Dear Prince Charming Read online

  Dear

  Prince

  Charming

  Donna Kauffman

  Bantam Books

  Table Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Donna Kauffman

  Praise for the novels of Donna Kauffman

  Preview

  Copyright Page

  I am a woman in the enviable position of living a life

  surrounded by men. And while not always charming,

  they each have their own princely qualities.

  This book is dedicated to them. Mitch, Spence,

  Brandon &, as always, Mark.

  Truth

  A key element in successful relationships is honesty. Namely, being able to detect when your significant other isn’t practicing it.

  —ERIC JERMAINE,

  AKA DEAR PRINCE CHARMING

  Chapter 1

  At age thirty, Valerie Wagner had begun to fear that the fashion career she’d dreamed of since opening her first Vogue at age nine was actually a grand and cruel delusion, and that perhaps medical intervention might be required in getting her over it.

  Maybe her fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Spagney, had been right all along. She’d sent Vogue-enhanced Valerie home from school the following day with strict instructions to never scare the other students like that again. Privately, Valerie had thought Ms. Spagney could use some heavy kohl eyeliner and spiky bangs herself. It would have done much to hide the deep grooves that came from too many years of frowning down at young, independent thinkers like herself.

  However, she’d been objective enough to realize that maybe makeup and hairstyling weren’t her strengths. So she’d stared down at her flat chest and thought . . . hmm. Valerie had been the only girl in her sixth-grade class secretly thrilled not to need a training bra. After all, she’d never walk the runways in Milan if she had boobies.

  Unfortunately, she’d forgotten about the height clause. By sixteen, even in wobbly heels, with hair gelled to within an inch of its life, she barely flirted with the five-eight mark. Much shorter than the five ten she knew from her by-then slavish devotion to W was the minimum of industry standards.

  Cruelly, the now-welcome boobies had never appeared.

  Undeterred, she’d resolutely turned to design. If she wasn’t made to model fashion, by damn, she’d create it. Which would have worked beautifully except stick figures sporting Magic Marker–colored, triangle-shaped outfits weren’t exactly going to win her any scholarships. And yet, she’d hung in there, convinced her calling was still within reach. She’d go for a degree in fashion merchandising and work for an upscale chain as a buyer. She envisioned trips to Paris, London, Milan. So what if she had as much chance of balancing her checkbook as she did of discovering the formula for cold fusion? It wasn’t like she was going to be spending her own money, right?

  Then had come the Big Breakthrough. In her senior year of high school, the brokerage firm her father worked for had transferred him to Chicago. She’d gotten a summer job with Madame magazine—for full-figured gals, not call-girl employers—though as switchboard operator she’d heard every hooker joke and pimp pun on the planet. She hadn’t minded.

  She’d found her people.

  Obviously she’d just misinterpreted the gospel according to Elle. It wasn’t the people populating those glossy pages that called to her. It was the glossy pages themselves. Fashion magazines, the force that drove the industry, deciding what was hip and what was hopelessly last year . . . that was her true calling, her primary function, her niche.

  Ten years later she’d become a serial niche killer. There wasn’t a job she hadn’t held. Or gone on to abandon, feeling more unfulfilled and depressed with each failure. Fortunately, she’d stumbled upon her last hope before getting a prescription for Paxil.

  When she’d heard that the owners of Glass Slipper, Inc., the company renowned for performing life makeovers, were looking for a publicist for their new endeavor, the bimonthly glossy Glass Slipper magazine, she knew she’d found the career Holy Grail she’d been searching for. And it was do-or-die time.

  She’d winged her way through what she privately thought was the best job-pitch performance of her life. And by performance she meant audition, because it had been the acting job of the century. She had no specific qualifications for the job. But when had that stopped her? She might have been slow finding her own niche, but the upside was that she knew a whole lot about everyone else’s. So she talked a good game. In fact, talking people into doing things her way was the one special talent she knew she had. In spades.

  So when Mercedes Browning contacted her to tell her she’d gotten the job as the publicist for their new endeavor, she hadn’t been completely surprised.

  The real shock was that she hadn’t realized her true calling sooner.

  And now, six months to the day later, she’d topped it all by scoring the biggest coup in magazine history. Not only had she landed Prince Charming, the mysterious and elusive best-selling self-help author, as Glass Slipper’s spokesperson and exclusive columnist . . . she’d gotten him to agree to show his face to the world for the very first time, on the cover of their launch issue!

  Valerie wove her way through the crowded outdoor tables at Sonsi’s, Potomac’s newest swank spot, where Washington movers and shakers came to see and be seen. Because, honestly, despite Chef Andre’s impeccable and well-advertised qualifications, no one was here because they had an undying craving for venison-stuffed pumpkin or Moulard duck wrapped in foie gras and fig.

  At the moment, however, she didn’t care about unnatural food combinations. She was too busy savoring her triumph and trying to refrain from conga-ing her way around the tables. So many years of trying, of wondering, of worrying if she’d ever get to this moment. Hell, wondering if this moment actually existed. And now, finally, it was here. And it was even better than she could have hoped for.

  “Cinderella, eat your heart out,” she whispered beneath her breath.

  She had the Glass Slipper; she had Prince Charming; she even had her own fairy godmother—three of them, in fact. All she needed now was the Be-Dazzler-encrusted pumpkin carriage and the fairy tale would be complete. Her smile spread to a grin. However, her brand-new, sporty little MINI would definitely do in the meantime. Life was good.

  She waved to the Godmother Collective as she spied their table. Mercedes Browning, Aurora Favreaux, and Vivian dePalma—the founders of Glass Slipper, Inc., and now Glass Slipper magazine—nodded, fluttered, and lifted a drink, in that order, in her general direction as she navigated the final handful of tables.

  Flushed with her success and hoping she didn’t look as smug as she felt—oh, what the hell, how often did one reach a career pinnacle?—Valerie took her seat across from the three women. “Everything is set,” she announced. “Nigel is on board. We shoot the cover Monday morning.”

  “We never had a doubt!” Vivian exclaimed, lifting a bottle of Cristal from the ice bucket next to the table. Her trademark flame-red hair had been teased into a spiky pouf around her head, her makeup had been stenciled on with laserlike accuracy, a
nd her outfit was as outrageous as always. Of course, most women couldn’t make zebra prints work. Valerie had quickly learned that Vivian wasn’t most women. The youngest of the three at sixty-eight, Vivian was also the most outspoken. “Let me pour you a glass or three, honey. Lord knows, you’ve earned it.”

  “A proper celebration is definitely in order,” Aurora added after a quick frown at Vivian. Swathed in layers of gossamer silk, Aurora had that effortless, delicate Southern charm that quite successfully hid the steel magnolia beneath.

  “So, everything is in order, then? You’ve spoken with Elaine, I assume? No other last-minute emergencies?” Mercedes’ expression was serious as always. Valerie privately thought of her as the Eeyore of the group. It had come as no shock to learn that, prior to launching their life-makeover empire, Mercedes had been headmistress of a private New England girls’ boarding school.

  “For heaven’s sake, Mercy, let the girl have some bubbly before you start interrogating her.” Vivian handed Valerie her glass, then topped off the other three. “I’m sure everything is just fine.” She beamed at Valerie, but her gaze was sharp as ever. “You’ve all but taken over the reins of this whole endeavor, haven’t you?”

  Valerie was surprised by the comment, but as Vivian seemed to mean it as a compliment, she continued to smile. “Hardly. Elaine is doing the work of ten people,” she said, referring to the managing editor. “I’m in constant awe.”

  “But you were clever enough to come up with the spokesperson and cover model idea,” Vivian commented.

  “Yes, but of course we had no idea Mr. Jermaine would refuse to deal with anyone but me. I just did what I had to to ensure he signed with us.”

  Aurora flipped her scarf at Vivian. “Of course you did, dear. And we’re ever so grateful.” She lifted her glass a bit higher as she turned her attention to them all. “Here’s to our new venture, and the dynamite publicist who single-handedly assured us a smashing debut!”

  “Hear, hear,” Vivian agreed readily. “Here’s to knocking those bitchy industry insiders on their collective jealous ass! And they said our plan to launch a magazine in this economic climate was foolhardy. Ha!”

  Mercedes’ frown only deepened, but she tipped glasses with the rest of them, then spoke before they’d barely finished swallowing. “You’ve confirmed with Mr. Jermaine the cover shoot for Monday?”

  Valerie assured her she had, even as Vivian rolled her eyes.

  “We’re all looking so forward to finally meeting him in the flesh,” Aurora said, leaning forward a bit, the multiple rings on her fingers sparkling as the sun reflected off the champagne glass.

  “Flesh you’ve promised is cover-model worthy,” Vivian reminded her.

  “Oh, you won’t be disappointed, trust me,” Valerie said, enjoying the feel of the fizz as it tickled her nose. Did it get better than this?

  “If he’s as good-looking as you say, I find it surprising he’s kept his light under a bushel for so long,” Aurora offered.

  “I don’t think he really thinks about his looks one way or the other.” Although privately she agreed with Aurora. Eric was six feet plus of tanned muscle and beachboy godliness. He already had women all over America swooning with his no-bullshit insight into the male mind. He was proof positive that caring, sensitive men did exist. All that and drop-dead gorgeous, to boot. She wouldn’t be surprised if the female population took one look at the way his perfectly sun-streaked and tousled blond hair fell in endearingly boyish waves across his broad, tanned forehead, those stunning aqua-blue eyes, and a mouth that Cupid must have had a hand in sculpting . . . and had a spontaneous group orgasm. He’d certainly left her feeling a bit damp. “He’s just a very private person.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Mercedes said. “We’ve been reduced to negotiating via phone conferences.” She settled her napkin in her lap as their salads arrived.

  Valerie said a silent thank-you for the timely intrusion. Mercedes had been the only one who hadn’t been all that enthusiastic about hiring Eric sight unseen. It was too late now, however, so there was no point in yammering on about it yet again.

  “I can only hope that the man is worth the large sum of money we’ve paid for his services,” Mercedes commented after the young waiter left.

  Valerie smiled with easy confidence at this. “I don’t think anyone is going to be disappointed.”

  Vivian fanned her throat. “Honey, if that look in your eye is any indication—”

  “For heaven’s sake, Vivi, eat your salad,” Aurora told her, then glanced at Valerie. “So he’s a real hunk, huh?”

  “On a scale of one to ten? He’s a twelve.”

  Vivian and Aurora both sighed.

  “And despite being so private, he’s surprisingly outgoing. You’re going to be very happy with your investment.” She poked at the mandarin orange peeking out from its hiding place behind the arugula and goat cheese. If it was up to her, there would be a law against fruits and vegetables coexisting in the same salad. Probably why she hadn’t lasted long as a food designer for Ladies Home Weekly. “He said that this whole career of his started from a small, impromptu group of women he chatted with anonymously on the Internet. It snowballed unexpectedly, but he continued to keep his name out of it. I think he was still keeping other career options open at the time and this was sort of a side thing. I know he had no idea it would take off like it did, and by then, the whole mystique thing was part of the Prince Charming persona, so he stuck with it.”

  “I suppose demystifying the male gender wouldn’t exactly make him popular with other men,” Aurora commented.

  Vivian sighed. “But the women sure have appreciated it.”

  They certainly had, Valerie thought. In droves. Eric’s Dear Prince Charming column was syndicated nationwide and all four of his books—mostly compilations of past columns, with some additional commentary—had hung around on the best-seller lists for months at a time. “I think we just got lucky. When I saw that piece in the trades about his syndication deal coming up for renewal the same time as his next publishing contract, and that he wasn’t rushing to sign on again for either, I thought, why not approach him? Maybe he was burning out, or maybe he was just tired of hiding out. I thought we might be able to offer him just the right deal.”

  Vivian lifted her glass again. “And that we did!”

  “Hear, hear,” Aurora agreed, finishing off her glass, then covering her mouth when she hiccupped. “Best five hundred grand we’ve ever spent.”

  Mercedes just took a deep breath and downed the rest of her champagne.

  Valerie knew that come Monday, even Mercedes would be won over. Her greatest fear when she’d first met Eric was that he’d be a paunchy, balding guy who looked like he had a better shot at demystifying her taxes than her love life. She couldn’t have been proven more spectacularly wrong. Cinderella rules! “Well, you’ll all get the chance to see just how well your money has been spent at the photo shoot.”

  Just then her cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” she said, and slipped it from her bag to check the readout. It was Eric. “Speak of the devil,” she said with a smile, and flipped the phone open. “Hello, handsome, we were just—”

  “Valerie?”

  With just that one word, Valerie knew something was wrong. She just managed to keep the concern out of her voice, and hopefully off her face. “It sure is. What’s up?”

  “We need to talk. Right away. It’s—it’s important.”

  She glanced up to find the three older women staring at her expectantly. She smiled and nodded, the picture of confidence. Once an actress, always an actress. “Certainly. I’m just having lunch with Mercedes, Aurora, and Vivian. We’re celebrating. Why don’t you—”

  “I don’t know if it can wait,” he said, cutting her off, sounding even more anxious.

  Tamping down any hint of alarm, she said, “Just a moment,” then covered the phone. “Why don’t I just take this inside; it won’t take a minute.”

/>   Mercedes frowned. Vivian appeared curious and Aurora concerned. “Is there a problem, dear?” she asked quietly.

  Valerie shook her head. “Just last-minute production details.”

  “Is that him?” Vivian asked.

  “Him?” Valerie asked, feigning confusion, thinking fast. She’d answered the phone with “Hello, handsome,” hadn’t she? Dammit. “Oh, him! No, no, this is, uh, one of Nigel’s people.” She leaned forward. “It’s the accent, gets me every time.”

  Vivian and Aurora smiled in complete comprehension. Mercedes’ frown lifted a fraction. Valerie took the small opening and pushed her chair back. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  Her mind racing ahead, she tried to fathom what Eric’s problem could possibly be, but nothing sprang to mind. Maybe he had a conflicting engagement with the shoot on Monday. Well, he was going to have to reschedule. Getting Nigel had been her second miracle and no way was she going to risk losing him on this project. They were so close.

  As soon as she got a table or two away, she uncovered the phone. “Hi, Eric. I have some privacy now. I’m sure whatever it is, we can handle it. Is this about the shoot on Monday?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  She frowned. “I’ve spoken with Nigel’s people and we’re confirmed. This is really going to be a wonderful opportunity for us all, Eric. You couldn’t be in better hands.”

  “I know.”

  He sounded quiet, almost . . . remorseful. She was just inside the doorway and waiters were bustling past her with heavily laden trays. She shifted her back to the noise and cupped her hand over her ear, praying it was just the surroundings and that she’d misinterpreted the tone in his voice. “So, what is the problem?”

  “I’ve—I need to talk with you. Before—before we go any further with this.”

  No personal pep talk in the world would have prevented the alarm from creeping into her mind. “But we’re all set, aren’t we?” She wanted to add, “You signed a contract. With a lot of zeroes attached. We sent you a check,” but managed not to. Just barely. However, she couldn’t keep from glancing over her shoulder, back to the table. All three women were staring in her direction. She managed a brief smile and motioned that she was almost done. She turned her back to them and edged farther into the waitstaff passageway. “Can’t you just tell me now? I’m sure we can resolve whatever it is—”