Midnight Madness
Karen Kendall
Bohemian hairstylist and spa owner Marly Fine can handle almost anything.At least until she walks into the office of Florida governor Jack Hammersmith…when he's shirtless and hot enough to ignite every ballot box in the state. It's clear how he earned his player reputation. Thankfully, he's so not her type. Sure, his kisses may peel the polish from her toes, but that changes nothing!From the minute he sees her photo, Jack knows Marly is The One. Try convincing his too-practical-for-fate stylist of that, however. It'll take some serious persuasion…and rock-hard proof that politics makes for the lustiest kind of bedfellow!
KAREN KENDALL
Midnight Madness
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
For Shear Geniuses Mando, Danielle,
Carmen & Donna and last but not least Faye.
Thanks to all of you for sharing your stories and keeping my hair out of my eyes, over my ears and highlighted to cover the (shhh!) emerging gray.
Love you guys!
Karen
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Coming Next Month
1
CUTTING THE GOVERNOR’S hair is no different from cutting any other man’s—it’s just that if I slip with the scissors, the result could be on national television.
Marly Fine sat awkwardly in the stretch limo, her black nylon bag balanced on her lap. Outside the windows, LeJeune was a parking lot. The heavy Miami traffic crawled alongside the long white car; people on their way to work just like she was. Heat shimmered up off the pavement, mixing with exhaust fumes and humidity and general impatience. The combination steamed the outside of almost every automobile’s windows while the occupants hid in their air conditioning.
In a lime-green Beetle on the left, a college girl munched on a cereal bar and bobbed her head to the radio. To the right, a black Volvo eased forward, its driver a heavy-set Latino businessman reading the Herald. Behind him, a well-endowed platinum blonde in a silver Mercedes applied her brakes and half a tube of mascara at the same time.
Marly’s palms sweated and she resisted the urge to wipe them on her long cotton gypsy skirt. Examining her blue toenail polish, she wondered again if she should have changed it to pink last night.
No! She got annoyed at herself for even thinking it. I am who I am. If the Gov doesn’t like blue polish or sequined rubber flip-flops, then that’s his problem. I’m only there to cut his hair.
John Hammersmith, aka The Hammer, might be Florida’s JFK reincarnated, but that didn’t mean she had to wear a pillbox hat, pumps and a suit to meet the man.
“Temperature comfortable, miss?” asked the chauffeur, whose name was Mike. The poor guy actually wore livery—complete with cap—in this heat.
Marly started to nod, but her teeth were almost chattering. “Actually, Mike, can we warm it up a little back here?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks.” She wore double tank tops over her gypsy skirt, but they did little to keep her warm in the blasting air conditioning.
Marly hugged her bag as if it were a teddy bear and told herself she wasn’t nervous. Hadn’t Shore magazine named her as one of the top five hairstylists in the Miami area? Wasn’t she having to turn away clients now, or pass them on to Nicky, her flamboyant coworker? In fact, she could have referred The Hammer to Nicky, except that she was afraid of the consequences.
All they needed at After Hours Salon and Day Spa was a very public lawsuit against one of their employees—for groping The Hammer’s…uh, hammer. And it was an all-too-likely scenario: not only did Nicky wear tight orange spandex, but he waxed eloquent on the horrors of underwear and the beauties of copping a good feel.
She and Mike exchanged chitchat as the limo purred along in the sweltering heat, bringing her ever closer to the hair follicles of Florida’s forty-fourth fearless leader. A man whose politics made her cringe, and who awoke deep feelings of resentment within her. He had the same slick demeanor of old Patrick Compton, the state representative from her hometown.
The Pattywhacker, they’d called him. He’d won office on promises of honor and sincerity and devotion. Funny how all those had gone out the window when he’d hooked up with the big boys in the House.
Didn’t people ever learn? Now the good citizens of Florida had fallen for this young turk with the conservative agenda and soulful blue power ties that matched his wide-set eyes. The guy had charm in spades, plenty of hair and the big white teeth necessary for the perfect photo op. He’d promised to restore order, morality and conscience to Florida—as if the last two could be legislated.
Marly’s mouth twisted and she leaned her head back, resting it against the fat braid of dark hair that hung to midspine. The plush leather seat hugged her body, and she wished suddenly that her dad was here beside her, taking a ride in a fancy limo. She’d have to tell him all about it when she visited.
The temperature inside the car had just warmed when they pulled up under the curved portico of the Mandarin Oriental hotel, where the chauffeur got out and opened her door. Marly slid over on the seat, gave him her hand and stuck first one foot and then the other out the door and onto the pavement. Her silver toe ring flashed in the sun, as did all the sequins sewn onto her rubber flip-flops.
Mike murmured something to a bellman, who produced a cell phone and led her inside while he hit a number on speed dial. He nodded at her. “Miss Turlington, the governor’s assistant, will be down for you momentarily.”
Marly nodded, slung her bag over her left shoulder and put a hand up to her braid, just to make sure her hair wasn’t working its way out of its confines. She licked her suddenly dry lips and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
She moved her attention to a massive floral arrangement in the center of a table in the lobby, discovering upon close inspection that the flowers were rubber and plastic. She’d begun wondering how, exactly, a factory created these things and how many cancer-causing fumes the workers inhaled during the process, when a no-nonsense older woman in a gray suit approached her from the elevators.
Maria Turlington introduced herself with a gaze as cool and dry as the hand she proffered, and fixated for half a second longer than was polite on Marly’s blue toenails. “If you’ll follow me, Miss Fine, the governor will see you now.”
Ms. Turlington reminded Marly strongly of someone, and as she got into the elevator behind her she tried to think of who it was. Her hair was short and graying, and she had a figure like a broomstick. The gray suit was relieved only by single pearls in her ears and an old-fashioned circle pin on her lapel. She looked as if she lived on tea and cucumber sandwiches or something as equally bland and proper. And the woman’s shoes were positively hideous. Though they were good quality leather, they were squat penny loafers elevated only about an inch by a chunky square heel, and Ms. Turlington wore them with suntan-colored panty hose.
Marly decided that anyone who still wore suntan-colored panty hose could suck on her blue toenails.
The elevator stopped at the top of the building and the two of them exited, passing a couple of plain clothed bodyguards. One of them took a look into Marly’s bag before letting them into the governor’s suite.
She shrugged as he pulled out three pairs of long, wicked-looking scissors and an electric shaver. “Tools of the trade.” She couldn’t very well cut The Hammer’s hair without them, could she?
But maybe she should write in to Alias and suggest an episode where Sydney Bristow assassinated a bad guy by pretending to be a hairstylist. Who knew? Maybe they’d already done one.
The bodyguard frowned at the scissors and her, and exchanged a glance with Ms. Turlington, as if to ask whether she’d vetted Marly’s background. Ms. T. nodded, and he let them go. Great, the FBI has a file on my finesse with long layers. They know about the woman whose hair I turned purple back in beauty school, and they’ve looked into the dangers of me giving Hammersmith a mullet with neon-green hair extensions….
They knocked and then entered an elegant suite dotted with arrangements of flowers that had once actually grown somewhere. At one end of the room, near a window overlooking the ocean, was a desk and a rolling leather chair, turned away from them. Resting against the back of the chair was a head covered by unruly, dark curly hair.
“I need you to modify that paragraph in the Orlando speech,” Hammersmith said into a cell phone. “I am not saying that. Yeah. Thanks, Ricky. Gotta go.” The governor spun around in the chair and stood, his eyes riveting on Marly’s face.
The last thing she’d expected was for the man to be half naked! His chest was broad, exceptionally well-defined and lightly furred in the morning sunlight.
She felt her pleasant expression freeze in surprise and her tongue instantly absorb all the saliva in her mouth. That was what those white button-downs and blue silk ties covered? She’d imagined a doughy, career politician’s torso, well-padded with complacency and pork—not this ripped expanse of hard muscle and tanned, very masculine flesh.
“Governor Hammersmith, may I present Miss Fine?” said his assistant. “And,” she added with asperity, “may I get you your undershirt, sir?” She said the word sir as if she meant “small, naughty boy.”
Marly bit back a smile. Suddenly she knew who Ms. Turlington reminded her of: Miss Hathaway from the old “Beverly Hillbillies” show.
“Miss Fine,” said The Hammer, striding forward and taking her hand, “this is a definite pleasure.” He looked deep into her eyes and blinded her with a potent smile.
God help me, thought Marly. He’s twenty times more magnetic in person than he is on television. She had to avert her gaze or start babbling incoherently. So she dropped her gaze to his chest again.
“Thank you for coming all the way over here just to cut my hair.”
Nipples. I’m staring at the governor’s nipples. There’s something deeply wrong with this scenario. “Um, you’re welcome. Thank you for asking me.”
Hammersmith seemed just as taken with her chest as she was with his, truth be told. She could almost feel his eyes searching for the bra straps that weren’t there under her double tank tops. She could almost feel his gaze spanning her waist, too, and evaluating the length of her legs under the gypsy skirt. She resisted the urge to wiggle her toes as he looked at those.
“I’ve never seen blue toenail polish,” he said.
He had to be kidding. What century did he live in?
“It’s the same color as your eyes.”
She forced a smile to her lips. “I think that’s a compliment….”
He nodded. “What do you call that color of blue? Royal? Cerulean?”
“Rebel,” she said with a self-conscious shrug. “That’s what the manufacturer calls it, anyway.”
“Rebel,” he repeated, his eyes scanning every curve of her again. “I like it.”
Ms. Hathaway—uh, Turlington—bustled back in with a plain white T-shirt and handed it to Hammersmith with a meaningful glance. He nodded his thanks at her and dropped it on the desk. Then he sat next to it and gestured Marly toward the rolling chair.
Ms. Turlington’s lips thinned in disapproval and she resembled nothing so much as a skinny, bad-tempered owl in pearl earrings.
“Was there something you needed, Maria?” the governor asked innocently.
“Your shoes and socks are near the sofa, sir.”
“Why, so they are! Thank you for calling my attention to them. Now, maybe we could all have some coffee from room service?” He turned toward Marly. “You like coffee?”
She shook her head. “Chai or green tea, actually. Thanks.”
“Will you order all of that, then, Maria?”
“Right away, Governor. Have you had breakfast?”
He shook his head and suddenly his blue eyes gleamed. “You know what sounds good? Strawberry waffles with syrup and whipped cream. You like waffles, Miss Fine?”
“Yes, but no, thanks.”
“Whole grain toast, fruit and a boiled egg is what your nutritionist has on the menu for you, sir.”
The Hammer waved a dismissive hand at his assistant. “That guy is a puritan and a sadist. Get me the waffles, please. And an extra-large orange juice.”
“But the carbohydrates—”
“—are delicious. Thanks, Maria. Be sure to order yourself something. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.” And the governor slung an arm around her stiff, thin shoulders and walked her to the door. “What would I do without you, hmm?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.” And Ms. Turlington, the poor dear, exited with as near to a flounce as she was capable of.
“She thinks she’s my nanny,” The Hammer said.
“Mmm.” Marly was noncommittal. “So…what would you like to do with your hair?”
“Well, I was thinking along the lines of Billy Idol or Dennis Rodman.”
She choked. Governor Hammersmith wasn’t at all what she’d expected.
“I figured that look would go over well next time I had to speak to a Rotary Club or cut the ribbon at the grand opening of a new senior citizens home.”
“So you’d like me to pierce your ears, too—and custom order a spiked dog collar? Rip the sleeves out of your Brooks Brothers’ button-downs? And how about a few tattoos?”
“Exactly.” He nodded. They exchanged a look of amused understanding. Then he ruined it. “You’re even prettier than the picture in Shore magazine.”
She felt her cheeks warming as she opened her nylon bag and pulled out a salon cape. Not only should she cover that chest for her peace of mind, but also to protect him from the little hairs that would fly everywhere during his haircut.
“I said to Maria, ‘She’s really cute. Call that one.’”
Marly lifted an eyebrow. Great way to pick a stylist, Governor. What if I’m a really cute butcher? But she didn’t say it out loud. “What happened to your regular hairdresser?”
“She just had a baby,” he explained. “And she’s retiring for a while to be a mom. I didn’t have time to look for someone else in Tallahassee before this meeting, so we called you.”
She was back to looking at his chest again, and all that male skin and muscle was having a bad effect on her. Her breathing had gone shallow and heat had bloomed at the back of her neck, under her arms and in other places she didn’t want to think about.
“Are you Irish?” he asked.
She blinked, then shook her head. “Dutch by heritage.”
“All that dark hair and the big blue eyes and the flawless skin—I thought maybe Black Irish. Though you’re not pale—your skin’s sort of olive.”
“There’s some Greek back there somewhere,” Marly said. “And you? You have the same coloring.”
“English, though my great-great-grandfather married an Italian. They say I get my looks from her.”
Marly found herself wanting to touch his skin, just run a hand over those shoulders and those biceps. She hadn’t had this kind of visceral reaction to a man since college. He put every nerve and ion in her body on full alert. Get a grip, stupid. Why do you think they call the guy The Hammer? Apart from his surname, he nails a lot of women.
John Hammersmith was a world-class flirt, and he’d been seen and photographed with all kinds of jet-set beauties. There’d been the Colombian emerald heiress, the Yugoslavian model, the English industrialist’s daughter, the Parisian countess, the New York fashion editor and the famous, double-jointed fitness instructor. The list went on and on. The Hammer’s personal little black book was reputed to contain ten volumes, or something like that.
It was a wonder there weren’t dozens of little illegitimate Jacks running around, but rumor had it that The Hammer owned stock in Trojan. Recently, however, she’d heard rumblings that his handlers wanted to marry him off. It was hard for a playboy to be taken seriously in politics, especially when his platform preached morality and conscience.
Hypocrite. Marly scowled and dug for her scissors.
“What’s that look for?” the governor asked. “You have something against Italians?”
“Huh? Oh…no, not at all. I was thinking about something else.” Too late, she realized how rude that sounded.
He grinned that thousand-watt grin at her, and parts of her body she was unaware she had melted. Oh, yuck. Was she really that susceptible—and to a Republican?
“Do I bore you, Miss Fine?”
“No…I’m sorry, I’ve just been distracted lately.” She scrambled and came up with a bit of truth to try to salvage things. “Until yesterday, I was afraid we were going to lose our retail space at After Hours and have to default on our business loans. It was scary. But everything’s okay now.”
It helped when the landlord was crazy in love with your business partner. She wouldn’t be surprised if Troy and Peggy ran off to Vegas and got married, in fact.
“I’m glad to hear it. I couldn’t have my favorite hairstylist going out of business—even temporarily.”
Marly’s eyebrows pulled together and she forced herself, once again, to look away from the man’s chest. “How can I possibly be your favorite hairstylist when I haven’t even cut your hair yet, Governor?”
“It’s a mystery, isn’t it?” He looked intently into her eyes again and she felt more exposed than if she were naked. Marly shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“Do you believe in love at first sight, Miss Fine?”
She gripped her scissors tightly and backed away from him. No matter how good-looking and charismatic and half-naked, the guy was starting to exasperate her. And what a cheesy line! “No, I do not.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of that. And I have a feeling it’s going to take a lot of effort to change your mind.”
2
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT? Marly couldn’t help herself. She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Governor. You can do better than that.”
He crossed his arms over his delectable chest and actually had the gall to look offended. “You think that’s just a bad come on.”
“I certainly don’t think it’s a good one!” Great, Marly. You couldn’t have played along, dodged the pinch to your ass, and added John Hammersmith’s name to the After Hours’ client roster? What’s wrong with you?
“So you wouldn’t believe me if I told you that the moment I saw your picture in the magazine, I knew you were The One?”
Marly gaped at him and was saved from having to answer by the arrival of room service and Ms. Turlington again. Marly poured herself some green tea and watched The Hammer drown his strawberry waffles in syrup and smother them with whipped cream, for all the world like a little kid. A demented little kid…a Republican one. Ugh.
Really, she should leave now, while there was someone else in the room to act as a buffer.
“Did you know that my great-great-grandmother was essentially a mail-order bride?” Hammersmith said around a mouthful of waffles. “The Italian one.”
“No.” Marly took a sip of her tea and tugged on her braid, which had grown tight. Her scalp prickled with discomfort and something like alarm.
“Great-great-gramps saw a cameo portrait of her, and that was it for him. He went to find her and bring her back to the States.”
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck jumped to attention. Then they parted to make way for a deep shiver. But she didn’t react visibly, just eyed him with a tolerance reserved for the insane.
“Isn’t that romantic?” the governor said, swallowing. He ate standing up, his plate in his left hand, sawing through the waffles with the edge of his fork.
She nodded for Ms. Turlington’s benefit. Marly might not have finished college, but how stupid did the man think she was? He figured he could feed her this pack of BS and she’d tumble into bed with him?
It was a lowering thought that she might have done so based on the recommendation of his bare chest alone. She could have just had a fling—to support morality and conscience and Republican values, of course. But there was no way she’d do it now, with this lame talk of love at first sight. How many women had he snowed with this stuff?
Ms. Turlington changed the subject, bless her bossy, crabby, proper little heart. “Mister Governor,” she announced, eyeing his plate with something like despair, “you’ll note that there is an egg-white omelet under that steel dome. Those waffles you’re consuming—with the entire udder of butter and bathtub of syrup—contain a minimum of 3,600 calories and—”
“Turls, you know I detest egg-white omelets, and you probably had them fill it with broccoli and onion, too.”
“—six hundred grams of carbohydrates, not to mention enough saturated fat to deep-fry a herd of buffalo.”
“But I do thank you for your continued concern about my health. It’s very sweet of you.”
Miss Turlington sniffed. Then she produced a bona fide white, lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
“Turls…” the governor groaned. He cast her a look of long-suffering, set down his waffles on a stack of scary-looking legal documents sporting lots of little yellow flags and plucked the steel dome off the omelet plate.
Ms. Turlington stopped dabbing immediately and looked hopeful.
Marly thought the omelet looked and smelled fabulous, but the Hammer wrinkled his statesman-like nose. He poked at the mass of eggs with a knife and looked unimpressed. He set the dome back over the plate, and just then Marly’s stomach had the poor timing to growl. She hadn’t eaten anything before leaving her apartment.
He brightened. “You’re hungry!”
“No, no,” Marly stammered, under Ms. Turlington’s ominous gaze.
“Yes, you are. Isn’t it fortunate that we ordered some extra breakfast!” The gov grabbed a fork, cut a bite of omelet and made choo-choo noises, driving it toward her mouth.
Marly was so appalled that she opened it and he deposited the bite of eggs onto her tongue, emitting a long engineer’s whistle as he did so. Then the lunatic said, “Yum, yum!” and sent her a big ole shit-eating grin.
She almost spat the eggs onto the carpet at Ms. Turlington’s expression, but she managed not to. Instead she swallowed them.
“Now,” said the Hammer, advancing on her with a napkin, “you just be a good kid and eat the omelet. I’ll return to my breakfast of champions. Turls, where’s your oatmeal and prune juice?”
“I have already consumed my morning meal,” growled Ms. Turlington, and swept from the room, closing the French doors with a snap.
Marly blinked. “Governor, really, I’m only here to cut your hair.” She looked at her watch. “And I’ve got to get back. I have a client coming at ten….”
“It’ll take you all of five minutes to eat that omelet, sweetheart. C’mon, can’t you do it for the Ham?” He advanced toward her and put his hand at the small of her back.
His touch was casually intimate, for someone who’d just met her. Though she thought he was nuts, her body didn’t agree. Marly leaped forward as if burned and grabbed the plate of eggs. She held it in front of her like a shield and dodged around the serving cart. “Thanks.”
“Can’t have you all shaky when you’re snipping the gubernatorial locks, eh?” He grinned. “Gubernatorial—isn’t that the weirdest word? Sounds like all things relating to a goober.”
Marly laughed in spite of herself.
“Now, my family and friends know the truth—I am one, but do we need to advertise the fact?”
He didn’t look at all like a goober. He looked like blue-blooded sin in half of a thousand-dollar suit. And he was crazy. Obviously. Because he insisted on returning to their earlier topic of conversation.
“Now that I’ve found you, Marly Fine, I’m going to have to insist that we get to know each other. Are you free for dinner?”
Marly set down the omelet once again. “No, Governor, I’m not. We run a salon, which is open until midnight.”
“You work a sixteen-hour day?”
“Sometimes. Usually I work a twelve-hour one. I go in at noon. Miami is half-Latin, and Latins like to keep late hours.”
“Hmm. I’m asleep by eleven. This could be tough to work out….” He stuck another bite of waffle into his mouth.
Her sense of outrage rose. “Governor Hammersmith, while I am certainly, um, flattered by your interest, there is nothing to work out. I have a very full life and—”
“You married?”
“What? No.”
“Engaged?”
“No, but—”
“Boyfriend?”
She hesitated a split second too long.
“Then we can work something out.”
“Governor, maybe I don’t want to work something out!”
“I’ve been told I’m passably handsome. I floss regularly and use mouthwash. I can even be charming, when I want to be.” He cocked his head to one side and licked a bit of whipped cream out of the corner of his mouth. “What’s not to like?”
Marly closed her eyes. Then she opened them and took a deep breath. “Women don’t say no to you very often, do they?”
He looked a little sheepish. Then he shook his head.
“In fact, I’ll offer a guess that not many people say no to you.”
Hammersmith stuck the last bite of waffle into his mouth and chewed pensively. Then he shook his head again.
“Well,” Marly said brightly. “We all encounter new experiences, don’t we? Now give me that—” she took the plate from his hand and set it on the cart “—and come sit down in that rolling chair again so I can do my job.”
He blinked at her, then went and sat down. She unfolded the salon drape and threw it around him, covering him from the neck down. Thank God I don’t have to look at that chest any longer.
Then she handed him a mirror. “Now, you like a side part on the left, correct?”
He nodded.
“And it looks like…are you having these strands near your temples colored gray?”
“Yes. They decided I looked more statesman-like with a little silver around the edges.”
Marly pursed her lips. “I don’t have anything with me to do color. All I can do today is a cut.”
“Isn’t that a shame. Guess you’ll have to see me again, won’t you?” His lips twitched.
“You know,” said Marly severely, “if you were anyone but the governor, and if you were even a smidgen uglier, I wouldn’t put up with you.”
“Even though you’re curious?”
“Who said I was curious?”
“Your eyes, your voice, your body language. The fact that you’re still here and haven’t run screaming out the door—even though you think I’m crazy.”
She glared at him. “I don’t think you’re nuts. I know you’re nuts.”
“We’ll see about that. History often repeats itself.”
Again, a shiver spiraled around her spine before dispersing into hundreds of tiny ions of unease. Marly dug her spray bottle of water out of her nylon bag and depressed the nozzle several times, soaking the man’s head.
“I guess that’s one way of telling me I’m all wet,” said The Hammer. “But by the way, if we’re going to ride into the sunset together one day, you should call me Jack.”
3
RIDE INTO THE SUNSET together?
“So you see,” Marly said later to her business partner Alejandro, “the guy is off his gubernatorial rocker!”
They stood on the salon side of After Hours, on the zebra floor cloth and in front of a tangerine wall. The spa was funky and colorful, with Italian glass lamps, walls of all colors and a distressed concrete floor painted to look like the ocean. Every time she looked at it, Marly felt a mixture of pride and horror: she had painted it, crawling around on her hands and knees to do every lovely little blue-green swirl. Ugh. She had, in fact, driven the design of the whole place, since she’d studied art during her three years of college and had a knack for interior design.
Alejandro stretched his six-foot-four, muscular frame. A yawn overwhelmed his classically handsome face. He rubbed the day-old bristle on his square chin and sipped at a beer, his treat for passing his business school exams and squaring the books. “Oh, I don’t know, mi corazón. If I didn’t think of you as a sister, I might fall into instant love with you.”
“Be serious!”
“I am.” He rubbed absently at an uncharacteristic stain on his elegant linen pants.
Shrieks of drunken feminine laughter rolled over them, coming from the pedicure stations in the back. Marly lifted an eyebrow. “Let me guess, the Fabulous Four are here? Aren’t they early?”
The Fabulous Four was a group of women in their forties who booked their appointments together each week and got blind drunk on After Hours’ wine. At first Marly had thought it was cute. But after an entire year, it was getting a little out of hand. The Fab Four took over the place and got so loud and raunchy that sometimes other clients complained.
“They’re all going on a cruise together tomorrow,” Alejandro explained. “So they moved their pedicures—and happy hour—back to lunchtime.”
“Did they fight over you, honey?” Alejandro was often in demand for hand and foot treatments, as much as he hated to give them.
“No—when I found out they were coming, I deliberately crossed myself off the book for that time slot.” He grinned. “Now, tell me more about the governor.”
Marly frowned. “He’s feeding me lines, and I’m not going to fall for them. How many times a week do you think he tells the story of his great-great-grandfather and the mail-order bride?”
“I’ll go to bed with him,” her coworker and fellow stylist, Nicky, said with a leer. “He’s hot…for a Republican. Yeow, baby! I’d leave nothing on the guv but one of those royal-blue neckties….”
Marly shook her head at him. “I don’t think he’s bent your way, Nicky-doll. And I didn’t get the feeling he’d care much for orange spandex, either.”
“Oh, gawd.” Nicky shook his blond hair. He was like Princess Di in drag, with a California accent and a lisp. “It’s back to the Internet for me, then. Did I tell you about my date last week? Finally, finally, I thought, yay, this guy is gonna be it. He was good-looking, head to toe Calvin Klein, makes tons of money as a designer. I was ready to marry him—Even though we’d have to go to Massachusetts to do it! And then he shows up wearing those plastic food-service gloves. He wouldn’t even take them off to shake my hand! Fuh-reak, freak, freak.”
“But, Nicky,” said Alejandro. “You wouldn’t know what to do if you had a normal date. You’d have no stories to tell us and nothing to complain about.”
“So true,” said Nicky with a frown. “Do you think I should see a shrink about this?” He wandered off, one hand on his spandex-encased hip.
Marly sighed. “He makes the governor seem normal, honestly.”
Alejandro laughed. “Don’t you mean Jack?”
“I’m not going to call him by his first name. And besides, even if I was dumb enough to fall for his lines, how can I ignore the fact that he’s been seen all over the state with that debutante…you know, the one they’re expecting him to marry, like, yesterday?”
“Carol Hilliard?”
“Yeah—the one in the pastel Chanel suits and the Ferragamo shoes.”
“Nobody’s seen a rock on her finger, Marly.”
“They’re probably still excavating it, all hundred carats, from Daddy’s diamond mine.”
“Meow!” Alejandro winked at her. “What has she ever done to you?”
“Nothing,” muttered Marly. “She’s just perfect for him and I’m not. Do you know the guy had never even seen blue toenail polish before? I guess it’s not fashionable among the little debbies.”
“Marly, chica. Why does it bother you that you’re not perfect for him?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Right. That would be why you’re obsessing.”
“I’m not obsessing! I was just sharing my morning with you. A morning that happened to include a half naked governor who’s a big flirt.”
“Ooooh, is he cut?” Nicky was back again.
“Um, well, yeah.”
“Six-pack?”
She nodded.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much chest hair?”
“Five.”
“Mmm. Sounds divine. You should sleep with him.” And with that little bit of advice, Nicky disappeared to mix color for his next client.
“He hasn’t asked me!” she called after him, hands on her hips. Not that Jack Hammersmith needed to, really. She knew exactly what it meant when her body got that boneless feeling, the melted knees syndrome, the warm rushes of sensation in private areas.
“So,” Alejandro said. “You cut his hair. And you’re not sworn to secrecy, so that’s great PR for After Hours. The best, in fact. The only thing better would be for us to cut the hair of Brad Pitt or Colin Farrell. Would you get to work on that, please?” He grinned.
She heard his unspoken request. Don’t piss off the governor. We can use the cachet and the extra clients he’ll bring us.
Alejandro owned the biggest percentage of the spa and therefore owed the most money on the business loans they’d taken out. He constantly worried over finances, even though he masked the concern with his Latin charm.
She and Peggy had never told him how close they’d come to being kicked out of the retail space. He would have flunked all his business school exams or something. To reassure him, Marly said, “Hammersmith’s coming in here in a couple of days so I can do his color. I’ll have to use a private room, though—he doesn’t want to advertise the fact that he gets gray highlights to make him look older and more experienced. Isn’t that funny?”
Alejandro shrugged. “What is he, thirty-six or so?”
“Something like that.”
“You can understand it—most of the guys he’s working with in the Florida state legislature are on the far side of middle age, and he needs their respect.”
“Uh-huh.” Marly yawned. “I wish I was going to get out of here before midnight….”
“I’m sorry, mi corazón. Tell you what, dinner’s on me later. We’ll order from Benito’s. Sound good?”
“Thanks. You’re a sweetie. But what sounds good is a three-week vacation in the Caribbean. I’ve got to start limiting my schedule, Alejandro. I can’t keep going like this…. I haven’t been to see my parents in months, and as for spare time…” Spare time was a dream. And forget spare time to paint.
“I know. Give it a little longer? Then we’ll bring in a couple more hairdressers, and everyone can ease up on their appointments a bit.”
Marly nodded. “You know I don’t mean to bellyache, hon. I’ve got my dad’s medical bills, but you’re under even more stress, with the whole business school thing.”
She only had a few more months to go to pay off the thoroughly scary multithousand-dollar hospital bill that she’d had sent to her, because if her father had seen it he would have relapsed, gone into renal failure and died.
She’d worked a deal with the administrator: only a quarter of the bill balance was sent to her parents. She’d dropped out of art school and begun working immediately to pay it off, since they were on a fixed income.
The pace of her work these days was killing her, but she focused on the light at the end of the tunnel, when the balance would be paid.
What would it be like to have spare time again? A social life? She couldn’t wait. Marly went to greet her next customer and initiated the normal chitchat while she snipped and reshaped the woman’s hair.
The rest of the day flew by: she cut the hair of a city council member, wove blond extensions in for a local model, did a short, spiky style for a woman who owned a boutique around the corner. She snipped, textured, shaved, highlighted, gelled, moussed and sprayed. Then she did it all over again.
By 10:00 p.m. her feet were throbbing and she was exhausted—but they had two hours of prime party time to go. Marly looked longingly at the wine Shirlie, their receptionist, brought to the customers, thinking that just one glass would do a lot to ease her pain and give her a second wind.
But it was an extremely bad idea to cut someone’s hair under the influence…so she’d wait and have her wine after they’d locked up.
She welcomed her 11:00 p.m. client, Regina Santos, and sent her off to be shampooed. Marly’s thoughts turned renegade again, toward Jack Hammersmith, his bare chest and his mouthful of waffles. The way his tongue had licked the whipped cream from the corner of his mouth. The way he’d looked into her eyes as if he could see into her mind, and his calm certainty that she was The One.
The One what? The one who’d tell him that the Hammer wasn’t going to nail her?
JACK HAMMERSMITH successfully dodged Turl’s urges to take an extra vitamin and got dressed in front of the maid whom Housekeeping sent to remove his room service cart. He gave the maid credit for waiting until he put on his shirt and tie before she asked shyly if she could take a picture of him with her camera-phone.
He said, “Sure, sweetheart—do you want a photo of us both?” Turls pressed her lips together and did the honors, before almost chasing the poor woman out.
Jack would much rather have signed two dozen autographs or taken as many photos with hotel staff than get down to work with Stephen Lyons and Jorge Martinez, his top aide and his campaign manager, respectively.
But they barged in at 9:45 a.m. regardless of his personal preferences, and worse, they forced him to crack open the thick manila file folder on the suite’s desk. They pulled out three of the yellow-flagged documents and handed him a pen snagged from behind Martinez’s ear.
“Do you wash those ears?” Jack teased him, pretending to wipe earwax off the pen. “Because I know you’ve always got one or the other of them pressed to the ground, spying and dragging them in the dirt.”
Martinez shot him a cool glance. “That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”
Lyons started yakking at him about pending legislation in the Florida state senate. When he paused for breath, Martinez jumped in. “I’ve hired a professional PR firm just to manage your press coverage—and consult on your image—during the campaign.”
“Great, more people to push me around,” Jack said in jovial tones. “Well, I’m sure they’ll approve of my haircut. You like it, Lyons? Marty?”
They stopped talking at looked at his hair. “It’s great, Jack,” said Martinez, and moved on to a new topic: the train wreck that a public school initiative had become. Lyons made a circle out of his thumb and forefinger, spreading his other three fingers wide in the A-Okay sign.
“Hey, Lyons? Your wife—does she ever wear blue nail polish?”
“What? No. Twelve-year-olds and rock stars wear blue nail polish.”
“And artists, wouldn’t you say? Creative spirits.”
“Jack, can I get you to focus, here?” Lyons asked.
“I’m very focused,” said The Hammer.
“Oh, Christ,” said Martinez. “What inappropriate woman are you obsessing about now?”
“She’s not inappropriate. She’s perfect.”
“Jack, if she wears blue nail polish, she is not perfect. I have one name for you—Hilliard. She’s beautiful, she’s connected, she’s got style and wit and fashion sense. You’ve known her all your life. Now will you please, for God’s sake, get engaged to the woman? It could make or break your reelection campaign.”
“That’s crazy. It’s not my prospective wife who’s running! I got elected single last time. Why is it so important that I be coupled now?”
Martinez sighed and sat in a club chair. He spread his knees and dangled his clasped hands between them. Not a hair on his head fell forward, however; it was all sprayed into place.
“The polls, Jack. People cut you some slack before because of the way Lady Annabel dumped you so publicly.”
“I dumped her!”
“A matter of spin, Jack. Poor Hammer, left practically at the altar…”
“I would never have married her!”
“Water under the bridge, Jack. The point is, now the polls are reflecting that people think you’re too wild. They don’t want a playboy running the state—they want a responsible, settled adult. They’d love to see little Jacks bouncing around the capitol lawn.”
“I fail to see how that’s anyone’s business but mine.”
“Jack. Don’t be naive. You’re a public figure with a political career at stake. You could be in the running for a vice-presidential seat in the next six years or so. Get your ass married to an appropriate woman or jeopardize all that. Do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Martinez.” Jack cast him a glance of impatience, bordering on dislike. The waffles sat heavy in his stomach and the syrup and whipped cream gurgled. He should have eaten the damned whole-grain toast and omelet, but he was beyond sick of being told what to do every second of every minute of every friggin’ day. Leader of the state? Hell, he felt more like a trained ape.
Jack, who’d grown up in politics like his father before him, found it hard to take it all seriously. Politics wasn’t his calling; it was Dad’s calling, but he’d found himself fresh out of law school and going into retired Senator John Hammersmith’s law firm, without even an interview. His experience was so alien compared to that of his friends, who clerked and schmoozed and interviewed wildly—everywhere from Miami to New York to San Francisco.
He’d felt guilty and not particularly deserving of his golden-boy status as John Hammersmith Jr. born with a pedigree and dimples to match.
His mother had a law degree and connections, as well. But if she wanted to, she had the luxury of fading into the woodwork and just being exceptionally well married. Jack wondered what it was like to have options like that; be female; choose your role in society.
Did she feel guilty about not being more of a trailblazer? Had she burned her bra back in the seventies, only to walk right back into its harness like an obedient broodmare? He mused about it. Jeanne kept her mouth shut about such things.
Martinez was waxing poetic about poll numbers and Lyons advocating that he play in some charity golf tournament.
Jack nodded, the waffles in his stomach gurgled around some more, and he found himself thinking about Marly Fine. He put a hand up to his neck, still feeling her cool, efficient hands in his hair and the rhythmic snipping, eyes always measuring, gauging length and proportion and thickness.
He had a lot of hair. If he ever let it grow, he’d probably resemble an afghan that had just stuck its paw into an electrical outlet.
Marly had done an exceptional job of making him look suave and goobernatorial. But suddenly Jack wished he had rock star hair and maybe an earring through his nose; a different perspective on life and how to live it. A perspective that would make him more appealing to a woman who wore blue toenail polish and no bra and a long gypsy skirt that Jeanne Hammersmith probably wouldn’t give to the housekeeper for polishing the silver.
He hadn’t lied when he’d said that the instant he’d seen her picture he’d known Marly was The One. He’d seen it in her cool blue-green eyes and the dark sheen of her hair. In the way she held herself and the tilt of her pointed little chin.
She was the kind of woman who inspired love songs. She was a Helen…a woman who caused men to do crazy things. Such as tell her within moments of meeting her that she was The One.
Jack grinned. Because she hadn’t giggled and blushed; she hadn’t taken it as a come on that could help her career if she played ball. She’d just told him flat-out that he was nuts.
The general public didn’t tell Jack that he was nuts—only his inner circle did. So Marly had stepped into that circle without even trying.
The public treated him with deference and respect that he wasn’t convinced he deserved. Then there was his father, who didn’t respect him much at all—but who envied him.
“I didn’t have anybody’s coattails to ride when I got elected senator,” he was fond of saying—especially when he’d had a couple glasses of Basil Hayden’s finest bourbon. “I did it on my own steam.”
Yeah, well, some of us have more steam—aka hot air—inside us than others, Senior.
Rock star hair. Yup, that’s what he needed for the reelection campaign. And maybe a sapphire nose ring instead of the blue silk power ties. He’d appeal to the younger demographic, create an identity for himself apart from the Hammersmith name.
Jack blew out a cynical breath. Yeah, right. And I’m gonna grow a breast on my forehead, too.
Because he was stuck with the Hammersmith name—and even worse, he was Hammersmith Junior. Chip off the old blockhead.
He tried to focus on what Martinez and Lyons were droning on about now, but he had a hard time caring. Instead he wondered exactly what his great-great-grandfather had said first to the Italian girl he’d crossed continents to find.
Had he said, “Signorina bellissima, I know you are The One?” Or had he actually employed some subtlety? Jack had never found subtlety particularly useful. Either people didn’t catch it at all or your message was diluted entirely.
Subtlety was not to be confused with the fine arts of political innuendo and favor-currying. Now he excelled at those…but wasn’t exactly proud of the fact.
Yeah, the more he thought about it, he needed to cultivate rock star hair and maybe one of those terrible little soul patches on his chin. That sure as hell would appeal to the conservative voters—about as much as a girlfriend who wore a long braid down her back and no bra.
No bra…hmm. The Hammer suddenly wondered if Marly had a policy against underwear altogether. He really wouldn’t mind finding out.
4
“SO?” SHIRLIE, the receptionist at After Hours, nudged Marly the next day. Her pale blue eyes sparkled with curiosity and every spiky, mascara-covered eyelash jutted forward eagerly, like antennae wired to collect information.
“So, what?” Marly looked through a stack of pink message slips for any calls that needed to be returned before the evening. Misty Horowitz, Sandra Tagliatore, Janine Burbank. No—she could call all of them later.
“The governor!” Shirlie kept probing. “What’s he like in person? Is he as hot as he is on TV?”
“Hotter. Though he’s going to develop a belly to rival Buddha’s if he keeps on eating the way he eats.”
“What does he eat? Is he nice?”
Marly laughed. “He eats little boy food—waffles and syrup and whipped cream.”
“So was he nice or did he treat you like the hired help?”
“He was…very affable.” Besides being crazy and trying to use a bad line to get me into bed. Who does he think he is?
“So what’s his body like? It’s hard to tell under those suits.”
“Nothing wrong with the man’s bod,” Marly said before she could censor herself. “He greeted me without a shirt or shoes.”
“No!”
“Yup.”
“How big are his feet?”
Marly sighed. “You know, your obsession with penis size is really not healthy, Shirl. How many times did you try to find out the number of inches Troy Barrington sports?”
Shirlie didn’t bother to blush. “I’m taking a survey for scientific purposes.”
“Right. And my grandfather was a prima ballerina.”
“So I’ll give you the goods on T.B. if you tell me The Hammer’s foot size.”
Marly rolled her eyes. “That’s a myth, the foot size thing.”
“It’s not! Research shows—”
“Whose research? Let me tell you, the shortest guy I ever slept with, the one with the smallest feet, by the way, had the most gargantuan schlong.”
Shirlie’s eyes widened. Then she thought about it. “Well, Troy has giant feet, judging by his shoes, but Peggy told me he’s hung like a piece of elbow macaroni. This blows all my survey results out of the water.”
Marly poked her tongue into her cheek. “Did Peg tell you that when she was angry? Because I don’t buy it.”
“Ohh.” Shirl stuck the eraser end of her pencil into her ear. “I didn’t think about thaaaat.”
Be careful, hon, or you’ll shove it right out the other side. Marly grimaced at herself. She shouldn’t be so bitchy—Shirlie was a great receptionist and all the customers loved her. They hadn’t hired her because she had a Ph.D.
“I’ve got to get ready for my next appointment, Shirl. Just give me a buzz when she shows, okay?”
“Yeah,” said Shirlie, frowning in concentration, the pencil still in her ear. “So does the Hammer have toe hair? Because that can be a factor, too.”
Don’t poke your eye out with that, little girl. The pencil obviously wasn’t tangling with a lot of brain matter.
“Toe hair?” said Marly. “Uh, I really couldn’t say.”
She went to the back of the salon, removed her scissors from the black nylon bag and stowed it away in a cabinet. Then she went to her station and started straightening things. She gazed fondly at the photo of her dad she kept there; acknowledged a tinge of guilt that she didn’t have a picture of Mom there, too. She sprayed the mirror with Mountain Berry Windex and wiped it clean. She stared at her makeup-free face and wondered just what it was that Jack Hammersmith thought he’d seen in it to feed her that cheesy line. Gullibility? Naiveté? General lack of intelligence?
Okay, so there was a hidden romantic part of her that thrilled to the story of his great-great-grandfather and his Italian bride. But there was also a big part of her that said, hey—even if it’s a true story—the woman saw an opportunity to marry a rich American and have herself a bit of freedom and adventure in a whole new world. She could have just been an opportunist who didn’t want to marry the village shoemaker or butcher. By no means was it sure that she’d fallen in love….
“Oh, gawd,” said Nicky behind her, into his cell phone. “He wanted me to turn vegetarian for him! Yes! Can you believe it?”
Marly tried not to listen to what Nicky was talking about. The last time she’d overheard one of his private conversations, she’d found out more than she wanted to know about the possibilities of chest hair transplants. Imagine a guy having hair-plugs on his chest.
“Get out!” Nicky shrieked.
She winced.
“I don’t believe it.” He ran a hand through his sun streaked golden locks. “You’re telling me. This Internet stuff is for the dogs…except dogs are luckier. They just run up to each other and sniff each other’s butts.”
Okay, I just do not want to hear this phone call. Marly headed to the kitchenette for some green tea, shaking her head. Nicky was definitely the most flamboyant gay man she’d ever met. The others she knew were a little more subtle, a little more restrained in their demeanor. Nicky was a neon gay pride banner with a built-in squawk box.
Speaking of squawks…that sure sounded like Shirlie up front. Had a cockroach crawled in the door? Marly went up front out of curiosity, remembering too late that it had killed the cat.
Governor Jack Hammersmith smiled at her from the doorway while behind him, two bodyguards—or secret service or whatever they were—scanned After Hours for thugs, terrorists or kidnappers.
One of them honed in on Nicky’s orange spandex pants. The other one honed in on Shirlie’s twenty-two-year-old breasts.
Marly gaped at The Hammer. “What—are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d just stop by to see if you had time to—“
“I’m all booked up,” said Marly. “Sorry.”
“Actually,” said the ever-helpful Shirlie, “you had a cancellation at two, and, as you can see, Deirdre is more than ten minutes late, so you could take him now.”
“Fabulous,” said the governor with a smile that would have had Mother Teresa on her back within ten seconds. He stuck out his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jack.”
“I know who you are!” gushed Shirlie. “Ohmigod, you’re twenty-times-better-looking-than-on-television! Sometimes the makeup’s too heavy and the color’s off and they make you look orange, know what I mean? And close-up shots with that gooky powder can be soooo gross, right? Anyway, I’m Shirlie! Welcome to After Hours, the salon and day spa!”
“Er, thank you, Shirlie,” said Jack.
“So do you like public speaking, or does it bother you? I just hate public speaking.” Shirlie babbled. “My palms sweat and I shake and I always wonder if I have lipstick on my teeth or mascara smeared under my eyes or my bra strap is hanging out. You?”
“Well, I don’t have those particular, uh, issues, but I do know what you mean.”
“Ohh! I wasn’t trying to say you’re a drag queen or anything, you know? I mean, that would be pretty funny, The Hammer with his bra strap hanging out, ha, ha, ha!”
“Ha,” agreed Jack, politely. He cast an alarmed look at Marly.
“Did someone say drag queen?” Nicky skipped up.
“No.” Marly was emphatic.
“I could have sworn someone said it!”
“Governor, if you’ll follow me into one of the spa treatment rooms, we’ll use that so you have privacy.” She shot him a tight smile and put her hand on his shoulder to steer him back there. The two secret service apes lunged forward, one with his hand in his jacket.
Her eyes wide, Marly said, “I specialize in color, not assassination or recreational kidnapping.”
They didn’t crack a smile, but The Hammer did. “It’s okay, boys. I tried to tell you, that really was art camp she attended in her junior year of high school—not an Al Qaeda training program. All she can do is draw me.”
Dear God. They really had done a background check—a thorough one. They knew about…Suddenly furious, she said in clipped tones, “Wouldn’t I have murdered him yesterday morning, boys, scissors to the jugular, if I had such festive plans?”
She turned on her heel and marched away, wishing that her rubber flip-flops would bang across the floor instead of whisper silently.
“Temper, temper,” Nicky murmured before she was out of earshot.
“Ohmigod,” said Shirlie. “She is so, so, kidding around. I mean, she’s not violent. I heard her be really rude to a telemarketer once, but honestly, that doesn’t count. They call at the worst possible times, don’t you think? And they’re so pushy.”
“Yes,” Jack said. “I think I’ll just…go get my color done, now. Thanks.”
Marly heard his wingtips clip-clopping across the cement floor, walking on her painted water. And then he was in the doorway, his eyes on her face. The security detail had followed, of course. “Can we leave Frick and Frack outside for a moment?” she asked.
Jack turned his head. “Frick? Frack? Do you mind?” Then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“I’m sensing a definite hostility here,” he said. “Should I have called for an appointment?”
“Yes,” said Marly. “But that’s not the point. The point is that I didn’t give you permission to dig into my background. It makes me angry and uncomfortable.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s just SOP, I’m afraid. Standard operating procedure.”
“Why? I didn’t come asking for the job—you picked my face out of a magazine! And now those goons probably know the first boy I kissed and the brand of my underwear.”
He opened his mouth to say something and then apparently thought better of it. “Would you rather I left, Marly? The last thing I want is to make you angry.”
The governor is apologizing to me. Me, Marly Fine, hairdresser. How weird is this?
She gave a fierce yank to her braid and then tossed it behind her shoulder. “No. I don’t want you to leave.” Alejandro would kill her. And…she was curious. She might as well admit it. There was a certain level of intrigue to this situation.
“Good. Because I really don’t want to.” Jack smiled that drawer-dropping smile of his. She could feel his sex appeal tugging at her own drawers. God, the guy could be president one day, elected by a vast turnout of howling women in heat.
“Would it make it up to you at all if I told you the first girl I kissed, or the brand of my underwear?”
She made a sound of exasperation.
“Her name was Teresa Miller, and we were twelve. And it’s Neiman Marcus.”
Great. I really needed to know that he wears designer—
“Boxers, by the way.”
—boxers. She held up a hand, palm out. “Too much information.”
She pulled over a hard plastic chair from the corner, and patted the seat of it. “Sit.”
“I can’t roll over, instead?” But he did as she asked.
“Do you want to stay gray near the temples or go more silvery?”
“Silver sounds great.”
“Okay. Then I’m going to go and get the supplies I need to mix the color for you. Can you keep Frick and Frack under control while I do that? I’ve never poisoned anyone by hair follicle yet—still practicing.”
He grinned.
She opened the door, said, “Don’t shoot,” and walked right past the goons. Their expressions were as deadpan as those of the Queen’s Guard. All they needed were some tall dead animals on their heads like their British counterparts and they were good to go.
She mixed her color in a plastic bowl and took it, with a paintbrush, back to the room where she’d stashed the governor. They squinted at the bowl of gook suspiciously.
“Would you like to test it for explosives?” Marly asked. “Sniff it? It smells really nice.”
Frick exchanged a glance with Frack that probably meant, in security-detail speak, that he’d love to crush her windpipe so she couldn’t mouth off anymore. She flashed him a lovely smile and shut the door again in their faces.
“Did you paint the mural in this room?” The Hammer asked. “It’s great. Very…whimsical.”
Marly nodded. “Thanks.”
“You have an art degree?”
“No.” She let the word lie there, unadorned and bald. She wasn’t about to explain about dropping out of college after her junior year to help pay her father’s medical bills. She’d dragged him to an endocrinologist not covered by the welfare program, and it was thanks to that he was alive today. But oh, God, the bills…five months to go until she was at a zero balance with the hospital. Just a short five months.
She really had no regrets. She had her dad, and as Ma had pointed out—not too gently—she couldn’t have made a living as an artist anyway. So here she was, hair-dresser and accused martyr. Her dad hated the fact that she was in debt on his account—of course he’d found out. Ma said she deserved it, interfering like she had and thinking she knew better than the doc at the VA hospital. Always thinking she was smarter than everyone.
Great, Ma—Marly had said, to her shame—then when you get sick, you can rot in the VA. You can be a social security number taking up a bed, aware that the administrative staff just wants you to die so they can give that bed to somebody else.
Marly had no idea why she could never do anything right for her mother. Was it because her parents had waited ten years to have a child and she had drastically changed the dynamic of their marriage? She couldn’t answer that question, and she’d never wanted to put her father in the position of having to answer it.
The Hammer brought her back to the present. “You’re a really talented artist, you know.”
“Thank you.” She sectioned a piece of his hair, slid a piece of foil under it and painted it with the smelly color from her bowl. Then she folded it up and secured it while she went on to another section.
“Ever want to paint canvases or furniture full time, instead of hair?”
“I love what I do, Governor.” And it was true—she did. But had she ever dreamed of more free time to paint? Of course.
“Please,” he said, “call me Jack.”
Oh, right. Because I’m The One. “Okay, Jack. So now that you’ve read an entire dossier on my life and times, why don’t you share some of your history with me?”
“Good point. Where would you like me to start?”
The governor now had little foil wings at each of his temples, which unfortunately didn’t diminish his sex appeal. They just made him look like some kind of goofy—but hot—space alien. She tried not to laugh.
“What’s your secret dream?” she asked him.
“To be a rock star,” he said promptly. “Can’t you see me with head-banger hair and tattoos on my chest and maybe some KISS makeup?”
He would have to bring up the subject of his chest again. “No.”
“Not even a little bit?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“You’re crushing me, here. Absolutely crushing me.”
“Governor—Jack—you’re so Republican that you squeak.” And he was, judging by his looks alone. However, now that she thought about it, his actions toward her hadn’t been very conservative at all.
“I’ve never squeaked in my life.” Jack straightened and she remembered the breadth of his chest and the corded muscle of his arms. “And what do my politics have to do with anything?” He looked offended.
She cleared her throat. “Well, it’s just that…I think most rock stars vote for the other side.” And then there’s me—I didn’t even make it to the polls during the last election. She wasn’t proud of that.
“You’re stereotyping.”
She shrugged. Maybe she was.
“You’re trying to tell me that because of my politics, I’m not allowed to dream about being a rock star? That makes no sense at all.”
“Yes it does,” she insisted. “Rock is all about rebellion and anger and doing what feels good—calling bullshit on the establishment. You are the establishment! You’re up there in Tallahassee trying to legislate morality, which by the way is never going to work….”
“You know,” he said calmly, “I don’t think you have the faintest idea of what I do in Tallahassee. I don’t think you have a clue what a Republican is, and I know you don’t understand my personal agenda.”
Marly swallowed, set down her color bowl and brush on a table, and folded her arms. “Oh, really? What is it?”
Jack poked his tongue into his cheek and cocked his head at her. “In one sentence or less, I’m for streamlining big government, sweeping educational reform and the restructuring of our tax system. Does that sound evil to you?”
“Depends on the specifics.” But inwardly she was cynical. Streamlining big government was Republican code for “throwing out all social programs” and the restructuring of our tax system clearly meant “giving breaks to the rich while worsening the financial situation of the poor and middle class.” She only just refrained from curling her lip.
“Well, if you had about three days to listen, I’d explain it all to you. Now, what other crazy ideas do you have about Republicans? That we’re all religious nuts and right-leaning and only have sex in the missionary position—solely for reproductive purposes?”
“No—”
“Because I can assure you that none of those things are true of me—and especially not the last one.”
His blue gaze bored into her and all of a sudden Marly found herself remembering that the man did have a little hair on his toes. Hmm, wonder if Shirlie’s right about that toe hair/size connection?
How was it possible for the blasted man to look sexy with foil wings on his head? Nobody looked good in foil. Except for him! He was in the most emasculated position possible—at least with clothes on—and yet he vibrated with testosterone. He wore it like a tailor-made suit.
It was lowering to have to place herself on a level with Nicky and Shirlie, but the shoe fit: Marly wondered with sudden intensity what Jack Hammersmith looked like completely naked, and whether there was truth in advertising. Rock Hudson was gay, she reminded herself. She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “Governor, would you like something to drink while we’re waiting?” The color had to stay in for a few minutes longer.
“Jack,” he said again. “And that would be great. Just water, please.”
“Will Frick and Frack need to test it for toxins or killer microbes?”
“You tell them that if they stick their tongues into my drink, they’ll be guarding the mail room next week.”
“I’d be delighted.” Marly left the room, slipping again through the twin slabs of muscle outside the door. They didn’t so much as blink at her.
Peggy, After Hours’ massage therapist and third owner, was humming in the kitchen. “Hi, sweetie.”
“You’re humming again,” said Marly, oddly touched. She hadn’t seen Peggy this happy in forever. She was definitely in love.
“Oh. Sorry. Am I getting any more musical? Probably not.” She grinned. “So do you really have Jack Hammersmith back there for color? I saw the limo and the security detail.”
Marly nodded. “Yeah, those are hard to miss. Can you believe it? This is great PR for us.”
“Just watch out,” Peg warned her. “I hear the guy is relentless when it comes to good-looking women.”
Marly shrugged. “He’s already tried—I’ll give you the juicy details later.”
Peg rolled her eyes. “I can’t wait. Hey, Troy and I have a couple of spare tickets to the Dolphins’ game. You want to come?”
Marly would rather be thrown naked into a bed of fire ants than attend a football game. “Thanks so much, but I’m off to visit my da—uh, parents. You should ask Shirlie.”
Peggy frowned. “Well, I think she still has a thing for Troy.”
“I have two words for you—elbow and macaroni. Remember?”
Peggy froze and then started laughing. “Oh, God. I forgot about that. I was furious at him, and she kept pushing.”
“Well, I think she’s over him, because she’s now trying to estimate the size of the governor’s package.”
“My sympathies!”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Marly returned to the treatment room with two glasses of ice water, and when the muscle heads squinted at them she repeated what Jack had said. Again they exchanged glances silently and let her by.
“Frick and Frack really don’t like the idea of the mail room,” she reported.
He grinned and accepted the water with thanks. They each sipped, eyeing each other warily, and then she announced that it was time to rinse the solution from his hair.
“This isn’t a regular salon sink back here, so it’ll be a little odd,” she told him. “But come on over.” She pulled the little squares of foil off and then had him bend forward. She put his head under the faucet and shampooed his hair thoroughly, while strange psychological currents eddied around them. He smelled just as good as he had yesterday morning, a little muskier because the day had worn on. The scent was a combination of soap, deodorant and a curiously citrusy fragrance—heady, refreshing and expensive. She wondered if it was a custom blend.
It felt distinctly weird to be running her fingers over this man’s scalp, massaging it, when he’d said the things he’d said to her. The forced proximity to someone she wanted to keep her distance from was uncomfortable.
Nevertheless, she did her job, keeping the shampoo out of his eyes and working it in and out of his hair twice before conditioning it.
The guy even looked handsome upside down, whereas most people looked ridiculous with their jowls jostling their eyelids.
Finally, finally, she was done, and she wound a towel around his head. Usually a shampoo girl would have done all this, but they were, after all, trying to protect his privacy.
She sat him back down in the chair, removed the towel and combed his hair neatly into a side part. She reached for a blow-dryer, but he put his hand on her arm. “No, thanks. I don’t want it all fluffy and sprayed into place like plastic.”
“Okay. Then—I guess we’re done here, as long as you like the color.”
“I like it,” Jack told her. “But you and I aren’t done by a long shot.”
She eyed him coolly, saying nothing, even though his calm arrogance irritated her.
“Will you have dinner with me?”
“Jack, I’m honored. I really am. But…let me just say that your reputation precedes you.”
He got that sheepish expression on his face once again. “I know they call me The Hammer.”
“Yeah. And I’m sure you have no idea why. Sorry, but I’m not up for, um, a quickie. To put it bluntly.”
“I keep trying to tell you that it’s not like that. Really.”
She just looked at him.
“Kiss me, Marly. If you don’t feel anything, then I’ll walk right out of here and I won’t bother you again. On the other hand, if you do—and I’m counting on you to be honest, here—then you go to dinner with me one night this week.”
5
KISS HIM? Marly stared at Jack. If you feel nothing, then I’ll walk right out of here and I won’t bother you again.
The problem was that she knew she was going to feel something—already did, as he approached her with only the barest minimum of a question in his eyes. Mostly what was in them was the calm certainty of an alpha male about to take possession of something he wanted. And even though she resented being the object of that possessive gaze, a frisson of excitement flashed through her, too.
Jack reached her within three steps and caught her chin in his hands, angling his head over hers.
She closed her eyes, still thinking, No, I’m not doing this. But then she was. His lips touched hers and a hot streak of lightning hit her in the gut. Shocked, she half pulled away, but his hands still cupped her jaw. He looked into her eyes, slowly and deliberately, and then kissed her again, this time deeply.
Her mouth parted under his and the electricity licked at her gut again as he explored her mouth with his tongue, moved his hands into her hair and pulled it loose. His fingers were heaven on her scalp and at the sensitive skin of her neck. Her nerve endings tingled and sent a deep shiver of pleasure along her spine. He dropped his hands to her waist and hauled her against him so that her breasts flattened against the wall of his chest.
Her nipples tautened almost painfully and heat rushed through her as Jack stroked her tongue with his own and then gently bit her lower lip. She tried to stroke his jaw, his ears—but he grabbed her wrists, pinning them behind her with one hand and backed her against the wall.
Then he devoured her again. When he raised his head and gazed down at her, the look in his eyes wasn’t remotely civilized. His pupils had enlarged and his irises had gone smoky, not quite focused. His breathing shallow, he still managed to get one word out. “Damn,” said The Hammer, his voice rough. “You are The One.”
She was tempted to believe him, but it was just too easy. She opened her mouth to speak but he plundered it again, stealing her breath and whatever words had been on the tip of her tongue. He bruised her lips and licked her clean of logic or thought. He left nothing but her response to him.
And when next he raised his head, she could only stare at him. Jack stared back. Then, eyes heavy-lidded with desire, he traced one thumb over her right nipple.
If he hadn’t still been holding her wrists, she might have slid boneless down the wall.
Her expression, her tiny catch of breath, must have told him all he needed to know. Because before she could even process what was happening, he had her tank tops bunched under her armpits and he’d fastened his mouth over her bare nipple.
This time her knees refused to support her and only his hand locked around her wrists and the muscular thigh he jammed between her legs held her up. She sucked in oxygen in a long, ragged breath.
Jack’s tongue slid over and around the pink bud, while Marly closed her eyes and let the room fall away. Sensations rushed from her breasts to the juncture of her thighs and back again, losing her in a Bermuda Triangle of desire.
Kiss? This was no ordinary average kiss. This was a full-on sensual assault.
“You’re crazy beautiful,” Jack murmured, and then took her other nipple into his mouth. She sagged again onto his thigh and gave herself to pleasure.
When he raised his head and looked into her eyes again, she could only blink stupidly at him.
“Have dinner with me, Marly.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a command. And even though she hated being told what to do, even though she wore Rebel blue toenail polish, she nodded her head. “Okay, Jack. I’ll have dinner with you.”
HE WAS GREATLY relieved at her answer. His response to Marly Fine ricocheted off the charts. The way her lips yielded to his, the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her hair and the taste of her skin—in combination, it was enough to make a man lose his mind. There was something exotic and untamed about her that quickened his blood and drove him to possess her. If that was primitive and not politically correct, too bad. He literally ached to have her, to drive into that lithe, sweet body of hers.
But Jack got control over himself and straightened her clothes, even though what he wanted to do was to rip them off her and keep her naked for all time, preferably swimming in a vat of warm baby oil….
Her dark hair framed her face and hung down her back. God, he loved her hair free and flowing over her shoulders. He loved the fact that she didn’t seem to wear any makeup besides a little lip gloss—which, thanks to him, wasn’t there any longer. Her lips swollen and her nipples plainly visible even through two layers of fabric, she looked like a gorgeous Gypsy, one that he’d follow anywhere.
“Which evening are you free?” he asked. “Is tomorrow too soon?”
She tucked the loose tendrils of hair behind her ears and put an index finger to her lips, tracing them as he had done with his tongue. “Yes. Tomorrow is too soon.” She was going to see her parents over the weekend. “I need some time to…How about Tuesday?”
Tuesday he was supposed to be at a charity dinner to raise money for further diabetes research. But without any hesitation Jack said, “Tuesday is perfect. Pick you up at eight?” He’d paid five hundred dollars for the privilege of being bored stiff all night. They had his money already, so should he feel guilty for feeling a stomach virus coming on? Nah.
She nodded. “Um, so…is this a double date?” She gestured at the door behind her. “I mean, will the boys be coming along?”
Jack frowned and shrugged apologetically. “It’s hard for me to dodge security. But I’ll tell you what, I’ll make sure they’re either out in the car or at a table across the restaurant, okay?”
An evil impulse sparkled in her eyes. “Would they like dates? One of them seemed impressed with Shirlie’s…attributes. And we have a very cute single manicurist here, too. Or if one of them swings the other way, I’m sure our stylist Nicky would be happy to—”
His lips twitched. “Maybe next time.” He looked regretfully at his watch. “I’m going to have to go—I have a speech to make to a young Republicans group.”
Marly wrinkled her nose and seemed about to make a caustic comment, but he put his hand out, palm up. “Hey, I know what you’re going to say. But it’s better for kids to be politically active early and learn that they can make a difference. Don’t you think Republicanism is better than utter apathy?”
She looked undecided at that, and Jack laughed. “I’m going to teach you the upside of conservative politics before we’re through, Marly.”
“Yeah? How do you know that I won’t impart the wisdom of liberal thinking to you, instead?”
She looked so fierce and yet so adorably kissable. “Well,” he said with caution, “I foresee a lot of spirited discussions ahead.”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.
“Better not puff your mouth up like that or I’ll kiss it right off,” Jack told her, moving toward the door. They now both looked presentable enough to finally open it.
“You like the silver in your hair?”
He nodded. “I do. Well, as much as I can like the concept of doing anything to my hair. It’s a pain in the ass and isn’t exactly a manly sport. But thank you—that was a good recommendation.” He hesitated. “So, will you give me your phone number before I leave?”
“I’ll be here, mostly. So just call After Hours.”
Interesting. She was still keeping him at arm’s length, even after that kiss. She didn’t want to give up any more personal information—not that he couldn’t get her number through back channels quite easily if he tried. But he wanted her to give it to him herself.
“All right then,” he said, trying to dismiss the kernel of disappointment. “I’ll call you.”
She nodded and he walked out.
He’d no sooner gotten into the car than Turls was on his case via cell phone. “Hi, Turly.” Her fussy tones made him smile.
“You will recall, I’m sure, sir, that it is Miss Hilliard’s birthday in two weeks.”
Was it? He’d forgotten. “You’re right—it is her birthday in two weeks.”
“And I’m sure, sir, that you’ve already had the fore-thought to buy her a gift?”
She knew very well that he hadn’t. “Turls,” he lied, “I’ve been racking my brain for days, and I can’t think of what to get her. I’m a guy. We’re not good at this type of thing.”
“Would you like me to find something for you, sir?”
“Yes, that would be fabulous—you know Carol’s taste better than I do. What would I do without you, Turls?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir. By the way, you do have Miss Hilliard’s party marked on your calendar? It’s coming up.”
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