Operation Prince Charming (3 page)

Frustration washed over Hunter at more houses being robbed by a suspect or suspects they always seemed to be one step behind. “Damn, I’ll be glad when we catch these ass—”

“Whoa!” Pete interrupted. “Now, that doesn’t sound very charming. Looks like you may need to stay after class.”

Images of Ali Spencer and her pink pelican-print dress floated through his mind. For some reason, staying after school didn’t seem so bad.

Ali inhaled the curls of steam rising from the china teapot, hoping the fragrant scent of jasmine would put her aunt in a compromising mood.

“Do you have time for tea?” She stood at the threshold of the older woman’s office holding a silver tray, already knowing the answer to the question. No matter the temperature, her Anglophile aunt never turned down hot tea.

Rachel Spencer Holmes looked up from the paperwork scattered across the antique desk that had once belonged to Ali’s great-great-great-grandmother. She was dressed in a starched gray suit accessorized with pearls at her ears and around her slim neck. Despite the unseasonably warm spring weather and the building’s lack of central air-conditioning, the olderwoman looked as she always did. Impeccable.

Her aunt’s penetrating brown eyes darted from the tray to Ali’s face and back again.

“Of course, dear.”

Beckoning Ali inside, she tidied up the papers she’d been reviewing and tucked them into a drawer.

Ali set the tray on top of the weathered walnut desk. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from mentioning the untouched laptop at the opposite end. Using it would have helped her aunt accomplish the work more efficiently, but she’d stubbornly refused.

Baby steps, Ali reminded herself as she poured hot tea into the delicate, hand-painted cups. She moved a Queen Anne chair from across the room and seated herself on the other side of the desk. She’d drag this antiquated school
and Aunt Rachel into the twenty-first century, she thought, sitting down, one baby step at a time.

“Oh my, another
colorful
ensemble.” Her aunt squinted at Ali’s pink seashell-print skirt and matching pink blouse. “I practically need sunglasses to look at you.”

It wasn’t the first time Aunt Rachel had pointed out her vibrant fashion choices. The bold colors of her Lilly Pulitzer–dominated wardrobe, which had flown under the radar in south Florida’s lush tropical landscape, stood out like a pink elephant here in Nashville.

“I’m not buying new clothes, Auntie,” Ali said, not that she could afford to these days anyway.

Fortunately, her aunt changed the subject.

“Impressive spread, Alison,” she said, surveying the offerings on the desk. Pure delight brightened her sixty-nine-year-old, still-unlined face. “Jasmine tea, macaroons, strawberry scones, cream puffs. All of my favorites.”

Her aunt bit into a cream puff and her eyes rolled heavenward. “Scrumptious,” she said, and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a starched linen napkin from the tray.

“I remember you serving high tea every afternoon when Dad dumped me off on you for the summer.”

“Don’t be silly,” her aunt said. “I loved having you. If John hadn’t brought you, I would have come down to Florida and picked you up myself.”

Ali sipped her tea. Back then, she hadn’t wanted to leave her widowed father alone, but he’d insisted. After she’d lost her mother at four years old, he’d thought his tomboy of a daughter would benefit from his older sister’s feminine influence.

Ali did. The summers she’d spent with her aunt and at the school eventually helped her snag a position at a major metropolitan newspaper after college. While the
South Florida Beacon
hadn’t been interested in hiring a green reporter fresh out of journalism school, they’d had an opening for a Miss Manners–type to pen a weekly column.

Ali’s take on infusing life’s frantic pace with genteel elegance rapidly became a reader favorite, and her column was bumped up to twice weekly. Over the years, she parlayed the column’s popularity into a series of books.

Her column was being considered for syndication, and she was in negotiations to host a local lifestyle television show, when everything went horribly wrong.

Now Ali was back where she started, at her aunt’s school. Only now it was literally crumbling down around them.

Her aunt stirred a packet of sugar substitute into her tea, before taking a sip. The spoon clinked softly against the gold-rimmed cup, arousing Ali from her thoughts.

“I stopped by the hardware store to pick up a
few tools and materials. Now I can get started on some of these repairs,” she said, figuring she’d start with an easy topic.

Her aunt nodded, but appeared more interested in selecting another treat.

“Oh, and I took your appointment with Mr. Coleman yesterday,” Ali said.

“Thanks again for meeting with him. When Celia called to tell me she’d fallen, I had to go check on her,” her aunt said. “So, how did it go?”

“He enrolled, but I’m going to be handling his instruction if you don’t mind,” Ali said, leaving out that he’d been adamant she do so.

“Are you sure? I was hoping for another crack at Hunter Coleman.”

Ali put down her teacup. “You know him?”

“I haven’t seen him since he was six, and I kicked both him and his brother out of my class. I called their mother and told her to come pick up those two hellions immediately.”

“What did they do?”

Aunt Rachel shook her head. “Nearly tore the place apart, so they could get out of my class and go play baseball.”

Ali helped herself to a scone. Now she understood why Hunter had insisted on her being his teacher instead of her aunt.

“Detective Coleman is only available evenings,” Ali said. “It’ll be easier if I just stay after the boys’ class.”

Aunt Rachel nodded her approval and then
focused her keen eyes on Ali. “So, what do you
really
want to talk to me about, dear?”

Ali exhaled, looking from the bakery-fresh treats to the older woman’s stern face. So much for softening her up with sweets, she thought.

“I’d like you to reconsider the high-tech manners for children class,” she said firmly.

She watched her aunt’s lips tighten and wondered how she managed to get her next sip of tea past them.

“High tech and manners are an oxymoron,” Aunt Rachel finally said. Her dulcet tone, sweeter than any cream puff, disguised her bullheadedness. “There’s no such thing.”

“That’s exactly why we should offer this class. How can we expect kids to grow into adults who turn off their cell phones at restaurants or don’t stop midconversation to check their e-mail if they don’t know any better?”

“Cell phones, PDAs, MP3s, and the rest of those techno gadgets are just noisy nuisances.”

“Maybe, but they’re here to stay,” Ali said. “The school has to change with the times.”

The corners of her aunt’s mouth turned down in a full-fledged frown. “Four generations of Spencer women have run this school for over a hundred years. They steered it through two world wars, Jim Crow, the Depression, and the civil rights movement.”

Instinctively, Ali looked up at the portraits lining the wall behind her aunt. They ranged
from brown-tinged sepia and black-and-white likenesses of the grandmothers she’d never known to the color likeness of her aunt.

“Soon it will be your turn. Then you can do what you want. Until then—”

Ali cut her off. “Auntie, you know I’m only here temporarily. Once I get the school profitable and this old building back in shape, I’m leaving.”

“For where? Did you get a job offer you haven’t told me about?”

“No, but you need to get the idea of me staying here and taking over the school out of your mind.”

“Fine.” Her aunt sniffed. “So stop trying to change everything. I refuse to relax the Spencer standards.”

Ali bit into a scone to take the edge off her frustration, but it failed to soothe her. She hadn’t thought much about the school until her aunt’s call four months ago.

The request for help had come at a time when Ali had needed something to focus on besides the humiliation of her failed marriage and career. Nashville had sounded like as good a place as any to lick her wounds and plot her comeback.

Before she’d return to her real life, she was determined to make her family’s history-steeped etiquette school relevant and profitable in today’s world. If her aunt would only cooperate.

“I admit, I’ve made a lot of changes since I’ve arrived,” Ali said finally, “but I don’t believe any of them compromise our standards.”

Her aunt shook her head. “It’s too much change. Too fast. I think we should wait out all this high-tech nonsense,” she countered. “Good manners never go out of style.”

“You have to admit the princess tea parties and after-school program piqued more interest in the school. Both are nearly half-full.” Ali defended the two classes she’d recently added.

“Hmmph,” her aunt snorted. “With all the giggles and laughter, it sounds like they’re doing more playing than learning.”

Ali didn’t take the bait. She wouldn’t allow herself to be pulled into another debate on teaching styles.

“So, do I have your permission to give the Techno Manners class a try?”

Her aunt waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll think about it.”

It was a gesture that usually silenced Ali, but not this time. She thought about the school’s growing stack of bills and the repairs that needed doing around the older building, and she continued to push.

“It’s time to stop sitting on the sidelines waiting for things to return to the way we want them to be and do something.” Otherwise there wouldn’t be any Spencer school, she thought.

Her aunt put the macaroon she’d raised to her lips back on the plate, and raised her eyes to meet Ali’s gaze. “Isn’t that exactly what I’ve been telling you for weeks?”

Here we go, Ali thought.

“We’re not talking about me,” Ali replied. She knew where her aunt was steering this conversation and she didn’t like it.

“Have you given
my
suggestion any consideration since
you
promised to
think it over
?” her aunt asked, oblivious of Ali’s protest.

“I’m not ready to date. It’s too soon.”

Her aunt sipped her tea. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a divorcée, not a widow. Besides, your divorce has been final for almost a year.”

“I appreciate your concern, but there isn’t a man alive I’d be interested in going out with.” Ali braced herself for the wave of bitterness usually accompanying the statement, but it didn’t come. Instead, her mind conjured up images of Hunter Coleman.

She closed her eyes briefly to banish her handsome new student from her thoughts and focused on bringing up an image of his girlfriend instead.

“Did you hear what I said, dear?”

“Sorry, no.” Ali straightened in her chair.

“I was telling you about Celia’s nephew, Edward. You remember Celia?” the older woman continued, not waiting for an answer. “He’s
divorced too, and Celia thinks you two would hit it off. Then there’s also a nice single man from church—”

“Thanks, Aunt Rachel, but no,” Ali said firmly, hoping to stop her matchmaking before it got started.

“Well, you don’t have to get so snippy about it.” Her aunt sniffed. “You want me to be open to your suggestions, but you refuse to extend me the same courtesy.”

“That’s unfair. I’m talking business, and you’re trying to interfere in my personal life.”

“What personal life?” her aunt asked. “You spend all of your time here.”

“So do you,” Ali countered.

“That’s why I’m pushing you so hard to get back into the dating world, so you don’t end up like me. Looking back, I wish I’d listened to friends who’d encouraged me to date again after your uncle died,” she said. “It’s hard growing old alone.”

Ali averted her eyes from the regret lurking in her aunt’s gaze.

“No,” she said.

“One date, Alison. Just one little date.”

“No.”

“How about if I agree to let you start your high-tech etiquette class? On a trial basis, of course.”

Ali dropped the smooth manners her aunt had drummed into her since childhood. “Let me
get this straight.” She leaned forward in her chair. “The only way I get the class is if I let you pimp me out?”

Her aunt’s lips curved into a sweet smile. “I don’t consider asking you to go on an innocent blind date ‘pimping,’ but yes, that’s the gist of it.”

Ali exhaled a long, exasperated breath. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

“That’s wonderful, dear.” Her aunt clasped her hands together. “You won’t regret it. When you meet Edward, you’ll be thanking your old aunt.”

Ali groaned inwardly. Somehow she doubted it.

Ali spread the damask linen tablecloth over the rickety table.

It still wobbled a bit, despite the book she’d wedged underneath the leg. But like everything else around the ancient school, it would have to do.

Fortunately, she’d brought the bulk of her table accoutrements with her to Nashville. The last time she’d used them had been for a dinner party she and Brian had hosted with a guest list that included Florida’s lieutenant governor and several important local dignitaries. Now the platinum-rimmed ivory plates would simply create a good representation of the formal table settings Hunter Coleman would likely encounter when he was out with his rich girlfriend.

His girlfriend.

Ali would do good to remember the fact.

Not that his relationship status mattered. Her
own life was in such disarray, the last thing she needed in it was a man.

Pulling back the cardboard flaps on the carton containing her wedding china, Ali remembered the concerned look on Aunt Rachel’s face when she’d brought it to the school. Her aunt had asked several times if she was sure she wanted to use the expensive, once-special plates.

She plunked the elegant soup bowls, then salad plates down on the table. She didn’t care if they were accidently chipped, cracked, or even smashed to bits.

Ali was certain all right. Like her marriage, they no longer held any sentimental value.

Ali paused, her ears perking up.

There it goes again, she thought.

The nearly constant sound of trickling water coming from the bathroom down the hall pricked her nerves as she arranged the plates, then added flatware and glasses.

She’d already picked up the repair supplies, and her tools were in her office. Hopefully she could put a stop to that running toilet before Hunter arrived.

She glanced at her wristwatch. He’d be here in less than an hour. She fussed with a fork, even though they wouldn’t be eating.

Finally, she took a step back and admired the beautifully set table. If it were anywhere but here,
one would think it was a romantic table for two at a four-star restaurant.

However, this beautifully set formal table was all business—exactly as Ali would be when she saw Hunter Coleman.

Hunter listened to Erica’s recorded voice instructing the caller to leave a message.

Not bothering to leave another one, he flipped his cell phone closed and returned it to the holder clipped to his belt. So much for Erica giving him a reason not to scrap this charm school crap and join the other detectives on his shift, who were by now on their second round of beers.

Heaving a weary sigh, he shut off the basketball game on the radio and threw open the driver’s-side door of his black Dodge Challenger. During work hours he drove a department-issued Chevy Malibu, but on his own time he preferred his own ride.

Hunter had given Erica his word. That alone would have to be reason enough not to blow off his first etiquette class.

He used the short walk from the curb to the school’s door to push images of watching tonight’s basketball playoff game on a sixty-three-inch flat-screen at Big Johnny’s sports bar from his mind.

He was here now. He yanked open the front door. Might as well make the best of it.

There was no one in the reception area, but the lights were still on, so he figured someone had to be around.

“Hello,” he called out.

“I’m in here,” Ali said.

Hunter wasn’t sure exactly where “in here” was, but he followed her voice down the hallway to the ladies’ room door.

“You okay in there?” he asked, through the slightly cracked door, wondering if she had taken ill.

“Sure, come on in.”

The splintered door squeaked against its rusty hinges as he slowly pushed it open. Hunter wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find. Twelve years of serving and protecting the public had taught him to anticipate anything.

Still, the last thing he expected to see was Ali, in a pink palm-tree-print dress, pearls around her neck and her arms buried up to the elbows in a toilet tank.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, wondering if it was something he could fix. Hell, if he had a choice between a charm school lesson and rescuing her from a broken toilet, he’d take the toilet.

“It’s been running,” she said. “So I’m replacing the flapper.”

From its subway-station-green walls to the tiny black-and-white hexagonal floor tiles, the bathroom was a throwback to another era. It was as if
time had marched ahead and left it back in the 1950s.

“Want me to take a look at it for you?”

“No, thank you, I’m almost done,” she said, not bothering to look up from the tank.

He watched her crouch down and turn on the water at the shut-off valve. When the tank filled, she flushed it and waited a few moments.

“Great, it drained. No need to adjust the chain or trip lever,” she said more to herself than him.

She exhaled before looking at him. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover this evening. Give me a second to wash up, and I’ll be right with you,” she said. “Everything is already set up in the classroom down the hall and on the right. It’s two doors down from my office. You remember where my office is, don’t you?”

Hunter scratched his head as he retreated, his brain struggling to reconcile the image of the petite, pink-clad manners expert with the apparently capable, amateur plumber.

His initial dread returned full force as he walked into the classroom. Front and center was a table set for two and loaded with enough perfectly arranged crystal, china, and cutlery to serve a dozen people.

Ali joined him a few moments later.

“Looks like I owe you another apology. Sorry to have kept you waiting again. I meant to have that project done before you arrived, but it took longer than I’d expected.”

“I admit, I didn’t expect to find you up to your elbows in a toilet,” he chuckled.

She shrugged. “It’s an old building. Unfortunately, my list of repairs is longer than my arm.”

“So you’re the handyman…eh, I mean handywoman…as well as teacher here.”

Ali nodded.

“I’m impressed.”

She smiled at him. Not the perfunctory smile he’d seen her give to the little girls’ mothers the other day or the cool one she’d used with him. This genuine smile reached her eyes and warmed her entire face.

“My aunt taught me formal dinner protocol, but it was my dad who made sure I knew how to handle a toolbox,” she said. “He’s a plumber by trade, but there isn’t anything he can’t fix.”

“Really? I’m in the process of rehabbing a 1920s bungalow,” Hunter blurted out before he realized it, and for the life of him, he didn’t know why he said it to her, of all people.

He rarely talked about the house left to him by his grandmother. He hadn’t mentioned it to Erica or told his family he’d gone back inside the house after all these years, let alone let them know he’d started renovations.

“Sounds like a big job.”

“I’d thought so, but the structure is sound. It just needs some elbow grease.” He thought of the tiny dent he’d made in the long to-do list. “Lots of it.”

“I’d love to see it sometime.” Her small hand went to her mouth, and he was disappointed to see her high-wattage smile dim. She looked as if she wanted to take back her words.

“That would be great,” he said, wondering what he’d said to spook her. “I just finished the kitchen, and I haven’t had a chance to show it off yet.”

The generic version of her smile returned as she nodded, and he could practically feel the wall go up around her. He didn’t know Ali Spencer, but whoever had hurt her had done a helluva job.

“We’re going to cover formal dining tonight,” she said, directing his attention to the table.

“That’s a lot of forks,” he said. And glasses and plates, he thought.

Sure, he’d attended the occasional formal event for work and managed to eat without making an ass of himself. Then again, he suspected his fellow diners hadn’t known any more about the correct fork to use than he had.

“It’s not as complicated as it looks,” Ali said.

Yeah, right, he thought, figuring the line was an etiquette teacher’s version of the dentist’s “this won’t hurt a bit.”

“Seriously, it’s really simple,” she said. “I tend to start with formal dining because it’s the easiest lesson.”

“If you say so,” he said, unconvinced.

“First, I like to get my basic dinner no-nos
out of the way. Some of them may seem obvious to you, but I always like to make sure my clients and I are on the same page.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“No smacking, finger licking, teeth sucking, burping, cell phones”—she paused to breathe—“and absolutely no dangling a toothpick from your lips.”

“You actually have to tell people this?”

Ali rolled her eyes skyward. “You’d be surprised,” she said. “But if you already know better and are a quick study, I just might be able to get you out of here in time to catch the second half of the basketball game.”

“How’d you know?” he asked, surprised.

She glanced at the small
Memphis Grizzlies
emblem on his polo shirt. “I figured you for a fan,” she said.

Hunter felt his facial muscles twitch upward into the beginnings of smile, and he rubbed his hands together. “Well, what are we waiting on? Let’s get to it.”

She sidled up next to him, and he caught the scent of her perfume. The fragrance was the same fresh, citrusy scent.

“First, you need to make sure you’re reaching for your own bread plate and water glass.” Ali pointed to a small plate, the entrée plate and a glass. “Your bread plate will always be on your left and your water glass to your right. An easy way to remember this are the letters
B M W
,
like the car, but in this case it stands for bread, meal, and water.”

“Got it,” he said. The quicker he caught on, the sooner he could get out of here.

“Okay, then have a seat and we’ll move on to silverware.”

Ali spent the next hour briefing him on the fine points of formal dining. He had to admit she was right. It wasn’t nearly as complicated as the arsenal of tableware suggested.

“Now we’ll go over it one last time, only you’ll point out the utensils and their purpose to me.”

She reached over to put a fish fork back into place at the same time he went for his salad fork. Their hands brushed, and she drew back as if she’d been burned.

“Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, averting her eyes. “I’m just waiting on you to get started so we can wrap up for the evening.”

Hunter recapped the lesson, even remembering to leave his knife and fork in the position she said would signal a waiter he was done.

“Excellent,” she said.

He wasn’t sure why, but Ali’s praise made him feel good. “Is that it?”

She nodded. “Next lesson, we’re going to put what you learned tonight in action with real food in a formal atmosphere. Instead of here, we’ll meet at the restaurant,” she said, then filled him in on the time and place.

All through the lesson he’d only looked forward to the end of it. Now that it was over, he wasn’t so eager to leave. Ali Spencer had piqued his curiosity.

Hunter knew she was none of his business, but his teacher intrigued him. He looked forward to finding out more about this enigma of a woman at the next lesson, over dinner.

How on earth was she going to get through another lesson with him?

Ali peeled the silver foil off another chocolate and dropped the wrapper atop the growing pile accumulating on her kitchen countertop.

Popping the candy into her mouth, she recalled how an accidental brush of his hand had nearly made her jump out of her skin. However, the sweet, creamy chocolate failed to erase the memory of contact so electric she’d wondered if he’d felt it too.

“Get it together,” she scolded herself.

Catching the blinking red light on her answering machine out the corner of her eye, Ali jabbed the button and then crossed her fingers.

Hopefully, her agent, Leo, was finally returning her calls and had good news. Or maybe one of the résumés she’d sent out had caught a newspaper’s interest.

Leo’s voice filled the one-bedroom garden apartment, and for a nanosecond, she allowed herself to feel a sliver of optimism.

“Just getting back with you,” he said. “Again, nothing’s changed, but I’ll give you a call if something breaks.”

She grabbed another piece of candy from the open bag on the counter. Why did she even bother? Nobody was looking to hire a disgraced etiquette expert. Not after the smear job her ex-husband and her former best friend had done on her.

A digitized voice announced the time of the second message.

“Hi, Alison. It’s Edward Wilson. Our aunts are friends. Anyway, I thought you might like to go out sometime. Give me a call.”

Ali gave the machine an eye roll and scribbled his number on the pad she kept by the phone. Edward sounded like a nice enough guy, but she wasn’t interested. She’d go out with him, but only on one date and only to get her aunt off her back.

The third message was from her friend and a sports columnist for her former paper, Lynn. Ali pressed
FAST FORWARD
to the forth, then fifth message both from Lynn. Then the phone rang, in the middle of Lynn’s third message, startling Ali.

It was Lynn. Again.

Ali snatched up the receiver. “What on earth is it?”

“I’m been trying to reach you all evening. How come you aren’t answering your cell?”

“Late class.” Toeing off her shoes, Ali padded over to the living room with the bag of candy and sat down on the sofa. She eased back onto the cushions. “So, what’s going on?”

“I wanted to tell you before word got out,” Lynn started. “I know you were hoping the paper would reconsider and ask you to come back, after the whole hubbub settled down, but…”

Ali’s stomach did a free fall to her toes. “They found a replacement, didn’t they?”

“They hired Kay.”

Ali stood abruptly, sending chocolates flying across the nondescript beige carpeting. Not her, she thought fiercely.

First, Brian. Now her job.

“Al, are you there?”