack shot back, glad Eric couldn’t see the accompanying little shudder. He hung up with Eric’s laughter ringing in his ears.

  Brice, Bruce, whatever the hell his name was, didn’t stand a chance, Jack thought as he finished writing his e-mail. At least he’d gotten off the phone before blurting out that Valerie was dropping by. His mind drifted to images of that photo shoot, as it had often done these past two weeks. Eric hadn’t had to tell him about the heat. He knew all about the damn heat.

  He attached the article he’d just written on Tomas Hernando, a dog handler who’d won Crufts flyball with a Springer spaniel named Tuffy’s To ’n’ Fro, to his e-mail and fired it off to an editor at EuroSport. He’d picked up some freelance work, doing human-interest stories on a smattering of athletes engaged in sports ranging from jai alai to pickle ball. It wasn’t big money, but it was paying the bills until he could find something permanent that suited him.

  He pointedly ignored the fact that there was a check for fifty thousand dollars lying on top of his microwave amidst a pile of bills. Eric had tossed it there on his last visit earlier this week, when Jack had repeatedly refused to discuss payment.

  Heat notwithstanding, the photo shoot wouldn’t hit any top-ten list he’d ever compile on how he liked to spend a free day. Playing dress-up wasn’t his thing. Nor was being in front of a camera. He much preferred being the guy behind one and to the left, with a tape recorder in one hand and a notepad in the other. But if playing Fabio Lite helped Eric out of a jam, then it was a small price to pay. He just hoped they knew what the hell they were doing, slapping his mug on a magazine cover.

  The old ladies of Glass Slipper seemed okay with it. But it was the other reaction he couldn’t erase from his mind. Valerie had looked downright stunned when he’d come out barefoot in a tux. He’d felt silly with his hair all artfully mussed and his carefully clipped shadow beard. That was until he’d begun to tease her with that whole glass slipper come-on. Valerie took everything so damn seriously, it had been fun to rattle her composure a little. A bit too fun, if he was honest.

  Thank God the godmothers had shown up when they did. He’d imagined them as a trio of society doyennes who’d long since become close personal friends with their cosmetic surgeon. Far from it, as it turned out. Although all three had been expertly coiffed and beautifully turned out, a more . . . unique threesome of super-successful CEOs he couldn’t have imagined. Valerie hadn’t been kidding about their business savvy, either. Especially Vivian dePalma. Although Mercedes Browning could scare the hell out of someone with that glare of hers.

  Fortunately, Eric had fabricated an urgent meeting that required their immediate departure minutes after Nigel had taken his last shot. Jack hadn’t missed the relieved expression on Valerie’s face. He’d been more than willing to follow Eric’s lead, especially since he hadn’t ever gotten around to listening to the negotiation tapes, but it still irked him to know Valerie had so little faith in him.

  She’d shown up on his doorstep a day later, and proceeded to lecture him about how important it was that he lay low, in case word leaked out from the shoot. She’d advised him to speak only directly to her or Eric if any questions or concerns arose. Oh, yes, and in his spare time, could he please please read over Eric’s books. Just in case.

  Just in case. Not his favorite phrase.

  Her cell phone had rung incessantly and eventually she’d dashed off to put out some fire or other, leaving him somewhat bemused and, most annoying, even more aware of her sexually. Which made no sense, photo shoot or no photo shoot. She’d been all bound up in one of her business suits, her makeup understated and demure, her hair ruthlessly tamed, all combining to create what he was beginning to understand was the Glass Slipper look. There was absolutely nothing about her that should push any of his buttons. And yet there she was, pushing them at will. Blissfully unaware, thank you, God.

  Since then, she’d called several times, wanting to get together so they could go over probable scenarios about the types of things that could occur once the magazine hit the stands. He’d put her off each time. He told himself it was because he was still irritated by her lack of trust in his ability to handle this, and because Valerie was not the kind of woman a guy gave even a toehol
d to when it came to invading his life. He didn’t want her to get in the habit of striding in and taking over organizing his daily schedule, which he had no doubt she would do without even realizing it. But as the days went by . . . and more specifically the nights, he began to suspect he’d also put her off in the hopes that whatever was causing this more personal interest in her would die a natural death.

  A knock on the door startled him from his thoughts. Which had, he noted, once again drifted to Valerie. He glanced at the clock on his computer. Seven-twenty-nine and thirty seconds. Right on time. “Gee, there’s a shock.”

  Valerie had caught him earlier this afternoon when he’d been deep in writing his article and had absentmindedly answered the phone before checking caller ID. She hadn’t bothered asking him to meet with her this time, but informed him that she’d be at his place at seven-thirty sharp, vowing to hunt him down and sic Gunther on him if he dared to stand her up. She’d hung up without waiting for a response. Which was just as well, as he’d been smiling at the time, amused as all hell by her threat and totally at a loss to understand why.

  The buzzer rang again, and as he shut down his computer and got up to answer it, he realized he was looking forward to seeing her again. In a way that had nothing to do with business. And no matter what Eric and his heat theories wanted him to believe, “This is just business,” he muttered. Besides, other than those few moments during the shoot, Valerie had given him absolutely no indication she was having the same concentration problems around him as he was about her.

  Wishing now more than ever that Eric hadn’t abandoned him to the wolves—or wolverine as the case may be—he resisted the urge to change T-shirts or check his hair in a mirror. Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him? Jack opened the door and was caught off guard for a second time that day.

  Valerie followed his gaze down the length of her body, then back up, making a face when he finally made eye contact. “What, you’ve never seen a woman in jeans before?”

  “No. It’s just I’ve never seen you in anything other than those tailored little business suits you always wear.”