Chapter 8
“Yes, he’ll be there, Aurora. I promise.” Valerie paced the length of her living room, looking out her front window, wondering where in the hell the limo was. It was already after six-thirty. The egg rolls she’d thawed and heated, then reheated, were getting a bit crispy. And Gunther was head-butting the bathroom door.
“Wonderful, dear,” Aurora was saying. “I know I’ve said it before, but you’ve really helped us bring this launch off with a bang. Having Jack there will top it all off.”
“That it will,” Valerie agreed. If he ever gets here. She hadn’t spoken to Jack since her visit to his place on Tuesday. Not that she hadn’t tried. He wasn’t picking up on his house line or his cell.
Which meant he didn’t yet know about the powerhouse media blitz she’d lined up to cover tonight’s event. She’d had no choice. Print and television coverage, all anxious to be the first to get access to Jack, had been hounding her nonstop since the party invites had been sent out. The godmothers were in a tizzy of excitement. All Jack had to do was step out of the limo and Glass Slipper magazine was guaranteed local, national, even international coverage. Even she’d been amazed at the level of clamor to which his unveiling had risen. It made her job easy. Or would have if she’d had a cooperative star.
And if they weren’t lying to millions of people.
She shut that mental track down. Again. Right now she had to focus on preparing him to face the gauntlet. She was torn over just how much she should tell him. Too much information might spook him. Although, from what she’d seen so far, the man didn’t rattle easily.
Still, she was relieved that Eric would be attending tonight. Just in case Jack needed additional propping up. Eric was going to coordinate his arrival with theirs, and stick by Jack’s side throughout his stay. Which, she’d already determined, was going to be brief. Just long enough to make sure he showed up in Lloyd Grove’s Style section column in the Washington Post, and that Access Hollywood got their promised five minutes. Everyone else was on their own. Wall-sized blowups of the cover had been placed judiciously throughout the event. Any enterprising reporter could simply stand in front of one and file his or her report.
Women all over America could switch on their evening news and get a glimpse of Jack holding up that glass slipper, offering it to them as if they were the only woman in the world, the look on his face telling them, “Not only will the slipper fit, but so will I.” A look she knew very well, as it was permanently etched on her psyche.
She struggled to get her mind back on whatever Aurora was saying. This was why she should have never let him kiss her. She was in the home stretch. She needed crystal-clear thinking. One second around Jack and she was hopelessly muddled.
“Did you tell him how difficult it was for us to choose the best shot for the cover?” Aurora was saying. “A veritable embarrassment of riches. We certainly got our money’s worth from using both Jenn’s and Mr. Cole’s services. I must say, I was a bit skeptical about that, but you really knew what you were doing there.”
“I’m just glad it all went smoothly.” She crossed her fingers, praying their luck would hold out a little bit longer.
“Elaine can’t say enough good things about you, you know.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling guiltier by the moment. Dammit, why couldn’t Eric have been gay some other time?
“You know how skeptical we were about this new endeavor, but you’ve certainly delivered on your promises and then some. You’ve gone the extra mile and we want you to know we’ve noticed.”
“I’m just doing what needs to be done. It’s a pleasure.” Up until three weeks ago, she’d never meant anything more.
“Yes, dear. We feel the same. Mercy and I talked after the cover proofs came in. Once we get past all the rigmarole with this party and the magazine hits the stands, we’d like to sit down and talk with you. About your future with Glass Slipper.”
Her gut knotted. It was clear from the excitement in Aurora’s voice that there was some plan afoot. She swallowed past a similar knot in her throat. “Wonderful.”
“We’ve got big plans for you, dear,” Aurora went on to say, confirming either her worst fears or her best expectations. She could no longer judge. “Now I’ve got to dash. It takes me a bit longer to put my party face on these days.”
“You’ll knock them dead,” Valerie assured her, this time quite sincerely. Aurora drew people to her like moths to a flame. She had a generous spirit and a kind heart. A godmother, indeed. Which only served to deepen Valerie’s sense of guilt. In addition to respecting her bosses, she truly liked each one of them. Even Mercedes had grown on her. She told herself that what she and Eric and Jack were doing was for everyone’s benefit. Aurora, Vivian, and Mercedes more than anyone. But that was of little comfort.
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” Aurora exclaimed. “After all our hard work, this is going to be such fun!”
Valerie hung up, then pressed a fist to her gut. “Fun. Everyone is so damned hung up on having fun.” This much stress couldn’t be good for a person. “Well, I’m not having fun yet.” She peered out the front window again, the drizzle pattering the street, matching her mood. She debated pouring another small glass of wine. She’d already had one. And there would be more than a couple champagne toasts made tonight. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Too nervous. Probably more wine would not be a good idea. After one more peek at the empty curb, she managed to refrain from checking her reflection for the umpteenth time in the glass-front china cupboard and walked back to the kitchen to check on dinner. Such as it was.
She was wearing the black Chanel. Her hair had been ruthlessly gelled and spritzed into a classic Audrey Hepburn French twist, her makeup kept to a basic but flattering minimum. Her only nod to the momentous occasion was the simple strand of matched white pearls at her throat, topped by the pair fastened to her earlobes. Passed down from her grandmother, they were her best pieces. All in all, her look was one of understated elegance. And, most important, not flashy in any way.
She intended to stay out of the limelight tonight, hovering instead on the fringes of the glare that would be focused on Jack.
She slid the tray of very brown egg rolls out of the oven and onto the counter, checked on the lo mein noodles and sesame chicken she’d dumped from cartons into her own bowls and kept warm in the microwave, all the while stepping back and forth over Gunther, who’d given up on gaining access to the bathtub and had decided to play floor rug instead.
Where in the hell was Jack?
She was filling her wineglass for the third time, peering out the front window, when a short knock came on the kitchen door and Jack strolled in without further warning.
She squealed, white wine sloshing as Gunther reared up off the floor with uncustomary swiftness. “Don’t let him out!” she shouted, as the juggled wine cascaded over the rim of her glass and down the front of her black dress.
Too late, Jack lunged for the door, but was flattened against the opposite wall by one hundred and fifty pounds of very intent dog. “Jesus,” he yelped, pulling up one knee with a hiss when Gunther’s tail thwacked him right in the crotch on his way through the screen door and down the back steps.
“No!” Valerie swore, dumped the glass in the sink, and grabbed a towel. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as she turned on Jack, looking out the door in time to watch helplessly as Gunther trotted happily through every mud puddle in the backyard. “This isn’t happening to me.”
“You need a sign on that door,” Jack managed as he gingerly moved past her into the kitchen. “Maybe one for that tail of his. It’s lethal.”
Valerie saw her carefully planned evening evaporate right in front of her eyes. “I took him out before I got dressed, specifically so he wouldn’t have to go out again until I got home tonight.”
Jack moved beside her, wincing as he looked out the back door in time to see Gunther rub against one of the
pine trees, making the whole thing shudder and send water cascading off the needles and onto his back. “He seems quite happy. Can’t you just leave him out there?”
“It’s raining.”
“He’s a dog. He’ll be fine. Doesn’t he have a doghouse or something?”
She looked away. “Yeah. I spent a fortune on it.”
“Where is it?” He looked outside. “Don’t tell me he’s afraid of that, too.”
She turned and walked back over to the sink. “He ate it.”
Jack managed to stifle his little burst of laughter when she shot a deadly glare his way.
“And I can’t leave him out there. He can get out.”
“He jumps the fence?” Jack asked, sending a dubious glance Gunther’s way. “He didn’t seem all that . . . athletic to me.”
“No, Gunther doesn’t jump. He, uh, he opens the gate.”
Jack’s eyes widened in surprise. “Another little trick you didn’t mean to teach him?”
She raised her hands. “I take no responsibility for this one. He became an escape artist back in his pound-puppy days. All I have to do is put an extra latch on the outside of the gate, but—”
“You’ve been too busy.” He ignored her glare. “Interesting pet choice. Were there no other dogs at the pound that day?”
No way was she telling him what a sucker she’d been. “My father decided I needed a guard dog when I moved out on my own. Gunther was the biggest dog they had.” That much was true.
Jack looked at Gunther, who had belly-crawled in the mud beneath the wooden chaise and was now lying quite contentedly with his chin resting on his paws. “Size is important. Or so I’ve recently been told. I don’t guess anyone willingly comes into the yard or the house.” He didn’t have to comment on the fact that size was the beginning and end of Gunther’s guarding skills.
Valerie sighed, then swore when she looked down at the front of her dress. A wet splatter stain covered most of the bodice and a good part of the midriff of her dress.
Jack closed the back door and turned to her. “I don’t guess that’s going to dry without leaving a mark.”
She didn’t even look at him. “No, I don’t guess it will.” Motioning to the dishes on the counter, she said, “Why don’t you go ahead and move those to the dining room table while I figure out what I’m going to change into. There’s a tray for the egg rolls next to the stove.” She didn’t wait for a response, but turned to leave.
Jack’s hand closed on her arm just as she stepped out of the kitchen, stopping her. “Valerie, I’m sorry.”
She turned, finally looking at him for the first time. Damn. Just when she’d finally convinced herself that it had been Nigel’s magic that had turned Jack into the man currently gracing the cover of Glass Slipper. Even without the artfully mussed hair, or the five o’clock shadow, the man packed a definite punch.
Noticing her once-over, he dropped his hand and stepped back, holding his arms out to the sides and looking down at himself, then back at her. “Something wrong?”
It was the sincere concern in his voice that kept her from saying something snarky in order to put distance back between them. Which was the precise moment she realized that was exactly why he provoked that kind of response from her in the first place. But he looked honestly worried, and somehow that charmed the snark right out of her.
He was wearing a pale gray tux, white shirt, white silk tie and cummerbund. It played well against his tanned skin, made him look swarthy while at the same time making his gray eyes glitter. “No. Not a thing,” she said honestly, damning the slight huskiness to her voice. Only then realizing her mistake as that gleam came instantly back into those clear depths. A gleam she remembered all too well. She backed up.
“I have to say, though, I liked it better when I could go barefoot.” His smile faded and he took a step toward her. “I really am sorry about the dress. I’ll be happy to have it cleaned for you.”
“Why didn’t you come in the front? I specifically told the driver—”
He snorted. “Yeah, well, we need to talk about the whole driver thing. Why don’t you go change first, okay?”
“What about the driver thing?” She’d been so flustered by Gunther’s escape that she hadn’t noticed anything else. She peered out the window. “Didn’t he pick you up? Is that why you’re late?”
Jack took her shoulders and turned her toward the stairs. “Go change. I’ll set up the table. We’ll talk while we eat.”
She moved quickly out of his reach, telling herself it was to thwart his controlling maneuver, not because his touch made her shiver. Dammit. But that didn’t explain why she scooted up to her bedroom and closed the door instead of standing her ground and taking control of the situation. This was her place, her meeting. He worked for her, essentially. Yet she couldn’t close the door fast enough. Just not before catching his amused smile at the base of the stairs. She flicked the lock with an irritated scowl. “Prince Charming, my ass,” she muttered.
Valerie started peeling out of her dress as she walked to her closet. She already knew what her choices were. There were two, both handpicked and delivered by Jenn yesterday. She wasn’t thrilled with either of them. Not because they weren’t perfect for her. Jenn was brilliant. Maybe because they were a bit too perfect for her. One was a red silk cheongsam with a modest neckline and cut to fit her body like she’d been the dressmaker’s dummy they’d used to style it on. The other was a stunning shade of aqua, soft and flowing where the red dress was formfitting. The aqua, however, had a plunging neckline, front and back. She wasn’t the kind of woman who turned heads, but wearing either of these would make it that much harder to fade into the background.
She glanced at her bedroom door, helpless against envisioning Jack’s reaction to either of these dresses. Her black Chanel was cool and modest, and she’d still felt the heat of his gaze on her as she’d crossed the living room. Looking back at the two dresses, she reached for the red one. Her French twist would work best with it. She’d stick in the black lacquer chopsticks Jenn had brought with her, and switch the white pearl earrings for the black ones, also from Jenn’s arsenal. Thankfully, the black sandals went with both.
It took her less than ten minutes to change and make the necessary accessory adjustments. She briefly debated the red lipstick, but vetoed it. One look in the mirror had been enough to tell her she was already courting disaster. “If I have to reveal the fact that I have no curves, at least I’m keeping the little I do have all covered.”
And this way she didn’t have to worry about flashing her boobs or butt crack to the world every time she turned around or bent over. Not that there was all that much to flash, but when she did, she preferred to flash what little she had in private. With a deep breath, she pasted on her business smile and went back downstairs. Only to discover it empty.
“Jack?” The food was already on the table. She turned back to the hallway, cocked her head, but didn’t hear anyone in the guest bathroom. “Jack?” she called out again, just in case. No response. Frowning, she went to the kitchen, only to find it empty, too. “Where in the hell did he go?”
Then she noticed his jacket, shirt, and cummerbund hanging on the dining room chair, with his shoes and socks kicked beneath it. Her mouth dropped open. He was cocky, even a bit arrogant, but this? She whipped her gaze back to the living room, then the closed bathroom door, temper already flaring. If he thought he was going to get her into bed because of one kiss and a few searing looks, well, he was about to learn that—
Her silent tirade was cut abruptly short when a commotion drew her gaze to the back door. Her hand flew to her mouth, although she wasn’t sure if it was to stifle a horrified gasp, or a burst of laughter. “What in the hell does he think he’s doing?” she murmured through her fingers. Although the answer to that was painfully obvious.
Bare-chested and barefooted, with his tux pants rolled up to his knees, and a towel tucked into the front to catch mud splatter, Jack was
wading across the soggy backyard, hose in one hand, chewed-up Frisbee in the other, heading directly for Gunther. Who was busy doing his damnedest to scramble out from his tightly squeezed spot beneath the chaise before Jack could get to him with the dreaded water.
She watched in openmouthed shock as Jack commanded Gunther to come—and the beast listened! He held the hose so the dog could take a gulp, then stuffed the Frisbee into Gunther’s mouth and led him to the back porch by the collar. Of course, Gunther could have put a stop to the charade that Jack was capable of leading him anywhere if he decided otherwise, but he lumbered along as if it was his idea all along.
“Probably thirsty,” she muttered, remembering his head-butting the bathroom door. At least, she wanted to believe that was the reason. The alternative was too galling.
Jack stopped at the foot of the steps and hosed off Gunther’s feet—the dog happily gumming the Frisbee, as content as if he was getting the world’s best belly scratch and not a dreaded rinsing-off. She tensed when he moved the hose to Gunther’s muck-covered belly, but after a good snout rub and solid head pat from Jack, the dog stood as if he’d been trained to do so since birth. Valerie knew quite well just how bogus that was. If she wasn’t so amazed by the little demonstration, not to mention thrilled to be rid of the chore herself, she might have been the teensiest bit upset by the whole thing. Okay, more than a teensy bit. Was there no living, breathing creature Jack couldn’t manage to seduce?
“He’s not Prince Charming,” she muttered. “He’s the freaking Pied Piper.”
Jack let Gunther have one last long drag off the hose before shutting it off. Then he grabbed one of the beach towels Valerie now saw he’d stacked on the stairs. Her hand flew to the doorknob. Gunther equated beach towel with tug-of-war. And no one beat Gunther at tug-of-war. At the last second, though, some demon inside her made her snatch her hand back. And smile. “Pied Piper, my ass,” she said beneath her breath. “Let’s see you go a round with him now.”
Dear Prince Charming Page 12