“There is nothing going—”
Eric cut him off with a look. “Please. Pictures don’t lie. Neither does the way she shoots those flames right back at you.”
“That was her wanting to fry me where I stood.”
“Yeah. But only after she devoured you.”
Jack swore beneath his breath, but didn’t bother to deny the hot little thrill Eric’s observation sent rocking through him. “So, you think she wants me, huh?”
Eric rolled his eyes. “Maybe you two should just spend the next fifty-five minutes in the other room, getting each other out of your systems. It might be the only prayer we’ve got.”
Jack slung an arm around Eric’s neck and they both stole a look back at Valerie. “It’s going to take a lot longer than an hour.”
“Then you better find the off switch, my friend. At least for now.” He shifted out from under Jack’s arm, his expression turning sober. “She’s got a lot riding on this.”
Eric didn’t have to add, And so do I.
“Yeah. I know. Best behavior.” Jack crossed his heart and held up one hand, fingers folded. “Scout’s honor.”
Eric shook his head with a rueful smile, and reached out and rearranged Jack’s fingers. “You’d have made a lousy Boy Scout. Just do your best.”
By the time Jack got out of the shower, Valerie and Eric had set up a base of operations that had taken over Jack’s living room. All that was missing was an overhead screen and a PowerPoint presentation. Although the idea of Valerie with one of those whiplike pointers did give Jack a few lovely visuals. She’d need spikier heels, though. . . .
“Jack, finally,” Valerie said, giving him a quick once-over. Apparently the jeans, along with the short-sleeved blue cotton shirt over a white Fruit of the Loom met with her approval, because all she said was, “Coffee is on the kitchen counter. Grab one and have a seat. I’ve got today’s battle strategy mapped out.”
“Yes, master,” he murmured as he grabbed a cup of blessedly hot coffee and snagged a bagel from the bag sitting beside it. “Where’s Eric?”
“He said he had a few things he had to do.”
“Yes, and the first one is probably named Brice.”
“Jealous?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Apparently, that was as close to teasing as he was going to get from her this morning.
Except she’d hit a little closer to home than she could have known. Because the responding little twinge had surprised him, too. Maybe part of the reason he’d been so quick to pick on Brice was because he saw him as a form of competition. Which was ridiculous. If his marriage and subsequent divorce, along with years spent trotting all over the globe, hadn’t diminished their bond, Eric’s new boy toy certainly wasn’t going to be a threat.
“Don’t worry,” she told him, misreading his frown. “He’ll meet us for the first interview.”
That got his attention. “First? Of how many?”
She motioned to the couch, then flipped through her notes. “Five.”
Christ. “Why so many? Can’t we just do one or two and let everyone else lift from them?” He perched on the arm of the couch and took a bite of bagel. “And what are we wanting them to find out, anyway?”
“We do all five.” She was busy making notes and not looking at him. It was then he noticed the sexy glasses. Okay, so they were dark-rimmed and not remotely sexy. But with her hair pulled up in a bun, lips pursed, pen flying over paper . . . well, she was hot as hell, really.
“Because as it turns out,” she went on, “yours and Eric’s little party act was something of a hit last night.” She flicked a glance at her wristwatch. “The magazine hit the stands two hours ago and early indications are that sales are brisk.”
“How in the hell can you know that already?”
She looked at him over the rims of her glasses. “We have ways.”
Damn, he wanted to yank them off and push her back on that couch and—
She frowned. “What?”
“What, what?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shrugged and quickly took a bite of his bagel, forcing his mind back to the topic at hand. Because it was where he wanted to put his hands that had gotten them into this fix in the first place.
She sighed and went back to her notes. “We’ve got people running to their newsstands, which is a good thing, but we also have this minor furor over the photo in Star.”
“If it’s selling magazines, then who cares?”
“It might be good for sales, but we have to contain it. We want to control the impact you—or Prince Charming, anyway—has on the public. We can’t let this take on a life of its own.”
Jack wasn’t interested in that, either, but ever the devil’s advocate, he asked, “Why? What difference does it make what the tabloids or anyone else says if it means more ka-ching for Glass Slipper at the cash register? In another news cycle it will be some movie star getting divorced, knocked up, or falling off the wagon again, or the latest sighting of an alien baby. We’ll be old news.”
“Yes, but the magazine goes on, as does Eric’s column. Image and perception are powerful tools, and Glass Slipper’s public image is important.” She took the glasses off and sent him a pointed look. “Hitting the cover of a sleazy tabloid, right out of the gate, is not what we had in mind.”
He had the grace to be at least a little abashed. “Yeah, okay. You know I’m sorry.” He nudged her over and slid from the arm of the couch to sit next to her. Looking at the notes she had spread over the coffee table, he said, “What’s our plan of attack?”
She didn’t say anything right away, so he turned to look at her, only to find her staring at him, a somewhat perplexed expression on her face.
“What?” he asked. “What did I do now? I screwed up and I’m ready to take my medicine like a good boy. What else do you want from me?”
Bafflement flickered briefly to a smile, then she shook her head and looked back to her notes. “Nothing. Just your cooperation today.”
Intrigued, maybe a little irked, too, he reached out and touched her chin with his fingertips. She jerked away, but looked at him, serious now. “None of that.”
“None of what? I just wanted—”
“That’s just it, you don’t get to do whatever you want. Including touching me.” She shifted a little on the couch so their legs were no longer brushing each other. But it was a love seat with pillows at either end, and there wasn’t a lot of extra space. “We’ve got enough problems.”
Despite knowing better—or maybe because he knew better—he wanted to push. “What was the little smile and head shake about? What did I do that was so damn amusing? I hate it when women do that.”
She smiled again.
“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Explain the smile.”
“Okay, you want to know? At the risk of inflating your ego further, you have this . . . way about you. You are admittedly cocky, a bit arrogant—”
“Arrogant? I’m not—”
She raised a hand. “You asked me to explain, I’m explaining. Like I was saying, you can be cocky, a bit arrogant, Mr. I’m-in-Charge-I-Know-Best.” She sighed with feigned resignation. “Then, as most cocky, arrogant men do, you screw up, proving you’re not in charge and you don’t always know best.”
“Date a lot of cocky, arrogant men, do you?”
“No, but I’ve worked for my fair share. And though there is a small moment of smug satisfaction in observing your failure, we’re mostly resigned to it, because you don’t learn, and we know you’ll be just as cocky tomorrow.”
He laughed.
“See? Right there? You don’t even try to deny it. You can pull the most frustrating stunt, then shoot one innocent little smile, give us a sincere ‘I’m sorry,’ and we’re helpless not to sigh and go, ‘Okay,’ because you’re so damn cute about it. That’s the reason for the smile.” Again, she lifted a hand when he grinned. “But it’s a momentary, somewhat fatali
stic reaction, and is not meant to encourage more acts of stupidity.”
He leaned closer. God, she was something.
She stilled, caught her breath for just a moment, then abruptly shook her head. “From either party. Jesus.” She went to stand up, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Jack,” she said warningly.
“Can I ask one thing?”
She sighed. “One thing.”
“What would be the harm? I mean, really. There’s a spark here. Don’t deny it,” he said quickly when she looked like she was going to. “We’re both single, consenting adults. And you said yourself that women want to see Prince Charming available and out there dating.”
“Did you read the headline? Did you read the story? The speculation on exactly how Glass Slipper managed to snag you? I’m sorry, but I’m not real fond of being called a whore in print, and I don’t care if it’s a stupid, sleazy tabloid printing it, okay?” She yanked her arm back and shoved herself to a stand. “My parents will see this.” She paced across the room, stopped, leaving her back to him, but saying nothing.
This is why you don’t push, idiot. Jack put his coffee on the table and walked across the room to her, but stopped short when she stiffened. “Did you talk to them?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you want me to talk to them?”
The offer seemed to surprise her. Which made sense, because it had surprised him, too.
“Thank you,” she said after a moment, “but no. I’ll—I’ll deal with them; they’ll understand.” She gave a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Who am I kidding? They’ve never understood anything about me.”
He couldn’t help it. He smiled. He reached out, wanting to turn her around, say something, anything, to restore peace and goodwill, but pulled his hand away. She’d clearly made herself off-limits.
“Well, then, they need to try harder.”
She stilled but didn’t say anything. And he couldn’t tell if he’d just made things worse.
“What I want . . .” she began, stopped, then said, “No, what I need is for you to promise me you’ll do it my way today. Please.”
There was a slight quaver to her voice, and he swore under his breath. “Val, I’m sorry.”
She turned around. “That only works once. You’ve used up your cute quotient for the day.”
“Does that mean I get another shot at it tomorrow?”
“Let’s hope we won’t need to worry about it tomorrow, okay?” she said with forced good nature and a suspicious glisten to her eyes that made him feel lower than slime. He didn’t imagine a woman like Valerie was shaken too often.
“Okay,” he said, sincerely chastened. “But if you change your mind about the mom-and-pop chat, the offer stays open.” He stepped away from her then, before he promised her anything else. Usually, when a woman got emotional or exhibited any signs of being trouble, he was more than willing to walk—hell, run—in the other direction. He was not in the market for the rocky ride, not when there were so many short, smooth ones available. But Valerie wasn’t turning out to be someone he could dismiss so easily.
He snagged his coffee and moved behind the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. Perhaps a physical barrier was wise at the moment. He admired how quickly she gathered herself. There was a slight hitch in his resolve when she slid those glasses back on, but he manfully persevered. “So, what’s our battle plan, ma générale?”
“We have three radio call-ins, the first in about forty minutes. One is the Washington market, just local. The next is New York, for a syndicated team. We’ll have to talk about that one. I want you to be very careful with those two, they’ll try to get you going and—anyway, I have notes there. The final one is northern California. A Bay Area afternoon team, but that’s later today.”
“Call-ins? Why not have Eric do those?”
“We discussed it, but since you’ll be doing several interviews today, we feel it’s better to keep the continuity going, get you in a groove, so to speak. After the first two radio shows, you’re doing a print interview with US Weekly.” She tugged her glasses off and looked from her notes to him. “Then, before the Bay Area call, you’ll do another personal appearance for the early evening news. Local station, but Washington is a major market. So we’re going to have to be prepared. It should be a fluff piece, but we can’t afford for you to get too cocky or self-assured.”
“Somehow I don’t think you’ll let that happen.”
“I’m going to do my best,” she said evenly.
His instinct was to tease, to push again. He wasn’t used to this, to not being in the driver’s seat when it came to casual flirtation, to the little dance two people did around each other when attraction reared its beguiling head. Maybe because there was a sense of urgency to it that he wasn’t able to explain away. Logically, rationally, or otherwise.
He glanced down, caught the cover of the tabloid again, the screaming headline. Thought about her parents, two people he didn’t know and would probably never meet, looking at this, knowing everyone would be murmuring about it. And found the motivation he needed to get over this blinding attraction thing. She didn’t deserve this kind of press, and she most certainly didn’t need him to make it worse for her.
His game face on, and determined to keep it that way, he left the kitchen and took the seat across from her. “Tell me what you want me to say. And what you don’t want me to say.”
She looked up, pausing, as if expecting him to follow that up with some kind of punch line. When he didn’t, she seemed to relax. Like maybe she was beginning to trust him a little. Or was at least willing to try. It was a start, anyway.
He flashed back to their conversation in his car last night, how communication, assumptions, and matching expectations could make or break a relationship.
Interestingly, he could state with unequivocal certainty that she would work tirelessly in dealing with and fixing this little fiasco. More interestingly still was the fact that he was hell-bent on making sure she knew he would, too. Trust being a two-way street and all.
To that end, he curled his hands around his coffee cup, leaned back, and propped his ankle on his knee. He watched her go over her notes, absorbed a synopsis of Eric’s column highlights, listened as she fired orders at him, let her coach him in how to deflect questions they didn’t want answered and work in the information they did, no matter what the direction of the interview. He paid attention, made mental notes, committed the game plan to memory.
And the entire time, in the back of his mind, all he could think was that somewhere along the way she’d blown his neat little category system all to hell. There was no category for a woman like Valerie Wagner.
But he had a feeling he was in the midst of creating one.
Crazy stupid, indeed.
Anticipation
Just when you think you have it all under control, something happens. Expectations are exceeded. Curiosity is piqued. And then you’re in that lovely holding pattern between Do I Dare? . . . and Dare I Don’t?
Chapter 12
“Sorry I’m late,” Eric said as he shouldered his way through the cluster of people watching the taping.
Valerie spared a quick glance at him before returning to the action, as it were. “Where in the hell have you been?” she whispered furiously.
“I got caught up.”
Judging from the ebullient smile on Eric’s face, she could hazard a guess at what—or more likely, who—he’d been caught up in.
“How’s he doing?” Eric asked. “Knocking them dead, knowing Jack.”
Valerie wished she’d been as confident as Eric seemed to be. She watched as Jack made the Channel 4 reporter laugh. And blush. Again. “He’s holding his own.”
“I’ll say. I caught the radio call-in earlier. He kicked ass.”
Valerie had to grudgingly agree. Both radio spots had gone better than she could have hoped. Jack was well-traveled, a sportswriter, and a jock. That com
bination worked to his advantage with the morning-drive boys. Whatever they tossed at him, he tossed right back.
The US Weekly reporter had been female. Jack’s combination of good looks and boyish charm, with just an edge of wolfishness, had the woman panting. Valerie was fairly sure the coverage would be flattering.
So why was she feeling so, well, pissy? It was almost as if she felt a bit jealous or something. Which, of course, was absolutely insane. She had no claim and wanted none. And even if she did, Jack was putting on the good show to save her hide. And Eric’s.
But did he have to do it so damn effortlessly?
“Looks like he’s enjoying himself out there,” Eric whispered.
“Yeah,” she murmured. Almost too much. Which at least explained the anxiety she was also feeling. Shades of the launch-party animal haunted her. But, true to his word, he’d stuck to their battle plan. More or less. It was that subtle shift from more to less that concerned her.
Eric squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Women love him. And from the looks of things, today isn’t any different.”
“So, Mr. Lambert,” the newswoman was saying.
“Jack, please,” he interrupted, all jaunty smile and casual demeanor.
“You started the Dear Prince Charming column as an on-line endeavor, then went on to parlay that modest beginning into a syndicated column and several national best-sellers. Hasn’t it been difficult hiding your alter ego from friends and family all this time?”
He’d handled this question many times now. Valerie could practically mouth the response with him.
“I don’t have any living relatives, just a few close friends. I travel a great deal with my regular job, so it really hasn’t been all that tricky.”
Valerie glanced at her watch. Five minutes, then she was cutting him off. They had plenty of tape to fill the ninety seconds of airtime they were going to give him during tonight’s six o’clock news coverage.
“Did those close friends know you were Prince Charming?”
“My manager did. I’ve known him since we were kids. And there were a few others. They respected my request to keep it under wraps.”
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