The Man Tamer. Cindi Myers

      The Man Tamer

      Cindi Myers

      For Becci

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      1

      Why Man Taming Works

      Dear Man Tamer:

      You are so full of it! I can’t believe you’re telling all these women they can train a man like a dog.

      How could you ever believe your so-called methods would work on a real man?

      A Real Man

      Dear Real Man:

      The Man-Taming principles work because they’re based on tried-and-true methods of Behavior Modification. Behavior modification has been used successfully for decades for everything from, yes, dog training to helping people quit smoking. And it works for helping men break the bad habits they’ve developed over the years, too. I have hundreds of letters from satisfied readers to prove it.

      The Man Tamer

      RACHEL WESTOVER’S second-most favorite thing in the world was chocolate-covered strawberries. Since her most favorite thing wasn’t something she could do in public, she was happy to see the strawberries prominently displayed on the buffet table at Denton Morrison’s annual brag party. The media mogul and all-around rich guy made it a point to throw a party for himself every year to celebrate his accomplishments and to show off his latest project for the press.

      Rachel’s plan for the evening was to corral Denton at some point and ask him—again—about her proposal to fill the vacant slot in the afternoon local programming block of KTXK, the television station he owned. After all, as the most popular columnist in the history of Belinda magazine—another Denton Morrison holding—it was time she expanded her audience to television. Chocolate-covered strawberries were the perfect fuel to prepare her for her encounter with “Mr. Money” Morrison.

      Anticipating that first luscious bite, she transferred three of the largest berries to her plate. They were the size of eggs and coated in dark chocolate. Yummmmmm.

      “Have you talked to him yet? What did he say?”

      Rachel looked up from the strawberries to her best friend, Moira Stapleton, who was hurrying toward her from the other end of the buffet table. “Did he say yes? Did he give you the afternoon time slot?” Moira asked as she skidded to a stop in front of Rachel. Five foot two inches, with a cloud of dark curls and Bambi eyes, Moira reminded Rachel of a nervous poodle.

      “I haven’t talked to Denton yet. I’m working up the nerve.” She nodded to her plate.

      Moira’s eyes widened. “Oooh, those look yummy. And fattening.” She pressed her lips together, resisting temptation. Moira lived off black coffee, water and sushi, and it showed. She wore a size zero. If she weren’t so much fun Rachel might have been tempted to snap her in two like the twig she was.

      Moira rose up on tiptoe and scanned the crowd. “Have you seen David? He was supposed to meet me here.”

      “I haven’t seen him, but I just got here myself.” David Brewer was an accountant at Morrison Enterprises and Moira’s erstwhile boyfriend.

      “You don’t think he’s going to stand me up again, do you?” Deep worry lines formed above Moira’s nose. “He’s so absentminded. He’ll get to working on his car or watching a game and the next thing you know, he’s forgotten all about me.”

      Rachel thought a man in love ought to be more considerate than that. What did it say about the depth of his feelings if replacing spark plugs or counting touch-downs could make him forget his soul mate? “Have you been trying any of my techniques?” she asked.

      The worry lines deepened. “I tried, but I guess I’m not very good at discipline. I mean, he looks at me with those big brown eyes and I melt. I just want to be with him, you know?”

      “I know.” Rachel patted her friend’s shoulder. “But remember, you’re the woman. It’s up to you to set the tone for the relationship. And those techniques have been proven to work. Do you still have the list?”

      “Yes.” Moira opened her purse and began digging through it. She came up with a crumpled computer printout. “One, teach by example,” she read. “Two, praise good behavior. Three, distract from bad behavior. Four, substitution—replace bad behavior with something else. Five, reprimand bad behavior. Six, withhold affection until he behaves properly. Seven, punish bad behavior. Eight, restrict unwanted behavior. Nine, reward good behavior, and ten, acceptance—a last resort.” She looked up at Rachel. “Maybe I’m at number ten. I mean, you can’t really change people, can you?”

      “Behavior modification isn’t about changing him,” Rachel said. “Only the way he acts.”

      “Isn’t that the same thing?”

      “Of course not. He’ll still be the man you love, only better.”

      Moira stuffed the list back into her purse. “I don’t know. I mean, this man-taming stuff may work for some of your readers, but maybe every man doesn’t respond to this kind of thing.”

      Rachel shook her head. “I don’t believe that. You just have to keep working at it.”

      “No offense, but if they work so great, why are you still single?”

      Rachel had heard the question so often now she didn’t even flinch. “You know why. Since my Man Tamer column became so popular, I can’t find a man who’ll risk dating me.” If she was lucky enough to find a guy who hadn’t heard of her column, after a date or two one of his friends tipped him off and he disappeared.

      Not to mention so many of the men she met were so, well, bland. They were handsome, professional, with money and manners and plenty of opinions, but with no real spark. Where were the debonair, charming and sophisticated men with polish and personality?

      The last guy she’d dated had even accused her of being too cool—but what did he expect when he did nothing to raise her temperature?

      “Men don’t want to be tamed,” Moira said. She grinned. “They’re all afraid of you.”

      “It’s just the name of my column. It doesn’t mean I go after men with a whip.”

      Moira giggled. “You might try it sometime. Some guys really go for that sort of thing.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Your sister’s here.”

      Rachel flinched. “Where?” Rhonda Westover MacMillan—Mrs. Harrison MacMillan—could never forget her role as big sister, which to her way of thinking gave her carte blanche to run Rachel’s life.

      “Over by the door to the terrace. With that group of men.”

      Of course Rhonda was with a group of men. The hairier sex had panted after her ever since she was a toddler in ruffled panties in nursery school, where she would bat her eyelashes and little boys would vie to share their afternoon animal crackers with her.

      Rachel studied her sister now as