Читать книгу Midnight Madness - Karen Kendall - Страница 8

“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.”