But Prudence wasn’t going to hold her breath on that front. The paper’s golden boy, Beckett, was charming and handsome and a confirmed reprobate. He was everything Prudence Trueheart preached against: a man practiced in the art of seduction and an expert in avoiding commitment, the typical bad boy that Prudence found so troubling—and other women found so irresistible.
Though she never deliberately listened to office gossip, what she did overhear was probably mere speculation. Or pure exaggeration. But from the soft moans and furtive giggles from the female members of the staff, she had to believe that some of what she’d overheard was true—enough to spend a small portion of each day wondering just what Pete Beckett did to a woman once he got her behind the bedroom door. Not that she’d ever find out. When they did bother to communicate, Nora regarded Pete Beckett with thinly disguised disdain, and Pete regarded Nora with mocking amusement.
Still, it wasn’t hard to imagine the power he could wield over women, considering her own reaction to his touch. He had beautiful hands, long fingers and a firm, but gentle, touch. A shiver skittered down her spine, and she thought about how those hands would look as they slowly undressed her, how they might feel on her flushed skin, all the improper things he might do to her body, given the chance.
She brushed her thumb over her bottom lip. This wasn’t the first physical contact they’d shared, she mused. He’d kissed her once, at the Herald’s Christmas party, right after she’d been promoted to the job as “Prudence.” Though he probably didn’t remember, a vivid image flashed in her mind…standing beneath the mistletoe, the feel of his hard mouth on hers, the gentle teasing of his tongue, and that exquisite and unbidden longing deep in her core.
It had happened so quickly, she couldn’t protest, but once Nora was caught up in the kiss, she recalled abandoning all resistance, defenseless beneath his touch. When he finally let her go, he gave her a teasing smile and made some comment about old maids and untried virgins before he moved on to other amusements. She’d gotten a lot of mileage out of that kiss in those moments when she was curled up in a lonely bed, when sleep just wouldn’t come.
Now she had another real-life encounter to add to her fantasies. She thought back to the instant that his hand had touched her ankle, to the warmth of his fingers sinking into her skin, the first physical contact from a man in oh-so long. She recalled the way he touched her face, his breath warm against her temple, the scent of his cologne so heady and—
Nora cursed softly. How did they do it? How did all those bad boys make good women lose all common sense? She’d railed at her readers time and time again, and yet, here she was, falling into the same trap, forgiving the man all his sins for just a simple touch of his hand, a brush of his lips against hers. She reached for her keyboard, her indignation rising with the spirit of all Prudences past.
Dearest Reader,
You opened the stable door on your first date and now it’s going to be difficult to herd that stallion back inside. Prudence believes you should stand firm in your decision. Celibacy is a virtue and your body a prize to be treasured. If this man can’t respect your feelings, then send him straight to the glue factory. And please, promise Prudence that you won’t go riding again until you’ve said “I do.”
The horse metaphor was a little trite, yet it was typical Prudence—smart, sassy, with just a touch of sarcasm. Nora reached out and typed in the command that would send her column to her copy editor. Though times had changed, the words could just as easily have belonged to the very first Prudence, a woman named Hortense Philpot who rode herd on etiquette problems in the roaring twenties.
Nora had been hired as an assistant by Prudence IV, right out of Stanford. With an undergraduate degree in medieval art, her job prospects had been slim. But she’d possessed something more valuable than a degree: a pedigree from a socially prominent San Francisco family that gave her a genetic predisposition to proper etiquette. She’d been born and raised in Sea Cliff, the bastion of social propriety.
Upon Prudence IV’s retirement, Nora had signed a five-year contract as the new Prudence. She’d taken the job because—well, because there wasn’t much call in San Francisco for an expert in medieval tapestries. But she also thought she might be able to inject a little class and propriety into the everyday life of her readers.
She pulled off her horn-rimmed glasses and rubbed her eyes, then reached for the stack of letters her assistant had selected for upcoming columns. Pushing up from her chair, she began to pace the office. “Infidelity,” she murmured, tossing the first letter onto the floor. “Deception.” As she flipped through the letters, she found new problems to replace the old problems she’d just solved. “Anger. Resentment. Dysfunctional families. Sexual fantasies.”
Nora stood and wandered by the window that overlooked the Bullpen. She peeked through the slats of the miniblinds. They were still playing their silly little game, and Pete Beckett was in the middle of it all. She watched as he stretched to catch the ball, his shirt pulled taut against his torso. Even from a distance, Nora could see the outline of his narrow waist and muscular chest. All thoughts of work slipped from her mind. “Sexual fantasies,” she murmured.
All right, maybe she did find Pete Beckett incredibly attractive. But that was just a physical reaction. It had nothing to do with the man, just the body. A flat belly and a cute butt certainly didn’t mitigate his bad qualities. Nor did chiseled features and a perfect profile…or his short-cropped dark hair, always so casually mussed, as if some woman had recently run her fingers through it. And maybe he did have a smile that was known to melt a girl’s heart, but he rarely turned it on her. Nora had heard that women found his devilish sense of humor quite irresistible, though when he bothered to toss a tiny bit of his charm in her direction she usually reciprocated with some shrewish reply.
“Any juicy letters today?”
Nora jumped away from the window, the slats snapping back into place. Ellen Kiley stood in the doorway of her office. Embarrassed to be caught spying, Nora sent her friend a disapproving frown, then handed her a letter. “You, too? Have you joined those at the Herald who believe sleaze sells?”
Ellie had started at the Herald the very same day Nora had, and they’d been inseparable friends, at least until Ellie had married Sam Kiley a year ago. “I’m the circulation manager. When the circulation goes up, I’m happy. So what’s got your knickers in a bundle, Prude?”
“Don’t call me that!” Nora sighed, surprised by her reaction to Ellie’s gentle teasing. She flopped down in her office chair and gazed up at her friend. “When you think of me, do you really think of me as Prudence Trueheart? Or as Nora Pierce?”
Ellie frowned and sat down across from her, her gaze fixed on the letter. “I don’t get it,” she murmured. “What’s the difference?”
“There is a difference!” Nora cried, leaning over her desk and snatching the letter from her friend’s hand. “Don’t you see?” She crumpled the paper and tossed it aside, then began to pace the width of her office. “I’m not Prudence Trueheart. I put words in her mouth, but she’s not me. And I’m not her.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Nora said, unwilling to explain further. But she couldn’t hold in her frustration any longer. “It’s just that sometimes I get sick of Prudence. She’s so…prissy!” Only after the word slipped from her lips did she realize it was Pete’s word again, his description of her. “People expect me to be her. And it’s getting awfully hard lately to figure out where she ends and I begin.”
“A lot of people have trouble separating work from
