Operation Prince Charming (12 page)

Hunter had been with Ali all day. How could he already miss her? he wondered as he drove in the direction of his town house.

When he’d brought her back to his place, he’d known she was sexy and beautiful. By the time she’d left, he’d also learned she was compassionate, strong, and incredibly resilient.

Somehow the knowledge made what had happened between them today feel like more than just sex.

He was glad he’d decided to go run after he’d left Erica’s rather than hole up at his place beating himself up.

Remembering he was supposed to work out with Pete in the morning, Hunter pulled out his cell phone. He’d run over twelve miles today, not including his regular morning run. No way he could run again tomorrow morning.

“Hope I’m not waking you guys,” he said when Pete answered.

“Nope. Just catching up on sports highlights.
Sandy’s next door at her book club, and I finally got the boys to bed,” he said. “What’s up?”

Hunter switched on his turn signal and made a right. “Just wanted to let you know I won’t be able to make it in the morning,” he said. “It’s been a long day. I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”

Pete chuckled. “You mentioned you were going by Erica’s place this morning. Did you end up spending the day on the snob circuit?”

“Nothing like that,” Hunter said. He wasn’t going to get into it, but he might as well and get the I-told-you-sos over with. “Erica and I are over.”

“Good.”

Hunter waited a beat, but the I-told-you-so never came; neither did a bunch of intrusive questions.

“You okay? Do you want to stop over for a beer or something? I think Sandy has some of the pie you like in the kitchen.”

“I’m okay.” Hunter yawned as he turned down his street. “I’m about to pull into my garage. I’m in for the night.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way you’d hoped with Erica, but I can’t help but think it’s for the best.”

Hunter thought about the amazing day he’d spent with Ali and couldn’t help agreeing with Pete.

“It feels like the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said.

Ali rolled over and glanced at the clock on her nightstand. The glowing green digital numbers reminded her it was twenty minutes past three in the morning, five minutes since she’d last checked.

After spending the bulk of yesterday making love with Hunter, she’d dropped off to sleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

It didn’t last.

Sometime in the night her conscience roared to life like an angry bear, and it hadn’t approved of her sexy romp with Hunter.

You shouldn’t have kissed him in the first place.

Tossing on her bed, Ali tried defending herself to her perturbed conscience. Hunter had kissed her. It had caught her totally off guard.

Oh, please. He’d just left that awful scene. He didn’t know what he was doing.

Ali stared at the ceiling in her darkened bedroom and replayed the kiss in her mind. Could she have mistakened pent-up longing on her part for desire on his?

Hunter was vulnerable and you took advantage.

No, Ali countered. Hunter was the one who’d initiated them taking their relationship to the next level.

He’d just broken up with his girlfriend, for God’s sake. You didn’t even wait for the body to get cold.

Ali tried rationalizing her behavior. She’d wanted him so badly. She’d tried to walk away, but she couldn’t. Images of them in the shower
played through her mind, and she sighed. It had been so good.

He needs time. Not sex.

Ali flipped onto her side and pulled the covers over her head. She’d heard enough. She had a big interview tomorrow, and she needed her rest.

It was nearly five in the morning when Ali finally gave up on getting back to sleep. Throwing back the covers, she sat on the side of the bed.

Her conscience had been right. She shouldn’t have slept with Hunter.

No matter how good it had been between them, it couldn’t happen again. He needed time to heal, and she needed to keep her focus on the school and her career.

Ali walked to the kitchen, flipping on lights along the way. She pulled a microwave egg and cheese sandwich from the freezer and switched on the coffeemaker.

The microwave had breakfast under control. So Ali used the three and a half minutes to retrieve her navy business suit from her closet.

Her interview at the newspaper was in just a few hours. She needed to keep it at the forefront of her mind, not Hunter.

It was shortly before nine in the morning, when Ali followed a security guard through the maze of desks to the managing editor’s office of the
Nashville Journal-Gazette
.

Like most newsrooms, it would be at least another hour before it came alive with the low buzz of telephone conversations and the manic clicking of computer keys.

The guard stopped at an open office door on the far side of the newsroom. Ali looked past the guard. A man with a thick head of silver hair was looking intently at the newspaper spread out on his desk.

“Mr. Hicks.” The guard knocked on the door. “Ms. Spencer is here.”

Ali took a deep breath to steel her nerves, straightened her back, and smiled.

The man behind the desk took off his reading glasses, folded the paper, and put it to the side.

“Come on in.” He stood and beckoned her inside the office, before turning to the security guard. “Thanks for bringing her up.”

Ali walked into the office. Every inch of wall that wasn’t a window held a certificate or an award plaque.

“Impressive,” she said.

“I’ve just been in this business a long time.” He shrugged and extended his hand. “Doug Hicks.”

She shook it briefly. “Alison Spencer.”

He gestured for her to have a seat in a chrome and leather armchair near his desk. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Ali could see where his jacket had been carelessly tossed on a pile of papers behind his desk.

“Well, Ms. Spencer, it appears you have friends in high places,” he said. “Vivian Cox called me personally and asked that I grant you an audience.”

Ali rested her leather tote bag on the floor beside the chair. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me,” she said.

“So, how exactly do you know Vivian?” Doug Hicks retrieved a different pair of eyeglasses from a case and leaned back in his chair as he wiped them with a cloth.

“To be honest, I don’t. She’s a close friend of my aunt’s. I had no idea she’d spoken on my behalf until my aunt gave me your card the other day.”

“Ahh.” He put on the glasses. “Now that you’re here, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Vivian. We simply don’t have a need for an etiquette column. Between the economy and online competition, our paper, like many others across the country, is struggling. I’ve had to lay off twenty-five percent of our editorial staff over the past year.”

“That’s exactly why you should hire me,” Ali said confidently. She’d known the interview would be an uphill battle, but she also knew she couldn’t afford to take no for an answer. “My column at my former paper was quite popular with readers. It increased their reader base as well as attracted advertisers from houseware and department stores. I believe it would do the same for the
Journal-Gazette
.”

She leaned over and pulled a copy of her résumé from her tote.

“I don’t need this.” He dropped the résumé on a stack of papers. “I’ve already Googled you and read a few of your old columns. I’m familiar with your career and writing style. I also read about your personal problems.”

“About my personal problems…” Ali was going to explain it was all lies, but he waved her off.

“I’m divorced,” he said simply. “Mine was also messy.”

Her relief must have been visible, because he continued. “I haven’t read your books, but your columns are witty and well written. You somehow managed to hold my interest in a topic I don’t have a bit of interest in, if that makes any sense.”

“Thank you,” Ali said.

“But like I told you, we’re barely hanging on, and I’m looking at another round of possible layoffs,” he said. “I can’t afford an etiquette columnist.”

Outwardly, Ali maintained her professionalism, but her insides felt as crumpled as her hopes. She’d been banking on turning this opportunity into a paying job.

“I understand,” she said.

She rose from her chair and extended her hand. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Hicks.”

“If it’s any consolation, if I could, I’d hire you
in a second,” he said, shaking her hand briefly. “You’re the best applicant I’ve seen in a long time.”

Ali nodded as she retrieved her tote bag, figuring he was simply trying to take the sting out of the rejection. Her mind had already skipped ahead. How was she going to break it to Aunt Rachel that she was fresh out of new ideas, and it looked as though they’d have to close the school after all?

“No, really,” the editor said, walking with her toward his office door. “You’d be shocked at how many applicants I’ve interviewed over the years with no idea how to present themselves.”

“What do you mean?” Ali’s curiosity was piqued.

“Every year, I get a slew of college graduates who come in for interviews wearing faded jeans and wrinkled shirts that look like they slept in them. Some of the ladies show up wearing dresses appropriate only for strip club auditions.”

Ali stopped in her tracks. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Ali noted there wasn’t a trace of a smile on the managing editor’s face. “You’d think a college graduate would know better,” she said.

“The poor clothing choices are only part of the problem,” he said. “They don’t even bother to turn off their cell phones. I’ve even had them
glance down at their e-mail and respond to their text messages
during
an interview.”

Ali felt her mouth drop open.

Doug Hicks shrugged. “On paper they have everything going for them, but their first impression…” He paused and shook his head. “Purple hair. Weird tattoos. Maybe I’m too old-fashioned, but I can’t have them representing the paper.”

“I’m stunned,” Ali said.

“Don’t be. My brother manages a department store and sees the same thing with potential hires. So do a lot of my friends who own their own busin…” He stopped midword. “Sorry to go off on a tangent, but the lack of professional savvy I see these days is a sore point with me. I guess I got carried away.”

“No need to apologize.” Ali smiled to herself as an idea crystallized in her head. “But would you mind directing me to your advertising department?”

Taj St. John checked his appearance in his car’s rearview mirror and straightened the knot of his silk tie.

Tearing himself away from another champagne breakfast atop Erica’s high-thread-count sheets had been difficult, but he’d already blown off one day at work to be with her. Although he was his own boss, he couldn’t afford to skip work again.

He shut off his car’s engine and felt his phone vibrate in the interior pocket of his suit jacket. He checked the incoming phone number and smiled.

“I got your present, baby,” a female voice purred.

“Do you like it?” Taj eased back into the seat of his
borrowed
BMW. Work could wait, he thought.

“What girl doesn’t love pearls?” She laughed softy, and the sound reminded Taj how much he missed her. “But you shouldn’t have.”

He knew they’d talked about stashing away cash, but he couldn’t resist spoiling her. Besides, if things went according to his plan, he’d be able to shower her with jewelry and give them the life they deserved.

“Did you get the money?”

“Yes, I got it…” She hesitated. “But I worry about you. What if…”

The concern in her voice touched him, but it also strengthened his resolve to give her everything she could ever want. “Don’t worry about that.”

“But what if you—”

“I won’t.” He cut her off, refusing to entertain the thought.

“But—”

“Look, I gotta go. Love you.” Taj blew out a sigh as he pressed the button to end the call. Business was too good to quit now.

Besides, it looked as though he’d be due for a fat bonus soon. Compliments of the two prosperous-looking old biddies at Starbucks who couldn’t stop raking a woman named Erica Boyd over the coals.

She’d been everything he’d overheard.

Self-absorbed. Shallow. Grasping.

All qualities he’d planned to use to his advantage.

Taj grabbed his briefcase and jumped out of the car. He brushed an imaginary piece of lint
from his tailored business suit as he crossed the street.

“Morning, sir.” A man carrying a cup of coffee and walking a golden retriever spoke as he passed by.

Taj inclined his head in acknowledgment. It never ceased to surprise him how much respect a well-groomed man in a good suit commanded.

Instant legitimacy. He looked as though he belonged.

Taj paused briefly as if he were checking the house number before strolling right up to the front door of 1079 Christie Street.

There wasn’t a house across the street yet, and the recessed doorway made him invisible to the houses beside this one.

Reaching into his briefcase, Taj pulled out his moneymaker. Then he wedged the crowbar between the door and the doorjamb and pulled until he heard the melodious sound of cheap wood splintering.

He hadn’t seen an alarm company sign in the yard, nor had he heard one when he pushed open the door.

An alarm wouldn’t have stopped him anyway. The cops would undoubtedly head to the more established
Christy Way
. The street he was on,
Christie Street
, was too new to be on a map or register on a GPS. So if there had been an alarm, it
would take the cops at least ten minutes to figure out the mix-up.

Thank God for developers who tried to out-skirt city planning regulations on streets with the same name by spelling them differently, Taj thought.

He inhaled deeply as he moved swiftly through the living room to the master bedroom. He’d studied the house’s floor plan on the builder’s Web site and had committed it to memory.

Like with most of the new constructions he’d visited, the owner had sprung for brand-spanking-new furniture. The place reeked of it.

Once in the bedroom, he glanced longingly at the flat-screen television mounted to the mall. The temptation to pry it off was strong.

“Money and jewelry, money and jewelry,” he chanted the reminder as he dumped the contents of a jewelry box onto the bed and began rifling through it.

Junk, he thought, quickly surveying the pile of faux baubles, until a ruby bracelet caught his eye. He pocketed it and moved on to the bureau, tearing through the drawers.

Taj glanced down at his watch, before grabbing the side of the queen-sized bed’s mattress and flipping it over. His eyes lit up when a thick business envelope fell to the floor.

“Cash,” he said, peeking inside it. “My favorite.”

Taj spent another five minutes in the room,
looking into what most people mistakenly thought were hiding places, taking anything of value that would fit into his briefcase. Then he left the house on Christie Street the same way he had come in, right through the front door.

He looked down the street as he walked back to his car. Opening the trunk, he slid his briefcase into it and pulled out an empty one identical to it.

Taj couldn’t help whistling as he drove slowly down the block. He still had work to do along Christie Street.

“I’m going to have to stick you under the dryer for twenty minutes, Miss Boyd.”

Erica blew out a sigh. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why a spa day was considered pampering or even remotely relaxing.

She’d spent the afternoon running from room to room of the Babe Salon for a massage, facial, nails, and now hair. She didn’t care what anybody said, looking good was hard work.

“Would you like a glass of wine or coffee?” her stylist asked before pulling the dryer hood over her head and switching it on.

Moments later the stylist returned with a glass of white wine in one hand and the latest issue of
Making a Scene
magazine under her arm.

Erica immediately reached for the magazine. The slim, glossy magazine was a free weekly
covering social events throughout the county, and it was her habit to thumb through it at the salon while her hair dried.

She studied the cover and frowned. It was a shot of Vivian Cox and her cochair from the Library Ball. She thought about how the woman had practically snatched her donation check from her hands and then proceeded to avoid her the entire evening.

Erica crossed her legs and opened the magazine on her lap. Taj had been her saving grace that night. He’d taken the sting out of her being snubbed by dancing with her and making her laugh. He’d told her how beautiful she’d looked that night in red, and his compliments had made her stand taller.

Hunter hadn’t done that for her.

Unlike Taj, Hunter didn’t understand she didn’t need him getting angry on her behalf or trying to protect her feelings. She needed him to use masculine charm to help her persuade Vivian and the rest of her friends what a terrific asset she’d be to the country club and their Ladies’ League.

But she and Hunter were over now. Even if a small piece of her heart didn’t want to believe it.

Erica took a sip of her wine. Her leg swung back and forth as she continued to flip through the pages.

A photo caught her eye and she did a double take, her glass nearly slipping from her trembling
fingers. She put the wineglass down on the table beside her and looked closer to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.

It was her, all right. Erica felt her face break out into a huge grin as the stared at the photo of herself dancing with Taj.

ERICA BOYD DANCES THE NIGHT AWAY
, the caption underneath it read.

She quickly scanned the page and spotted a second photo of her snuggled up to Taj. She didn’t remember posing for it, but that wasn’t surprising considering the amount of champagne she’d consumed that evening.

In the close-up photo, they were both smiling and it was obvious to anyone what an attractive couple they made.

SOCIALITE ERICA BOYD AND TAJ ST. JOHN DAZZLE AT LIBRARY BALL
, the caption read.

Erica pushed back the dryer hood, picked her purse up off the floor, and began sifting through it for her cell phone. She scrolled through her contacts until she got to her publicist’s name.

Carrie answered on the first ring. “I take it you’ve seen the latest issue of
Making a Scene
,” she said.

“Oh yes, and I’m extremely pleased.”

“There are a few more photos of you and your date on
Making a Scene’s
Web site, Miss Boyd,” the publicist said. “I promised you results.”

“You already have my schedule, but just to remind you, tonight I’m attending that cocktail
party and benefit concert.” Erica couldn’t remember exactly what cause it was benefiting, but that was beside the point. “I expect to see more of these good results.”

Erica snapped her phone closed. However, before she could stick it back in her bag, it rang. Taj’s name popped up on the tiny screen, and she smiled.

“Just wanted to hear your voice,” he said. His smooth tones reminded her of melted chocolate.

“How’s work going?”

“I’m done for the day, so I’m headed to the driving range to work on my golf.”

Erica was impressed. Golf was a game important deals were made over, and apparently Taj understood that fact. She spotted her stylist coming to check her hair and waved her off.

“I’ve got a little surprise for you tonight,” Taj said.

“Really, what?” Erica asked, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.

“Like I said, it’s a surprise.”

“Well, I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“My tuxedo is pressed and ready to go.”

Erica released a contented sigh. She didn’t have to cajole this man into proper attire or beg him to attend etiquette classes.

Taj St. John was her ready-made knight in shining armor.