How To Get Your Man. Elizabeth Harbison

you know.”

      “There’s no better way to learn.”

      She scoffed and started to turn away. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

      He stopped her. “But first things first. You need the basics.”

      “Now you’re saying I don’t even have the basics?”

      “Oh, you’ve got ’em all right. You’re just not using them. You’re going about this all wrong.”

      “Meaning…?”

      “The lipstick, the ugly clothes. Forget it. If you really want this undeserving slob, I can help you get him.” He shrugged. “Or I could pay you and you could go out and burn more bucks on bad advice. Whatever you want.”

      She wanted Mark. And she had to admit that the Bancroft method wasn’t really going all that well.

      But what if Dalton was wrong, too? He knew how to get women, God knew, but that didn’t automatically mean he knew how women could get men. Men like him, maybe, but a guy like Mark Ford? Maybe she was better off sticking with the advice of an expert like Leticia Bancroft.

      “I’ll think about it,” she said.

      Dalton raked a hand through his wavy dark hair. His eyes were bright with amusement. “You don’t think I can help you.”

      “What?”

      He’d always, always, always been able to read her.

      It drove her absolutely nuts.

      “I wasn’t born with blue blood so you don’t think I can help you get some guy who was.”

      She did think that. “No, I don’t.”

      He laughed outright. “Sure you do. You also think you have to be Miss Park Avenue 2005 in order to snag a guy who’s gainfully employed in midtown, which would explain your recent change of wardrobe.” He looked her up and down. “This guy work in your building?”

      “That doesn’t make any difference.”

      “So he does. I knew it. I bet he went to one of those fancy Ivy League schools too, right?”

      After a moment of contemplating denial, she nodded.

      “That’s why you’ve got this preppy look going on. You believe you need to look like the girls he’s been around all his life. And like everything you believe, you’re going to have a hell of a time letting go of that idea.”

      “See, this is exactly why you can’t help me,” Bonnie said, trying to deflect some of the attention from herself and how right he was about her. “You always think you know better than I do.”

      “I usually do.”

      “Not this time.”

      “Okay.” He gave a broad shrug. “Do it your way. This should be fun. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next. Vanilla perfume to make him think of Mom? Feathers in your hair to make him feel free?” He downed his beer and started to walk away.

      Studies show that men react to the scents of vanilla and pumpkin pie. Try to incorporate those scents subtly into your environment, to make him relax.—Leticia Bancroft.

      “Wait,” Bonnie called.

      He stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”

      “Are you a betting man?”

      He gave a lazy smile and leaned against the bar. “What do you have in mind?”

      She nodded toward the pool tables. “One game. If I win, I get—” she considered “—one month’s rent free.”

      He looked skeptical. “And if I win?”

      “I’ll try this seduction thing your way.”

      He scoffed. “Sounds like I’m doing the work either way. And you win either way.” He shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

      “Oh, okay, okay, if you win we’ll do it your way and I’ll create an ad campaign of some sort for you.”

      He considered this. “Far as I’m concerned, that’s an even trade, not a winning bet.”

      She sighed. He was smarter than the average Tappen guy. Always had been. “So what else do you want?”

      He thought for a moment, then a smile curved his lips. “As I recall, you were a pretty good cook.”

      She frowned. “And?”

      “And I like to eat. So does Elissa.” He tossed a pretzel in the air and caught it in his mouth. “So how about this: add five meals, my call, and you’ve got a deal.”

      “And if I win I get two months’ rent free.”

      “One.”

      “One and a half.”

      “One.”

      He’d wear her down, she knew it. That was how she’d lost her virginity to him. “Okay. Deal.”

      “And you can’t deviate from my plan to get your guy. You’ve got to do everything I say.”

      “Within reason.” Something tremored through her. Excitement at the possibility of winning over Mark Ford? Reluctance to take the advice of a guy who had, himself, broken her heart? She honestly couldn’t say.

      “Honey, I’m always reasonable.”

      There was that tremor again.

      They went to the vacant pool table by the window and Dalton racked the balls while Bonnie took out a cue and chalked the tip.

      Dalton turned and watched her for a moment. “Not so hard. You’re gonna break something.”

      She looked at the chalk, which was falling in crumbles to the ground. He was making her nervous, that was all. She blew the residue off the top of the cue and set the chalk down.

      “Consider that your first lesson,” Dalton said devilishly.

      “In—” She realized what he meant. “Oh, jeez, Dalton. Keep your mind out of the gutter.”

      “And you get off your high horse.” He stepped back and gestured for her to break. “Consider that lesson two. A little gutter thinking could only help your cause.”

      “There’s a difference between sex and the gutter, you know.”

      His smile was sly. “It’s a fine line.”

      He was kidding, and it was obnoxious, but she was struck by how sexy he still was. Suddenly she remembered what it felt like to fall for Dalton. She recalled the feeling of being with him in the back seat of his old Chevy Impala, remembered the feel of his muscular body, the taste of him, the smell of him. After eleven years the memory should have faded, but it hadn’t.

      Eager to push the thoughts aside, she bent over the table and broke the balls with a loud crack. The heavy balls scattered, bouncing off the velvet walls of the table. The cue ball jumped the side and dropped heavily onto the floor.

      Dalton looked at the cue ball for a moment, then calmly bent over, picked it up and set it on the table.

      “Something on your mind?” he asked, straight-faced.

      “I think it’s your turn.”

      He laughed and dropped two striped balls into pockets before scratching. Bonnie took a cleansing breath and made one clean shot, six ball into the corner pocket.

      After that, her game improved considerably and for a good half she was ahead. She was already counting the money she’d save with a month off from rent when Dalton had a long streak of good luck. He won by a single point.

      “I’m thinking I’m in the mood for spaghetti and meatballs,” he said, with a languorous stretch. “With garlic