by Jan Freed
He tapped his bottom lip, then smiled. “I know. Mrs. Frank Anderson, of Anderson, Miller and White. Christy’s a little paranoid since her husband was kidnapped a year ago and ransomed for two million dollars—”
“Lord have mercy!”
“Oh, they hardly missed the money, but both of them are security fanatics now. Christy’s a black belt in karate and a crack shot with a pistol. I bought her Beretta when she moved up to a .357 Magnum.”
Joe secretly added Mrs. Frank Anderson to his list of guests to avoid. As he listened to three more client profiles, his amazement grew. The things these women revealed! During twenty years of sitting in Harvey’s chair, the most intimate thing Joe had ever revealed was a nasty case of athlete’s foot—and then only to explain his constant scratching.
He finally held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Shouldn’t I be learning about the husbands, as well as the wives?”
“You know, I thought that very same thing when Catherine said for me to focus on the women only. But now that you actually look civilized, I can’t say I disagree with her strategy.” Robert whisked Joe’s face and shoulders with a towel and motioned to the bulbframed mirror ahead. “Take a look.”
Joe had been avoiding doing just that for the past ten minutes. When he saw his ears for the first time since grade school, they turned bright red.
“Catherine, love, what do you think!” Robert exclaimed as she approached from behind. “Am I not a genius?”
Stunned green eyes met Joe’s own shaken gaze in the mirror. This was worse than the nightmare where he’d gone to Mrs. Henkel’s English class naked.
“I went for the tragic-poet look,” Robert gushed on. “It suits him, don’t you think? He could land a commercial for Obsession perfume in a heartbeat. God, I’m good.”
Joe squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, Catherine was still staring at him.
“Give me your gun,” he ordered Robert, not sure who would get the first bullet.
Huffing, the hairdresser swiveled Joe’s chair toward the salon and yelled, “Is this a great look for him, or what?”
All activity ceased. Twenty pairs of eyes pinned back Joe’s wings and held up a magnifying glass. Ignoring the shouts of approval, he slowly raised his gaze to Robert. Right between your eyes, buddy.
Catherine moved up behind Joe’s chair and turned it toward the mirror. “You’re overreacting. If you’ll calm down and look at yourself objectively, you’ll see it’s perfect for Sebastian Doherty.”
Joe glared at himself in mutinous silence. The shaggy waves over his neck and ears were gone, trimmed close to expose rims of tender white skin. The hair on his crown had fullness, his bangs were fuller still. It was a calculated haircut. A male model’s haircut.
“I look like Pretty Boy,” he said with a sneer.
Catherine made an odd sound. “Believe me. You do not look pretty.”
For some reason that hurt. His mood grew blacker. “It’s too damn short and stiff. It looks like it wouldn’t move in a hurricane.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She reached up, threaded her fingers through his hair and rumpled the hell out of it. “There! It moves, Joe. And it’s not the least bit stiff.”
Maybe not, but something else was getting stiffer by the second. The innocent touch of her hands had sent his blood surging the opposite direction. He doubted Catherine would notice, but he bet ol’ gray eyes over there would be smirking soon. A diversion, that was what he needed.
“So, Robert, aren’t you cutting Catherine’s hair today, too? After all, she’ll be the center of attention at her engagement party.”
They both seemed startled by his question. She touched her simple ponytail in a defensive gesture. “My hair doesn’t need cutting.”
A little different when it’s you’re own scalp, eh, doll? “Oh, I dunno. I’ll bet Robert’s been dying to try something new on you.”
“Yes. Oh, yes!” the hairdresser picked up the cue. “I’ve been trying to update her cut for years, but she won’t let me change a thing. Joe’s right, Catherine, everyone will be looking at the bride-to-be. You’ve just got to let me do this for you. It’ll be my engagement present. Please don’t say no.”
Catherine turned to Joe with a die-you-mangy-dog glare.
He shrugged and grinned, feeling better than he had all day. “C’mon, Catherine, trust him. You won’t be sorry.”
“I CAN’T GET OVER the change,” Carl repeated, following Catherine into the kitchen. “You look fantastic! So…chic.”
This was the first time she’d seen him since getting her hair cut two days ago. His effusive praise should have pleased her. Instead, it made her feel as if she’d removed unsightly warts from her nose. “Would you mind dropping the subject?”
“But you look so—”
“Different. We’ve already established that.” She set the wine bottle he carried next to three others on the table. “I’m glad you approve.”
“You don’t sound glad. What’s wrong?”
She eyed the tray of empty wineglasses and sighed. “Nothing, Carl. Thanks for the bottle of wine. I wish you could share it with us.” She’d counted on him sharing it.
He gripped her shoulders and spun her around, his thumbs rubbing her bare upper arms. “You can always reschedule the lesson for another time.”
Irritation crackled to life. “You’re the one who canceled at the last minute! I can’t just turn Joe away at the door.”
“Why not?” His fingers dug possessively into her skin. “I don’t like the idea of your being alone with him.”
She raised a brow. “A little late out of the holster, aren’t you, Carl? I’ve worked alone with the man for three weeks.” His ardent stare goaded her on. “If Joe hasn’t tried to jump my bones by now, he’s not going to do it because of a stupid haircut! He’s not that shallow.” Her jab went right by him. If anything, he looked even more besotted.
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” he said, as serious as a grade-B movie.
She choked back a laugh. Another voice whispered in her mind seconds before Carl pulled her close for a kiss.
Your eyes remind me of aspen leaves in the sun.
Her body softened in memory. Carl deepened the kiss, his lips hot and insistent, his arousal equally so. When he finally pulled back, his gray eyes glittered with an expression she’d seen once before. Only then an entire busy mall had faded to another dimension, and now she found herself wondering if the chardonnay was properly chilled.
“Why don’t I call Mother and tell her to hold dinner while you make excuses to Joe?” he suggested, pressing the small of her back until their bellies mated. “I think it’s time we found out how compatible we are, don’t you, darling?”
“Right now?”
“Sooner than now.” He rotated his hips and groaned.
Panic mingled with anger. “You’ve managed to resist me this long. I think you can manage a little longer.”
“But I can’t. You weren’t like this then.”
She wrenched out of his arms and hugged her sudden chill. “I’m the same person I’ve always been, Carl. A pair of scissors didn’t change me.”
Two knocks sounded in the charged silence. The kitchen door opened and closed on its own.
Catherine’s gaze never wavered from Carl’s. “I’d like you to leave now please.”
“You don’t understand. It’s not just your hair that’s different. It’s your clothes, too—”
She whirled away but he grabbed her arm, forcing her to look at him. “You smile more often, Catherine, and you seem younger. Happier. You have changed, dammit. And I won’t apologize for admitting I’m glad.” With his tanned cheeks flushed and his jaw thrust out, he looked boyish and more sincere than she’d ever seen him.
For the first time in weeks she felt a curl of hope regarding their upcoming marriage.
“That wax in your brain plugging your ears?” Joe’s voice cracked whiplike between them.
Carl released her arm and they both turned.
“I distinctly heard her ask you to leave, Wilson.” Arms folded, his backside propped against the wooden door, Joe seemed relaxed and indifferent—until she noticed the bulge of his jaw.
Beside her, Carl radiated hostility. “You interfering bastard! I’ll be eternally grateful when you are out of my life and Catherine’s house once and for all.”
Joe puckered his lips and made a kissing motion.
Carl lurched forward. Catherine snatched a fistful of knit shirt as he passed. The material stretched but held.
“Don’t sink to his level, Carl. Go home. Your mother’s waiting.”
Joe’s guffaw galvanized the smaller man. He broke from Catherine’s hold and charged ahead. She closed her eyes and winced at the unmistakable thud-thud-thud of fists on flesh. Poor Carl. She would kill Joe for this.
Silence pried her eyes open.
Her fiance stood breathing heavily, his hands clenched. Joe sat slumped on the floor, blood trickling from his nose.
“Stand up and fight, you coward!” Carl challenged.
If Catherine hadn’t rushed forward, she might have missed the deadly glint in Joe’s hooded eyes. The warning stopped her cold and drove Carl back one step. The next instant she wondered if she’d imagined his lethal expression.
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he said, dabbing at his nose with the end of his Rockets T-shirt. A grin flirted with his mouth. “You didn’t learn that at any Ivy League school.”
Carl obviously didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. “There’s a little poison ivy at every school—even Princeton. I ran across my share.”
Catherine threw up her hands and walked to the table. “I need a drink.”
Four wine bottles sat in a row. She set about uncorking each one, ignoring the talk behind her of hooks and undercuts and Tyson’s latest match. The evening was a joke. She’d set up this wine-tasting lesson thinking Carl would join in, then the two of them would go out to dinner afterward. Instead, he’d brought an apology with his 1991 Georis Carmel Valley Merlot.
He’d completely forgotten that his parents were expecting him for dinner, he’d said, and he mustn’t disappoint them at this stage in the game. Meaning, before he’d provided an heir of course. Interesting that they hadn’t invited the heir’s future mother to dinner, as well.
Catherine pushed down the corkscrew levers and popped open a 1993 Sonoma chardonnay. Arms closed around her midriff from behind.
Carl nuzzled below her ear and murmured, “I’ve got to run, darling. I’ll make it up to you this weekend. We’ll settle that…issue we were discussing earlier, hmm?”
An urgently pressing issue, from the feel of things.
Aware of Joe watching them, she unwrapped Carl’s arms and turned. “Do tell Charlotte and Jeffrey I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”
Her fiancé had the grace to look guilty. “I’ll get theater tickets. We’ll go to Tony’s afterward for a light supper.”
She was acutely aware of Joe standing up and walking to the sink. He turned on the faucet and made splashing noises.
Carl lifted one hand and brushed back her new bangs. “Wear something red, why don’t you? It suits you.” His gaze drifted over her sleeveless scarlet shirt and slim white jeans, his eyes turning smoky with admiration.
It was impossible not to feel flattered. Still, the last thing she wanted was a clinch at the front door. “Go on now or you’ll be late. Bye-bye.”
He cast a sullen glance toward the sink.
Joe paused in the midst of patting his nose with a paper towel and wiggled the fingers of his free hand. “Ta-ta.”
Scowling, Carl bussed Catherine’s cheek. “I’ll call you,” he promised.
She nodded and shooed him off, waiting until the front door opened and closed before turning back to the third unopened bottle. Suddenly she was all thumbs.
“This cabernet sauvignon is Father’s favorite wine. Charlotte ordered several bottles for the party. We’ll start with it while your palate is still clean.”
Odd how she knew exactly where Joe was even with her back turned. He was approaching from her right. Damn, the corkscrew was going in crooked. “Father will have already approved the first glass, so we don’t need to fool with the sniffing ceremony. But it would really make points if you could compare tasting notes.”
She pushed down the corkscrew levers then pulled. Nothing. She pulled again.
“What are tasting notes?” His question rumbled next to her ear.
The cork thwopped out. Her hand flew up, her knuckles ramming hard into his face. “Oh!”
He cupped his nose with both hands and swore.
She dropped the corkscrew and grabbed his wrists. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
The eyes above his knuckle registered disbelief.
She tugged at his wrists. “Let me see.”
“Promise you won’t hit me?” His muffled voice sounded suspicious.
“Not as long as you behave. Now quit being ridiculous and put your hands down.”
He did, revealing red swelling and a renewed trickle of blood. She bit her lower lip.
“That bad, huh? You and Pretty Boy have some humdinger spats ahead of you.” He started to smile and winced. “My money’s in your corner.”
She hurried to the freezer, wrapped several ice cubes in a dish towel and returned to the table. “Sit,” she ordered, pulling out a chair.
He sat, one tooled-leather ankle over the opposite knee. Denim pulled taut in places she struggled not to notice. Lifting his chin with two of her fingers, she positioned the bundled ice against his nose. “Give me your hand.”
It came up large and beautifully formed, made for cradling a woman’s hip or a baby’s head. Foolish thought. So foolish. She pressed his fingers against the cloth and hoped he couldn’t, feel her slight tremble.
“Stay still,” she commanded, removing her own hand.
His slitted eyes gleamed. “When do I get a Milk-Bone?”
“Not until you speak, Rover.” She drew out a second chair and made herself comfortable. “Why did you stand there and let Carl do this to you?”
His propped ankle slipped off his knee. He braced his boots wide. “What do you mean?”
Any doubt she’d possessed vanished at his defensive body language. She leaned over and patted his rock-hard thigh. “You’re a nice man, Joe Tucker. But I promise not to tell Carl.”
They exchanged a long look, his wariness relaxing into a warm and comfortable silence, an acceptance that nudged up the corners of her mouth. She realized that among all the men she’d known, past or present, Joe was the first she considered a true friend.
“Want some wine now?” she asked softly.
He lowered the ice pack and probed his nose. “As long as I don’t have to sniff it.”
ALLIE TIED the laces of her scuffed rental ice skates and rose from the bench, wishing she’d never agreed to come. But Joe’d had some wine thing to go to at Catherine’s, and Holly had sounded like an infomercial over the phone…
Her mother would drop them off at the Sharpstown rink and pick them up hours later. Holly would pay all fees out of her baby-sitting money. No, dorkhead, she didn’t want to ask someone from her own school. Yes, she would teach Allie how to skate. The place would be packed with kids—at least half of them boys! Wearing jeans was…fine. No really, it was. But Holly could bring some of her extra practice clothes for Allie to wear if she liked.
And Allie had said okay. Not only that, she’d changed into her friend’s clothes at the garage apartment before leaving.
Eyeing the skaters whizzing past now, she wanted to turn around and walk home. Oh, there were lots of kids here all right, most of them close to her age.
And most of them were wearing jeans.
The few dressed like her spun and leapt and hot-dogged like the expert she wasn’t. “I’ll get you for this, Holly. You won’t know where or how or when, you
’ll only know it’s coming. And it’ll be ba-a-ad.”
Holly finished lacing her skates—the snowy white unscuffed skates she’d brought in their own padded case—and glanced up. “Would you quit with the \ jeans thing already? I wish I filled out that dress like you do. You could pass for fifteen.”
Allie wiped her palms down her thigh-length flared skirt. “You think?”
In the apartment mirror, she’d liked what the clinging white material had done for her figure. And her hair had seemed glossier, her dark eyes brighter than usual. Even her legs had seemed longer in the short flippy dress and opaque white hose.
She smiled at her sandy-haired friend. “You look nice, too. That color matches your eyes perfectly.”
“Maybe. But all the guys will be staring at you,” Holly predicted.
Staring at her? “How could you do this to me?”
“Would you chill? What is your problem?”
“Me, have a problem? Just because I’m dressed like Nancy Kerrigan and I’ve never skated in my life?”
“I told you, I’m a good teacher. I’ve taken lessons since I was six.” Holly stood and prodded Allie’s mincing steps toward the ice.
“Slow down, will ya?” Wobbling worse than if she wore spike heels, Allie watched the younger girl step through a gap in the railing down onto the ice. When she stood in the opening herself, she teetered on the spongy surface. “You go ahead. I think I’ll just watch.”
Grinning, Holly grabbed Allie’s hand and yanked.
Allie’s blades hit the ice and slid in opposite directions. Flailing, she managed to catch her friend’s arm and rise from a split. Once their noses were on the same level, she looked deep into Holly’s laughing blue eyes. “You won’t know where—or when. But I’ll be your worst nightmare.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Do you see all these guys? Omigosh—”
“Hi, Holly,”
“Hey, Holly.”
Holly stared dazedly after the two teenage boys who’d blown by skating low to the ice. “That was Brian and Steve. They’re a grade ahead of me and they’ve never talked to me before.” She turned and looked at Allie as if she were Glenda, the good witch, materializing from a shimmering ball.
