Читать книгу Mercenary's Honor - Sharron McClellan - Страница 12

Angel looked over Fiona’s shoulder as she gazed at herself in the motel room’s cracked bathroom mirror, glanced at the box and then back at herself. She held up a box of hair color, drawing his attention from her expressive eyes. “They didn’t have brown? I’ll look like a Goth wannabe.”

Angel chuckled at the image in his head.

“It’ll look hideous,” she hissed.

The thought of being less than beautiful probably wasn’t something she was used to, but remorse was the farthest thing from Angel’s heart. “There were only three options.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Black. Red. Blonde.”

“I don’t know…”

“I only rented the room for two hours. Let’s get this done and get out of here while it’s still early,” Angel said, biting back his irritation. It was just hair, for crying out loud. It wasn’t as if he were asking her to shave her head or turn herself orange with a cheap self-tanner.

She glared at him. “Fine.”

He held back the urge to roll his eyes. He knew that when a woman said fine, there was thirty minutes’ worth of subtext beneath the single word, but that didn’t mean he was going to ask her about it.

He didn’t care that much, he told himself. This was a favor for a dead man. A job. Helping her because he was the kind of man who kept his word. Nothing more. “Good. Take off your shirt.”

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Our resources are limited. Unless you want to run around smelling like a cheap beauty parlor, I suggest you remove it. Now.”

She didn’t seem convinced, and in fact, stared at him like he was a pervert.