Operation Prince Charming (4 page)

“Yes, I’m here,” Ali croaked.

“I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t want to tell you, but I’d hate to see you blindsided by the news.”

“But I don’t understand,” Ali stammered. “How can they take her seriously as a journalist or an expert on protocol? She was an unemployed Web designer when I hired her to be my assistant.”

“I know. I asked the same thing when I marched into the powers-that-be offices the moment I heard. They claim the combination of what she learned from you and her Web background will help them branch out beyond print and attract more online readers.”

“Oh,” Ali said softy, still absorbing the fact that
she’d trained the woman, who’d stolen her husband, to take her job.

“I know you’re too polite to say it, but it’s a load of crap and we both know it. They do too.”

Although, after the paper had let her go they’d implied she could eventually be rehired, she’d known it was a long shot. Still, deep down she’d held out hope.

This sealed it.

No column. No new book deal. No television show. Her life as south Florida’s guru on proper behavior really was over.

“Thanks for telling me, Lynn.”

“Come on, girl. You’re in a new city making a fresh start,” her friend said.

Fresh start? She was treading water at a school that would close soon if she couldn’t generate more business. Ali beat back a wave of self-pity as she hung up the phone.

For a fresh start, this felt an awful lot like rock bottom.

Erica Boyd paced the length of her living room, the plush velvet carpet absorbing her angry steps.

She didn’t like what she was hearing.

The fact that she was paying a lot of money for poor results irked her even more.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Boyd,” her latest publicist said.

Erica stopped midstep and glared at her, somewhat gratified to see the dark circles under her eyes. She had summoned the woman to her penthouse at dawn, moments after the morning paper had arrived, and she’d seen the glaring omission.

Carrie McDaniel had showed within the hour, balancing a box of warm Krispy Kreme donuts and two vanilla lattes, which Erica assumed she’d brought to mollify her.

The publicist sat on a gold-cushioned armchair, while Erica stomped back and forth in front of her, still dressed in her ivory, silk dressing gown. Carrie wore a bland beige pantsuit.
Her hair, usually flat-ironed straight, was a halo of springy red curls surrounding her freckled face, and her bleary eyes were glued to the open society page on her lap.

Erica snatched the paper. She stared at the photos from the art exhibition again. Maybe if she stared at them long enough, her likeness would magically appear.

“I sponsored this stupid artist and his stupid showing,” she ranted, thumping the paper with her hand. “Yet I’m not in any of these pictures. They didn’t even mention my name!”

“I don’t know how this happened,” Carrie said.

“It’s your job to ensure that something like this doesn’t happen.” Erica tossed the newspaper onto an end table and it landed with a thump next to Carrie’s fat-laden offerings. She’d already fired two publicists and another had quit on her.

But she’d had high hopes for Carrie. The young woman had just opened up her own firm and was eager to please. She’d also come up with the brilliant suggestion to smooth down Hunter’s rough edges with a bit of charm school.

Hunter.

The memory of him in her bed sent a delicious shiver from Erica’s core down to her slipper-shod toes. Unfortunately, outside the bedroom their relationship was sliding rapidly downhill.

She loved the envious looks she got from
other women when she stepped into a room on Hunter’s arm. She didn’t want to let him go, unless she absolutely had to. She hoped she could count on that prissy old bat at the Spencer School to do her job and get him in line.

However, if Carrie didn’t do a better job of garnering her some good publicity, she wouldn’t hesitate to let her go.

“Did you position yourself close to the artist when the photographers were around, like we talked about?” Carrie asked.

“Of course I did.” Erica snatched the paper off the table and pointed out a photo of the artist standing next to a couple, who’d raved over his watercolor rendition of a moonlit forest.

Erica had thought a toddler with a box of crayons could have produced a better “masterpiece,” but had fallen into line with the majority and feigned delight over his use of light and angles.

“There’s my arm. I recognize my diamond and sapphire bracelet and my cocktail ring,” she said. “As you can see, the rest of me was cropped out.”

“But I talked to the reporter personally,” Carrie said.

Erica shook her head. “Your job is to get me press and attention, and I’m not happy with your lack of results.”

“Please, Miss Boyd.” Carrie stood. “We’ve only
just started working together. I assure you I’m up for the job. Please, give me a chance to prove myself.”

Erica sighed. “Okay, you want to prove you’re worth all the money I’m paying you?”

“I assure you, I am.” Carrie nodded.

Erica flipped the paper over and pointed to an item she’d circled in red. “The Library Ball is coming up.”

Carrie nodded. “It’s the most exclusive party in town this month.”

“I know, and I haven’t received an invitation yet,” Erica said pointedly. “I want you to make sure I do.”

Carrie gulped audibly. “I’ll check into the oversight.”

“And, Carrie, while you’re here there’s something else I want to talk to you about.” She gestured for the publicist to retake her seat, and she sat down on the sofa adjacent to it.

Erica pulled an old copy of
Music City
magazine off the coffee table.
NASHVILLE’S MOST BEAUTIFUL SOCIALITES,
the headline boasted. “I want to be on the cover of this magazine.”

Ali backed her Honda into a free space near the coffeehouse where she’d agreed to meet Edward for their blind date. She’d been relieved when he’d suggested having a casual cup of coffee rather than a full-blown meal.

It would make the blind date ordeal less torturous.

“You’re here now, so you might as well make the best of it,” she muttered as she walked through the open door.

Upbeat jazz and the aroma of fresh-ground coffee greeted her on the inside of the place, which by the looks of the crowd was a hangout for college students and twenty-somethings.

Her eyes scanned the occupied bistro tables and overstuffed chairs for a man clad in the khaki pants and black shirt Edward said he’d be wearing. The problem was she’d already spotted three men sporting the combination.

“Alison?”

Hearing her name, Ali turned in the direction of the voice and her jaw dropped to her chest. “Edward?”

He nodded. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Her gaze flickered over his T-shirt. It was black, all right, but emblazoned with the likeness of her former client Percy Tompkins in his Buck-tooth Killah persona, and the khakis turned out to be khaki cargo pants that rode way too low on Edward’s behind.

Yet, it wasn’t his wardrobe choices that had Ali’s mouth gaped open like a beached fish struggling for air. Celia’s
nephew
had to be at least seventy years old.

“It’s Ali,” she stammered, “and I just got here myself.”

He winked, deepening the crinkles around his eye. “Good. I’d hate to start off on the wrong foot by being rude to an etiquette teacher.”

Ali spied another look at him. His head was shaved bald and oversized diamond studs sparkled from his earlobes, in what she guessed was an attempt to look younger. However, his efforts were neutralized by the steel gray of his mustache and bushy eyebrows.

“Looks like there’s a free table over there.” Edward gestured to the right side of the room. “If you’ll grab it, I’ll get our coffees.”

Ali gave him her drink order and made her way over to the table. She was going to strangle her aunt when she saw her. She also planned to get a lot more out of her than permission to start a high-tech manners class.

Aunt Rachel owed her big time.

Moments later, Edward arrived at the table with two of the largest cups of coffee she’d ever seen.

“Wow!” Ali commented on the size of the coffees as he sat down.

He flashed her a proud smile and a dimple-turned-wrinkle creased his cheek. “With my senior discount, I can get a large cup for the same price as the small.”

“Soooo, you’re Celia’s
nephew
?” His voice had sounded much younger on the phone.

He chuckled before taking a sip of coffee. “I can see where you might be confused. Aunt Celia was an unexpected midlife surprise for my grandparents. My grandma was twenty when she had my mother and forty-nine when Celia came along.”

Realization dawned on Ali as he explained the family connection. “Oh, I get it now,” she said. And her own dear aunt was going to get an earful.

“I can still remember when my grandparents brought her home from the hospital,” Edward said. “I was around five or so.”

Ali took an unladylike gulp of her coffee, not sure of what else to say to her
date
.

“Celia mentioned you went through a rough divorce,” he said.

Ali nodded. “I survived,” she said. “What about you? You’re divorced too, right?”

“Yep, after nearly forty years of marriage.”

“How sad. What happened?”

Although she knew it was in poor taste to ask someone she’d just met something so personal, she couldn’t help herself. After four decades, it seemed like such a shame for a marriage to have ended in divorce.

Ali heard a buzzing sound. Edward looked down at the flashing cell phone clipped to his belt, and he began fishing around in a low side pocket of his cargo pants. He retrieved a Bluetooth earpiece and stuck it in on his ear.

“Hello,” he shouted into the earpiece loud enough for half the coffeehouse to hear. Some people turned around, but after seeing it was just an old guy who looked like he was adjusting the volume on his hearing aid, they turned back to their own conversations.

“No, I can’t hang out with you guys today.” His stuck his finger in his other ear and his voice grew louder. “I’m on a date.”

His last line garnered them a giggle from a college-aged girl at the next table, while her companion gave Edward a thumbs-up sign. “Handle your business, gramps,” he said.

Ali took another gulp of coffee, wishing she could dive into the enormous cup and hide.

Edward finished his call and turned his attention back to her. “Now where were we?”

“You were telling me—”

“Oh, now I remember,” he interrupted. “We were talking about my divorce.”

Ali shook her head to forestall him. “Really, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

“My wife acted like an old fart,” Edward said. “All she ever wanted to do was hang out at the senior citizen center or babysit our greatgrandchildren. Don’t get me wrong, I love those kids. But I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life babysitting and hanging out with a bunch of old people.”

He leaned forward and folded his arms on
the table. Ali noted the light dusting of silver hairs on his forearms and the liver spots on his brown hands.

“I know this probably isn’t the politically correct thing to say, but old folks just ain’t my bag,” he said.

It was all Ali could do not to dig her compact out of her purse and hold up the mirror for him to take a good look at himself.

She’d upheld her side of the deal she’d made with Aunt Rachel. Now it was time for her to cut this date short. She glanced at her watch. “Where does the time go? I have a ton of stuff to do today.”

“But you haven’t finished your coffee.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly drink all this coffee.”

A slow grin spread across Edward’s face. “How about we finish drinking them at my place? My Escalade is parked outside.”

“Thanks, but no, thanks,” Ali said, not feeling quite so polite. She picked her purse up off the floor.

“Wait!” Edward pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket and slid it toward the center of the table.

Ali looked down at the bottle. “Are those your heart pills? Do you need me to get you a glass of water?” she asked, concerned.

Edward laughed. “I know what you’re thinking. You figure I’m too old.” He picked up the
bottle of pills and shook it. “But these magic pills have changed the game. I pop two of these babies, and I can put it on you for hours.”

Ali stared at him a moment as his meaning sank in, and then she jumped from her chair so fast it fell backward to the floor.

“I can go like a jackhammer,” Ali heard him call out to her as she bolted out the door.

For the first time since her divorce, Ali felt lucky. Edward’s poor wife had spent forty years with a man who turned out to be a jackass.

Thanks to her former best friend, Ali had found out her ex-husband was one early on, and now she had her entire life ahead of her.

Hunter’s stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. Not that he needed reminding. Hunger pangs had struck around ten that morning and continued to plague him throughout his busy workday.

He’d skipped dinner last night to finish scraping off old wallpaper at the house he’d inherited from his grandmother, and then missed both breakfast and lunch today chasing leads on a growing stack of unsolved burglaries.

Now he was starved out of his mind.

Hunter followed the hostess as she weaved through the dining room of the upscale restaurant Ali had selected for the follow-up to his formal dining lesson. He stuck a finger down the collar of the dress shirt he’d hurriedly changed into to loosen the chokehold of his silk tie.

Muted colors, soft music, and candlelight marked the tasteful décor, but Hunter barely noticed the atmosphere. All he cared about was
how fast they could get hot food in front of him and then keep it coming.

He spotted Ali as they approached the table. Instead of her usual ponytail, her hair fell around her shoulders in soft, tousled waves. She should wear it down more often, he thought. It looked good.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.” He seated himself across from her.

Her brown eyes widened and she smiled approvingly. “You look handsome.”

Hunter smoothed his tie. He’d brought the navy suit to work with him this morning and changed into it after his shift had ended. He’d ignored Pete, who along with Bishop and Morrison couldn’t resist teasing him.

“Well, if it’s not Cinderfella,” Morrison had said, causing Bishop to bend over with laughter. “Will you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”

Hunter had looked over at the two of them and shaken his head. “Maybe if you two put on some decent clothes once in a while, you’d be having dinner with a woman tonight, instead of each other.”

“Don’t look at me, I have a wife,” Pete had said before launching into a description of the dinner his wife, Sandy, had waiting on him.

Their joking, although good-natured, had annoyed Hunter.

However, Ali’s comment had the opposite effect and he was glad he’d made the effort.

“I believe we can skip the appearance lesson,” she said. “You obviously don’t need it.”

The hunger pangs started up again and he reached for his menu. Reading the descriptions of food, any food, only made his empty belly cramp in protest, so he snapped it shut.

“I heard the salmon is excellent here,” Ali offered.

Hunter nodded politely, knowing there was no way fish would appease his appetite. “I’ll go with the steak.”

After what seemed like hours, but was in reality only a few minutes, their tuxedo-clad waiter arrived. Only he wasn’t the waiter.

“Sir, I’m the wine steward,” he said. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”

Hunter glanced over at Ali. He did remember her explaining some formal restaurants had wine stewards or sommeliers to help with wine selection.

Meanwhile, the guy talked on and on about red, white, dry, the perfect complement to fish, poultry, meat, but his words sounded like
blah, blah, blah
to Hunter’s ears.

Hunter looked enviously at diners near their table and wished he were eating. Couldn’t they at least bring out some bread? Especially if this guy was going to yap about wine half the evening, he thought.

He took a deep breath and willed himself to be cool. After all, the man was just doing his job.

By the time the waiter showed up, Hunter’s hunger pangs had migrated to his head and into a dreaded, hungry headache. His fingertips drummed on the tabletop as he waited for Ali to make her selections.

“Is everything okay?” She paused, her eyes zeroing in on his impatient fingers.

Realizing what he was doing, Hunter halted the impromptu percussion solo. “Sorry,” he muttered.

When it was his turn, he quickly rattled off his order. He resisted the temptation to offer the guy a hundred bucks to get his dinner on the table in under a minute.

“So tell me about yourself?” he asked Ali, hoping conversation would take his mind off food as well as satisfy his curiosity.

She shrugged, and for the first time he noticed how her sleeveless black dress accentuated her shapely arms.

“There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “I’ve only been in town a few months.”

He took a sip of water, preferring not to drink wine on an empty stomach. “So, what brought you from Florida to Nashville?”

“How did you know I was from Florida?” She stiffened.

“I read it on the back of your book when I was in your office the other day.”

A bit relieved, she answered, “I’m here to help my aunt out at the school.”

It didn’t take a detective to figure out there was more to the story. Why would an author and big-city newspaper columnist want to teach in an old school that was practically falling apart?

Hunter had started to ask her another question when the sight of their waiter bearing soup and bread caught his attention. Thank God, he thought. He could practically feel his belly button sinking into his spine.

The waiter set the bread in front of him, and Hunter’s appetite overwhelmed any thoughts of manners. It was as if a checkered flag had been waved in front of his stomach, signaling it to
go
.

Reaching past the watery bowl of soup, Hunter snatched a roll from the basket. He ripped it apart with his hands and shoved half of it into his mouth.

Then he caught Ali’s narrowed gaze.

He opened his mouth, intending to explain he hadn’t eaten all day, but his hand stuffed the other half of the roll into it.

Her eyes widened.

Okay, one more, he thought, and then he’d simply tell her he was hungry,
really hungry
. Only by the time he’d eaten another roll and then another, their entrées had arrived.

He looked down at the miniscule steak. His plate looked as if someone had spent hours painstakingly decorating it with various sauces. The side vegetables were also artfully arranged.

It wasn’t much, especially considering his
mammoth appetite, but he grabbed the closest knife and fork and dug in. Two minutes later, he was done and wondering how many of these plates he’d have to order to make a real meal.

He peered over at Ali, who had barely touched her fish. Her gaze flickered to his empty plate before coming to rest on his face.

“Well, now that you’ve flunked formal dining…” She took a sip of wine. “Shall we order dessert?”

Ali wasn’t surprised when the answer to her question was yet another violent growl coming from the direction of Hunter’s stomach.

“This is some kind of reality show stunt, right?” She glanced around the restaurant. “Those growling noises are coming from a speaker under the table, and any minute the waiter is going to come back with Ashton Kutcher in tow and tell me I’ve been
Punk’d
.”

She took another sip of her wine as she waited for him to expose the cameramen and let her in on the joke. It might have sounded far-fetched, but it was the only explanation she could think of for the way he’d practically attacked every morsel of food put in front of him.

“Nothing that sinister,” Hunter said. “Work has been crazy lately, and I haven’t had a bite since yesterday afternoon.”

“You should have said something,” she exclaimed. “We could have rescheduled.”

Hunter shrugged. “I figured since our lesson was in a restaurant, we could kill two birds so to speak.”

She heard his stomach growl again. “You can have mine.”

She looked at her plate as she slid it toward him. The cut of salmon was tiny.

Her aunt had raved about the service at this restaurant, but had cautioned the portions ran small. Still, she liked to use it for training because they set a wonderful formal table.

Hunter shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll pass on dessert too, which I’m guessing will be the size of a breath mint.”

He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “I was thinking along the lines of some real food. You know, slow-cooked pot roast, smothered in its own gravy and topped with sliced red potatoes, baby carrots, pearl onions, and celery.”

Ali licked her lips as he continued.

“A slab of homemade bread on the side and a big hunk of black forest cake for dessert.”

The next growl she heard might have come from her own stomach. She was too entranced by the images he’d conjured up in her head to know for sure.

Not having the energy or the inclination to bother cooking a meal for just one person, she’d existed on frozen diet dinners since she’d arrived
in Nashville four months ago. The nuked meals had been hot and fast, and that had been good enough—until now.

Ali could practically smell the mouthwatering aroma of Hunter’s fantasy meal, and her deprived taste buds danced in anticipation.

“Sounds delicious. Unfortunately, they don’t serve that here,” she said.

A mischievous spark lit up his dark brown eyes. “I know where they do,” he said. “Care to join me?”

Ali shook her head no, just as her common sense directed. But her mouth refused to follow suit.

“I’d love to,” she heard herself say aloud, then tried to backpedal. “I mean…I’d love to any other time, but I can’t,” she stammered.

Hunter’s brow creased. “Why not?”

Ali shifted in her seat, the high-back chair suddenly becoming uncomfortable.
Because I’m attracted to you.

“Don’t tell me I’m the only one still hungry. You were practically slobbering when I described that melt-in-your-mouth meal.”

“Slobbering? I don’t slobber,” she said, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

He reached for his wallet and signaled for the waiter. “Let’s get out of here.”

“The meal’s already taken care of,” she said.

Hunter dropped a generous tip on the table. “Now let’s go.”

Excitement thrummed through her, but Ali rationalized it was over the meal, not the man.

“But…I drove. My car,” she said when they got to the lot.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You can ride over with me, and I’ll swing you back by here after dinner.”

Hunter opened the passenger door of a black muscle car. He must have noticed her hesitation. “It’s okay. I’m a cop as well as your top student,” he quipped. “You can trust me.”

It’s not you I’m worried about, she thought as she eased into the butter-smooth bucket seat. The car’s interior smelled of leather upholstery mingled with the fresh, clean scent of his cologne. Hunter slid into the seat next to her, making her instantly aware of him in the car’s confined cabin.

“Real food, here we come,” he said, putting the powerful car into gear.

Ali usually passed a few restaurants touting down-home cooking on the short drive from her apartment to the school and back, but had yet to try one.

If the food at the place he was taking her to was as good as Hunter described, she’d be more than happy to forgo the processed frozen meals she ate on a regular basis.

“You cook?” Hunter asked.

“No,” Ali said with a chuckle. “Spencer women may have many talents, but cooking isn’t one of them. I can’t cook. My aunt can’t cook, but don’t
tell her that, and neither could my grandma. My dad used to say it’s a curse.”

Hunter laughed aloud as he eased the car to a stop at a red light. “So, what does the man in your life think about that?”

An awkward silence ensued.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m divorced,” she said. “My ex-husband and I ate out a lot.”

Ali gazed out of the window, as the brightly lit busy streets gave way to subdivisions with cookie-cutter houses flanked by tree-lined streets and manicured lawns.

“Where are we going? I don’t see any restaurants around here?” She felt foolish for not asking the question sooner.

“We’re here.” He pulled in front of a brick ranch-style house. Two SUVs were parked side by side in the driveway, while two kid’s bicycles and a trike were strewn haphazardly on the postage-stamp lawn.

Ali stiffened in the passenger seat.

“But I’d assumed we were going to another restaurant,” she said. “I just can’t barge in on people I don’t know.”

“Yes, you can.” He came around and held open the passenger-side door. “You’re with me, so just consider yourself among friends.”

Still, Ali was apprehensive about walking up
to a stranger’s door at dinnertime empty-handed and looking for a meal. Her aunt would be appalled if she could see her right now.

The front door of the house opened before they made it halfway up the drive, and three little boys charged toward Hunter shouting his name.

“Hey, guys,” Hunter said. He rubbed the older boys’ heads and tucked the smallest one under his arm like a football.

A harried woman, dressed in a denim skirt, T-shirt, and Crocs, came to the door, a dish towel in one hand and another anchored on her hip. “Boys!” She barked the word like a drill sergeant to new recruits. “Stop climbing all over Hunter and go wash your hands for dinner.”

“Aww, Mom,” the biggest one grumbled, reluctantly releasing his grip on Hunter’s pants leg.

“And get those bikes off the grass and in the garage where they belong,” she added. “N.O.W.”

“What does that spell?” the youngest one asked as Hunter set him back on his feet.

“Now,” the middle kid said resignedly, up-righting a red bike with training wheels and rolling it toward the garage.

With her boys doing her bidding, the woman turned to Hunter. Her eyes twinkled as her pretty, ebony face broke out in a huge smile. “Just in time for dinner,” she said.

“Pete taunted me with your pot roast all day long.”

“That’s why I always make plenty. And I see you brought company,” she said, smiling at Ali.

“Ali Spencer, this is Sandy Jameson. She’s my friend and coworker Pete’s wife, and the little guys putting away their bikes are their sons.”

“Glad you came, Ali. As you can see, I’m outnumbered. It’s always good to have another girl around. Come on in.”

“Are you sure this isn’t an imposition?” Ali asked, still uncomfortable with the idea. “I know you weren’t expecting an extra mouth to feed.”