“No! You cannot have my pants,”

Hal protested, determined to make his final stand. Shannon had already decimated his entire wardrobe, and he wouldn’t let her take these with her. “This is my favorite pair of jeans and you’re not getting them off my body.”

Shannon rubbed her hands together evilly. She raised an eyebrow. “What if I made it worth your while?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What would you like me to mean?”

Was she offering him sex if he took off his pants for her? He grew hard at the thought. “Well, a guy can always fantasize,” he said before he could stop himself.

“So can a girl,” she purred. “But the reality is so much more satisfying, don’t you think?” Then she whipped off her top.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever despaired over something that your boyfriend was wearing? And worse, you were unable to stop him from wearing it out of the house?

When you subtly tried to tell him that something else might look better, he just shrugged and said he didn’t care, right? Or when you told him flat out that his clothes would embarrass you, he got mad, and wore them just to spite you.

I have been in this situation many times! And of course it’s led to fantasies of smoking the offending clothing on the barbecue grill, or tossing the guy’s entire wardrobe into the garbage. While I’ve never actually done this, I decided that it was high time I wrote a character who did…and gave her justification for her actions by making them part of her job.

I hope you’ll enjoy Shannon making over Hal—and the sizzling results. Making a guy “cool” has never gotten Shannon so hot!

Be sure to look for Open Invitation?, the next book in THE MAN-HANDLERS series.

I love to hear from readers, so feel free to contact me at Karen@KarenKendall.com or write to me c/o Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd., 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

Happy reading,

Karen Kendall

Unzipped?
Karen Kendall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

1

SHANNON SHANE FIRED into her office like a bullet and ripped through her appointment book. “Oh, thank God it’s tomorrow, not today.” She fell into her bright yellow leather office chair, her long legs sprawled in front of her.

Jane O’Toole, her business partner, followed her in and said dryly, “Last time I checked, today really is today. Tomorrow never comes.”

Shannon turned, pulled aside the blond curtain of hair hanging over her face and rolled her eyes at Jane. “Funny. Not. I meant my appointment with Doris Rangel. I’ve misplaced my Palm Pilot somewhere, and I couldn’t remember. Whew. She’s the new junior senator from Norwich, and we’ve got several wardrobe and media-training sessions set up.”

Jane walked into the common area of Finesse, their business, opened the drawer of the reception desk—a somewhat useless accoutrement since they couldn’t yet afford to hire a receptionist—and pulled out the missing personal organizer.

“Shan, you are no longer allowed to put anything down while you set the office alarm. It never makes it out the door with you, whether it’s sunglasses, keys or a Palm Pilot.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shannon said ruefully. “Give me that, thanks. I need to chain it to my wrist.” She stuck the device on her desk and blew out a breath. “Do we have coffee?”

“Yes. Lilia made some. If you’re nice to her and say please, she might give you a cup.” Adorable, but excruciatingly proper Lilia London was their third business partner in Finesse, a training center for personal and career enhancement.

Jane, benign control freak that she was, excelled at the job of CEO. She also did counseling and employee management consulting. Lilia, their resident Miss Manners, handled business and social etiquette. And Shannon herself was their image consultant and media trainer.

“Hey, I’m always nice,” she said. “I’m your little ray of sunshine around here.”

“Well, you’re definitely a breath of fresh air…” Jane’s voice trailed off as she inspected Shannon’s ensemble for the day: hot-pink suede pants, black spike-heeled boots and a short, black leather jacket over a lacy camisole. “Hon, you live in Connecticut now. You have left Rodeo Drive. It rains here, it’s gray seventy percent of the time, and New Englanders don’t wear pink pants.”

“This one does,” Shannon said firmly. “It’s April, therefore it’s spring. Pink is perfect for the season. And you can wear all the gray and khaki you want, but I refuse. It’s boring.”

Jane adopted a resigned expression as she looked beyond the tasteful reception area, furnished with antique reproductions, an oriental rug and traditional paintings, and into Shannon’s office. She closed her eyes against the tangerine-colored walls, the movie posters, the strange contemporary art.

Shannon just laughed. “Image, honey. That’s what I do. My image is different from yours.”

“Thank you, God,” muttered Jane. “At least you’re no longer wearing that green nail polish.”

“That might be a little too much for the average preppy to swallow,” Shan agreed.

Lilia emerged from the kitchen with two cups of coffee and handed one to Shannon, having to look up as she did so. Five foot one herself, she complained, “I think you grew another inch last night. It’s not fair.”

“Thanks for the java,” Shannon said. “And I keep telling you, being six feet tall is not that wonderful. With a pair of heels, I dwarf most men.”

Lil raised an elegant, dark-winged eyebrow. “But I’d like to be worshipped. It must be nice.”

Shannon shook her head and drained a third of her coffee in one gulp. “Stop it. Nobody worships me.”

“Uh-huh.” Jane’s tone was sardonic. “I was out with you last weekend. I saw the men in person—at least four Worshippers From Afar, three Droolers, a couple of would-be Leg Humpers and one Pathetic Pick-up Liner.”

“Oh, him.” Shan shuddered. “The nice-girl-in-a-place-like-this guy. I didn’t think anybody still dredged that line up. Horrific.”

What nobody, including her closest friends, seemed to understand was that it wasn’t enjoyable to be the subject of all that male attention. It was more annoying—and the guys weren’t really interested in who she was, but what she looked like. Some glossy blond American ideal. However, Shannon didn’t say anything. She had learned long ago that most women considered hers high-class worries. Six-foot, one-hundred-twenty-five-pound blondes never inspired much pity. Hatred, yes. Envy, certainly. But sympathy? Out of the question.

She changed the subject, embarrassed. “So I handed out over twenty business cards at the University Women’s Club dinner last night.”

“Good work. Now let’s hope at least five percent of them call.” Jane picked up the ringing phone. “Finesse, Jane O’Toole speaking.”

Shannon and Lilia moved into the kitchen as she took the business call. “So how’s your grandma, Lil?”

Her friend sighed. “She’s…putting a brave face on things. Knee replacement surgery is just no fun, any way you look at it. It hurts her a lot. She loves the basket of teas and cookies you brought her, though.”

“Well, good. Hope she’s using it, not just admiring the arrangement. I’ll have to go see her again later this week. Poor thing.”

“She refuses to take the roses out of the china teapot, even though they’re quite wilted at this point. Once I manage to toss them—probably while she’s asleep—she might let me actually make tea in the pot.”

Shannon laughed. “Please forbid her to write me a thank-you note.”

Lil tucked her straight dark hair behind her ears. “Already done. Heavy, monogrammed, cream paper—engraved, no thermography. Written with an actual fountain pen. Wax seal. First class stamp. Most likely sitting in your mailbox this second.”

Groan. “At least we know you come by your manners honestly, Miz Vanderbilt.”

Lilia’s expression came as close to an actual eye roll as she would ever get.

“Give Nana a real hug from me—the boob-squashing, shoulder-to-shoulder affectionate kind, okay? Not one of those air-kiss-to-dry-cheek, flutter-fingers-on-back types.” Shannon mimicked a freeze-dried socialite.

“I’ll do that.”

“Hey, Lil? Do you know a Peggy Underwood? Small, high energy, shock of red hair?”

“Yes. Let’s see, I met her through…” She pursed her lips, thinking. “Oh, at the veterinarian’s. She had a cockatiel. I had Pierre, Nana’s poodle, there for his shots. Anyway, we got to talking and I gave her one of your cards. She mentioned a brother who needs help.”

“Yeah. A lot of help, from what she told me—she stopped by yesterday. Said I’d have to call him, since her nagging might not get good results.”

“That’s a little awkward, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Picture me calling. ‘Hello, Mr. Underwood? I hear you’re looking straight off the set of Planet of the Apes, honey. Come see me, would ya, dear?’”

Lil choked on her coffee. “Subtle. Very subtle.”

Shan took a mock bow. “My specialty.”

“You don’t even know how to spell subtle, darling.” Lil tipped the rest of her coffee into her mouth and moved toward the pot for a refill.

“I don’t want to spell it,” Shannon said. “My business is to teach people how to make a statement. A powerful statement. Subtle doesn’t cut it.”

“Subtle can be powerful,” Lil disagreed.

“No, it’s conformist.”

“It’s confident.”

“Color is confident. Subtle is meek.”

“Not meek, elegant.”

“Why, Lil! You’re arguing. That’s not polite.” Shannon laughed as her friend’s eyes snapped. “Okay, we’ll call it a draw. Anyway, so what would you say if you had to contact this Underwood guy?”

“I’d tell him that you met his sister and that she suggested you give him a call to set up an appointment. Straightforward, true, no awkwardness about it.”

Shannon nodded. “Okay. I can do that. I’ll wait a couple of days to see if he gets in touch first, though. I don’t want to be pushy.” She finished her own coffee and went for a second cup.

Jane, from the doorway, said, “Oh, please don’t do that! You on too much caffeine is scary.”

Shannon put a hand on her hip and grinned wickedly. “Hey, Jane. What happens when a psychologist and a hooker spend the night together?”

“No! Not more shrink jokes…”

“In the morning, each of them says, ‘One hundred and twenty dollars, please.’” She laughed at Jane’s pained expression.

“Hey, what’s the difference between—”

Jane clapped her hands over her ears.

“—a psychologist and a magician?” She spoke louder. “A psychologist pulls habits out of rats!”

Her friend backed out of the kitchen. “I have work to do now. Keep your terrible jokes to yourself.”

“Aw, c’mon. One more. Why is psychoanalysis so much cheaper for a man than a woman?”

“I’m not encouraging you.”

“Because when it’s time to go back to childhood, a man is already there.”

“That’s no joke,” Jane said, with a smirk.

“Ha. See, I have wisdom to impart. You should listen to me.”

“Lilia, we’ve gotta start making the coffee half-caf. She’s out of control again!”

Lil poked her head around the corner and narrowed her eyes. “You know…it’s almost as if she’s had sugar this morning.”

Shan gave them a Mona Lisa smile.

“Doughnuts!” they shrieked.

She dangled her keys and Jane made a grab for them. One benefit of being tall was that keep-away was so easy. “Krispy Kremes. I left them in the car,” she said. “Just to be mean.”

2

“PEGGY, LEAVE ME ALONE!” Hal Underwood said to his little sister. He brushed the hair out of his eyes again and pushed up his glasses. “This company’s going public in a month, and I have one or two things to take care of.” Not to mention some detective work to do…

Peggy Underwood, five foot two, red-headed and snub-nosed, stood her ground. Under any other circumstances, she’d be adorable. Today, she was a menace.

“I will not leave you alone. You’ve been a loner all your life, and it’s time for that to change. Whether you like it or not, Hal, it’s not healthy for a thirty-five-year-old man to date his computer!”

Hal devoted his right brain to her, while multitasking with his left. The criticism bounced right off him. A cow has four stomachs. If only I had four brains, I could keep up with everything.

“Hal! Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you. I am not romantically involved with my computer.”

Peg narrowed her eyes. “Do you have dinner with it?”

Hal shrugged and nodded.

“Breakfast?”

He sighed.

“You even take it to bed, don’t you?”

I’m going to lose this battle.

“You. Are. Dating. Your. Computer.”

“Peggy, for chrissakes, did Mom put you up to this?” Hal cracked his neck, in hope of easing some tension. How the hell has my company sprung an information leak?

“No. Although yesterday, the last thing she said to me on the phone was, ‘Oy, veh—I’m a cliché!’” Peggy shook her head. “As a poet, that’s her worst nightmare, you know. To be a cliché. But there’s no denying she wants grandchildren.”

“So get on with it, Pegs.” Hal ignored her for his computer screen. Has someone hacked in?

“Oh, no. I’ve told you—it’s not my fate to procreate.”

“Is that what you said to Mom?” We’ve locked down the firewalls and secured all the servers. It can’t be the e-mail system. We monitor that 24-7.

Peggy nodded. “You know things have more impact with Mom if they rhyme.”

Hal rolled his eyes. “Oy veh—ridiculous. She’s not even Jewish.”

“The rhyme, Hal. Her version of reason.”

“Well, here’s my version of reason—go away. I’m trying to work.” He brushed the hair from his eyes a second time. It flopped back again immediately.

“Hal, have you looked into a mirror lately? You resemble a serial killer. When was the last time you got a haircut? And that shirt—has it been wadded up in a trash bag?”

“Dryer,” he mumbled, his fingers flying over the keyboard of his PC.

Peggy did her best to loom over him, but she didn’t cast much of a shadow. “Hal. Hal, if you don’t pay attention to me this minute, I will pull out all the cords from the back of this computer. I’ll count to three.”

Hal didn’t register the words until she got to “three” and actually laid hands on his Precious. “Step away from the computer, Peg.”

“Pay attention.”

“I’m warning you. Remember that time I stuffed you into the hideaway sofa? I promise you that’s nothing compared to what I’ll do if you pull one cord.”

“Good. You’re paying attention,” Peg said with satisfaction.

“What?”

“Mom and I have found the perfect place for you. And by the way, Ryan agrees.”

Ryan Cabela was his attorney and good friend. He sat on the board of Hal’s software company. “Ryan? What’s Ryan got to do with you and Mom?” Can Ryan be the leak? Hal pushed the thought away. No. He’s your best friend.

“Just that we’re all in agreement. You need a new image, Hal. When the company goes public, you’re going to have to deal with people. And you can’t look or act the way you do now.”

Hal stared at her. “What’s wrong with me? Jeez, I’ll get a haircut. There’s a barber down the street.”

“Hal, honey, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you need a bit more than a haircut. You need a whole new image and a handler. You need media training, too.”

“A handler? Oh, thanks very much, Peg!” Hal erupted from his chair and surged around the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and glared down at her. “I handle myself just fine. I’ll go see a barber, even shave off the face fuzz.” He fingered the itchy growth on his chin.

Peg shook her head. “Hal. Listen to me. You look only slightly better than Saddam when he came out of his hidey-hole—”

Hal’s jaw dropped. “That is not true.”

“Maybe a slight exaggeration, but not by much.”

“Would you like to check me for lice? Rat droppings?”

“Eeeuuww.” Peggy wrinkled her nose. “Calm down, Hal. I’m just trying to tell you that you need a major overhaul in the grooming, fashion and conversational departments. You’ve got to woo the media now. And we wouldn’t mind you wooing some women, either.”

“What’s wrong with my conversation?”

“You need to speak in sentences, in English, not C++. And normal people don’t call their computers ‘My Precious.’”

“It’s a joke,” Hal explained with heavy patience.

“It’s weird.”

Hal sighed. “Fine. Whatever. But I don’t see why you’re so concerned about the media.”

Ryan, his attorney and the neighboring office tenant, stuck his head through the door. “There is a definite need to be concerned, Hal. Sorry to eavesdrop, but it’s about time we had this talk. Peg and I are performing an image intervention here.” He took a bite of the ham sandwich in his right hand and pushed up his glasses with the left.

Hal folded his arms and glared at Ryan. “Begging your pardon, sir, I hadn’t realized you were chief counsel for GQ.”

“What I look like doesn’t matter,” Ryan said. “What you look like does. You are the CEO of Underwood Technologies. If you resemble a caveman, people will assume U.T. is run by an unstable loon. We want them to buy stock, not wonder about your mental health.”

Hal threw up his hands. “They’re buying part of the company, not part of me! And my mental health is just fine.”

“You are the face of the company, Hal. The face and the voice—and the future. It’s time for a new image, my man.”

IT’S TIME for a new image, my man. The words reverberated in Hal’s head as he glared at the business card in his hand. He’d finally chased off Peg and Ryan after promising to call the number on the card. What crap. Hadn’t he started his own company so that he could avoid such things as dress codes, brownnosing and Corporate Career Ken dolls?

Finesse, said the card. Shannon Shane, Image Consultant and Media Trainer. No doubt she’d try to dress him in khaki pants and a navy blazer, the Connecticut State Uniform. She’d try to dye his hair blond and cap his teeth. She’d chase him with a pair of penny loafers—but she’d never get him into them.

Hal wiggled his toes in his ancient running shoes with the frayed, grungy laces. No freakin’ penny loafers, by God. He glared at the card again before picking up the phone and dialing.

“Finesse, Shannon Shane speaking.”

Shannon. The only females he’d ever known named Shannon had been gorgeous and stuck-up. Like Heathers and Tiffanys.

“Hello?”

Hal cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. I’m, uh. Well, I wanted to make an appointment.”

“Okay, I’d be happy to do that. Will you tell me your name?”

God, the unknown Shannon’s voice was sexy. Throaty and a bit raw. “Uh, name. Right. I’m Hal. Underwood.”

“Great, Hal. I think I heard that you might get in touch. You were referred by…?”

“My—uh, sister.” Could I sound more lame? Yup. “And my mother.” Worse and worse. “Oh, and my attorney.” Perfect.

A faint tremor of laughter sifted through her voice. “Sounds like they ganged up on you.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“And you don’t appreciate it.”

“No. Not really.”

“What do they— What do you think the issue is?”

He remembered Peg’s comments, and they stung. “I’m taking my software company public in a month,” he said. “And apparently…” He paused. “Apparently I look worse than Saddam when they found him in the hole.”

There was no mistaking her amusement this time, though she tried to pass off the gurgle as a cough. “I—I see. Sounds urgent. Why don’t we make an appointment for tomorrow afternoon?”

“You work Saturdays?”

“We often do, to accommodate our clients’ schedules. Is one o’clock convenient for you?”

“Fabulous. Wonderful. Couldn’t be better. I will live,” Hal said through gritted teeth, “for one o’clock.”

“If it’s any comfort to you at all,” Shannon Shane told him, “Saddam cleans up very well. Of course, he could do with an eye lift.”

Hal stared disbelievingly at the receiver of his telephone before punching the off button. What had he just gotten himself into?

3

TODAY WAS A TYPICAL Saturday, but Shannon didn’t recognize her own body. Who is that, reflected in my glass office door? It’s an Unidentified Flying Blonde, aka me, moi, myself. The same self I was yesterday, but…not.

Adopted. She was adopted.

She hovered like an alien outside her reflection in the door of Finesse.

Her image looked back at her: a tall, rangy blonde in black leather pants, black spike-heeled boots and a cropped, orange leather jacket. But she could have been watching another person approach. Her mind, usually sharp and aware, floated above her shoulders: detached in a helium balloon and connected by only a ribbon.

And I’m not even on drugs. She felt insubstantial, as if she could simply fade through the door like a wraith. Who is that woman entering my place of business? Who is she?

Shannon pulled up short between the two plaster urns full of ivy that flanked the door and put out a hand to connect with the heavy steel handle. Pull to open. Step over threshold. Smile at Jane and Lilia, your friends and business partners.

Jane looked up from her desk and peered into the reception area. “Shannon? Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

Lilia came out of her office with her appointment book and cell phone. “You look tired. Did you sleep last night?”

“Not much,” Shannon admitted.

“Out partying late?”

Shannon shook her head. She thought about lying to Jane and Lil, telling them that she’d stayed up late watching a movie or reading a book. Instead she just bypassed them and went to the kitchen for coffee. Pull yourself together.

She had three different appointments today, and she couldn’t be in space like this. But she had a feeling that she’d never walk steadily on earth again.

Melodramatic tendencies, Shannon. You’re not auditioning for daytime soaps anymore. The voice in her head sounded just like Mrs. Koogle’s, their ninth-grade English teacher.

It was a shame she wasn’t reading for the soaps today. Because at least in the auditions, she’d had a script to follow, lines to memorize, the anchors of the character and a plot. Plus the adrenaline of the circumstances: will this be my lucky break? Will I get a callback?

Today she had no adrenaline. No script. No happy—or even cliff-hanger—ending. Nope, this was her life. And while there had been days when she felt it was stuck in an endless, quaint New England traffic roundabout, at least she’d been moving. Her mother’s revelation yesterday had brought her to a complete standstill.

Lil followed her into the kitchen and Shannon could feel her friend’s concerned gaze on her back. If she touches me, I’m done for.

Lil’s small hand slipped between her shoulder blades and rubbed gently in a circular motion.

So much for my mascara. Shannon’s eyes overflowed. Tears of shock, hurt and confusion rolled down her nose and cheeks—and would probably have ended up in her coffee mug if Lil hadn’t handed her a paper towel.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

Shannon blinked at her and wiped at her nose. Useless to try to keep this inside. “I went to dinner at Mother’s yesterday.”

Lil nodded.

“The typical setup. Polished silver and crisp white linen. The Duncan Phyfe table set for two. Lobster bisque and arugula salad and some fancy French wine of hers…” Woeful sniff. “And of course she tells me my skirt is too short and that it’s trashy to expose my midriff and she practically calls the cops to remove my toe ring.”

“She doesn’t mean to make you feel bad,” said Lil. “She’s trying to protect you from other people’s judgment—and there’s a lot of it in Greenwich. It’s not a town full of tolerance.”

“I know, I know.” Shannon blew her nose. “That’s why I got the hell out and took off for L.A. after college. I couldn’t handle Greenwich anymore. God, they sell bottled repression in the grocery, there! In your choice of flavors—wild cherry, lemon zest, or peach blossom.” She shuddered.

“So you had dinner,” Lil prompted.

“Yeah. And I knew there was something weird going on, because I had to ask her for some family medical history on the phone the other day. She wouldn’t tell me anything, just said I should come for dinner Friday. So we’re sitting there staring at each other over these piles of arugula—I hate arugula! It tastes like grass—and she drops the bomb on me. I’m adopted.”

“What?”

Shannon nodded her head, then shook it, and then nodded again. “Yeah. After all these years, she tells me. Says it’s time that I know. I can’t believe this. All these years, I’ve thought I was someone that I’m…not.”

Lil stared at her for a long moment and then sat gracefully on one of the kitchen stools, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “I don’t know what to say.”

“This one’s not in Amy Vanderbilt, is it?” Shannon sniffed again and smiled blearily through her tears.

“Not exactly.” Lil hopped off the stool again and moved forward with open arms to give her a hug. “I don’t think I’ve seen you cry in years.”

“Oh, trust me, I did my share in L.A.,” Shannon assured her, “while I was failing miserably as an actress.” Never completely comfortable with affection, she stepped quickly out of Lil’s arms after a perfunctory pat. But she was grateful for the hug—even if she couldn’t quite accept it.

This time, they both sat on the tall stools at the little tiled counter, Shannon gripping her mug with both hands. She gazed into it as if it were a crystal ball—one that could tell her about the past as well as the future.

“Does your mother know anything about your biological parents? Why did she wait this long to tell you? You’re twenty-nine!”

Shannon shrugged. “Rebecca Shane is always an enigma. I love her, of course, but we’ve always been so different. I don’t quite fit her specifications.” She took a sip of coffee. “Apparently my father never wanted to tell me I was adopted. It didn’t make any difference to him, and he thought it would just hurt me.” She blew her nose again.

“Which it does…I feel like they’ve lied to me all these years, and it’s so weird to think that the woman who gave birth to me gave me away. Like a puppy or something.”

“Shannon, it’s not the same thing at all. She was probably in difficult circumstances, and she did it out of love. Out of concern that she couldn’t give you the kind of life she wanted for you.”

“How do you know, Lil? It’s possible that she just didn’t want to be burdened by a baby.”

“Nobody can know for sure except for her. But why are you automatically looking for the negative side? It’s possible that she made the most unselfish, amazing choice, one that must have been incredibly difficult.”

The coffee wasn’t answering any of these questions. It stared back at Shannon, brown and bland and flat. She pushed it aside.

Lilia asked again, “So what does your mother know? What details did she give you?”

Shannon twisted her long curly hair into a knot and secured it with a pencil from a can on the countertop.

“She knows very little about my biological mother and father—only some basics. Apparently this woman who gave birth to me was very young, just out of high school. My bio father was a student at one of the local colleges. He played basketball for B.U. They were from completely opposite religious back-grounds—he was Catholic, she was Jewish.”

“Do you want to find out more?”

Shannon fidgeted and crumpled what was left of the paper towel into a ball. “I don’t know. I’m torn. For better or for worse, my parents are the people who raised me. The ones who spoon-fed me and changed my diapers and kept me from sticking my fingers into electrical outlets. The ones who taught me how to read and ride a bike. The ones who sent me to college. You know?”

Lilia nodded.

“I may never be proper enough for Rebecca, but she’s my mom. It’s her voice in my head that governs my basic human values—her voice and Dad’s. Not the voices of two strangers who happened to conceive me at a frat party or something.”

“But you can’t help wondering.”

“No. I am so utterly confused and blindsided by this—” Shannon checked her watch “—and I need to get it together and convince three different appointments today that I am the self-assured answer to their prayers. Hah.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort to you, you look great. You are the only person on the planet who can get away with those clothes and still look professional.” Lil’s brows rose as she scanned the black-and-orange outfit.

“I know.” Shannon grinned. “It’s all in the attitude.”

“Add your leopard-print reading glasses and some concealer, and nobody will have a clue you were just bawling.”

“Hey, hey, hey. We all know that I am waaay too cool to bawl. I just emoted a little bit.”

It wasn’t in Lilia’s nature to snort. But her look said it all.

SOMEHOW, SHANNON MADE IT through the morning and her first two appointments. The first one, Mrs. Drake, was a divorcée who’d recently graduated with honors from law school at age forty-two. She just needed some basic posture lessons—“Shoulders back! Stomach in! Chin up! Project confidence!”—and help putting together an acceptable corporate wardrobe. She also needed to hear, after twenty years of being put down by her ex, that she was bright, talented and had a great future ahead of her.

Shan loved helping women like Mrs. Drake. She felt such a sense of achievement when, after a few sessions, she sent them out into the world again, re-born in a new skin.

Her second appointment was a teenage girl who looked highly intimidated by her new coach and surroundings. Shannon’s heart went out to awkward, homely Janna, and she forgot her own problems. Eyes desperate behind her ugly glasses, Janna confessed that she was in love with a “cool” boy who would never look at her unless Shannon helped her. She was going to pay for her Finesse sessions with her babysitting money, and it seemed all too likely that her mother didn’t know she was there.

Shannon hesitated for a moment, debating the ethics. Then she caved in. After all, it wasn’t as if she were going to outfit the girl with a thong and spike heels. But take her babysitting money? Shannon couldn’t.

“Hold on just a sec, sweetie,” she told her. “I’ve just got to run get some paperwork.” She smiled reassuringly and slipped out of her office, closing the door behind her. Moments later, she stood in Jane’s office.

“I can’t charge this one,” she said. “It would be criminal. She’s all of fifteen. Isn’t there something she can do around the office?”

Jane tapped her pen on her nose.

“Stop that! I thought we broke you of that habit when you drew all over your face.”

“Dominic thinks I’m sexy with a Bic mustache. Can the girl type?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm.” Jane sat for a moment, thinking, and then brightened. “Mailings! She can help do the direct mail stuff. How about that?”

“Perfect.” Shannon spun on her heel, grabbed a generic information form off Jane’s credenza and returned to her own office.

“Here we go,” she said, handing the sheet of paper to Janna, who peered at it from under her stringy bangs. “If you’ll just fill this out, we can get started. The good news is that we’ve just begun a student discount program. Oh, and by the way, we’re looking for someone to help out here a few hours a week. Would you be interested? I know you’re not technically employment age, but we could just reduce your bill by the hours you work.”

Janna looked as if she might kiss Shannon. Mentally Shan pieced through her closet for a few things that would fit the girl. Babysitting money wouldn’t go too far in terms of haircuts, clothes and makeup.

When Janna left, it was noon, which vaguely surprised Shannon. She wasn’t hungry. She felt restless, her identity crisis rushing back into her consciousness. Who had actually given birth to her? Where was she now? What did she look like? What nationality was she? What were the circumstances under which she’d had a child—and given her away?

The questions flooded her mind and made her feel unbalanced. She had to get out of here for a while—especially before she faced Hal Underwood, a brain who had single-handedly built his own software company, so successfully that he was now taking it public.

That was impressive. A lot more impressive than failing as an actress; trying to make a living as just one more pretty face in an ocean of them. It also beat out a career grooming people like a monkey.

The unknown Hal Underwood was already giving her an inferiority complex; taking her back to high school where she’d been treated as the stereotypical dumb blonde.

Shannon swept her keys off the corner of her desk and grabbed her lime-green suede hobo bag. “Gotta run some errands!” she called to Lilia and Jane. “Back by one.”

She made her way outside, into the gray, chilly Connecticut spring. Hey, God. Don’t you know it’s April? Could you improve the weather just a bit?

Shannon got into her white BMW roadster and put the top down in defiance of the weather. The car, a gift from her parents, now seemed all wrong for her. Suddenly she hated it, hated the tan leather seats, hated the logo in the center of the steering wheel, hated the way she must look in the thing: like an expensive, privileged blonde with not a care in the world. What if her real mother was a waitress? A teacher? A postal worker? What if a car like this represented a year’s salary to her? The beemer seemed shameful in light of these questions.

She squealed out of the parking lot, the cold April wind in her hair, and headed for Highway 84.

Within moments the sky decided to dump on her, and it seemed fitting. Instead of putting the top up, Shannon let the rain soak her in a cold shower of reality. She pushed the leopard-print reading glasses to the top of her head and drove under the raindrops like a madwoman, not caring what she looked like to others.

Though the rain pelted her face and hair, trickled down the neck of her jacket and damn near froze her in combination with the wind, at least she felt alive. Not numb, as she’d been all afternoon yesterday and all night.

How ironic that I’m an image consultant. Because that’s all I am: an image. Everything about my life has been a lie.

4

HAL GRITTED his teeth, still obsessing about the information leak in his company. He’d satisfied himself that it wasn’t via an outside hacker, but only after hours upon hours of searching through the logs.

He turned into the Finesse parking lot five minutes early for his one o’clock appointment with Shannon Shane. He did not look forward to it, but he was never, ever late. All of this image b.s. was just another way to waste his time. He had more important things to do, damn it!

He glanced quickly into his rearview mirror to reassure himself once again that he didn’t look like Saddam. Okay, so the beard is bad. The hair is shaggy. But, hey! I have blue eyes. A nice smile, if anyone could see it under the mustache. No signs of mania.

He got out of his Explorer and walked, in the rain, to the entrance of this place called Finesse. Pretentious. Fussy. Annoying. This Shannon person, despite her sense of humor on the phone, would probably be one of those ladies who glided everywhere on high heels, had sprayed-into-place helmet hair and gazed at everyone with a fixed, vacuous smile.

Hal entered the place and said “Hello” to a woman in a beige silk suit. She blinked at him and took an unconscious step backward before returning the greeting. Maybe he did look like a terrorist on the run.

“Are you Shannon Shane?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry, but she’s not back from lunch yet. I’m Lilia London, one of Shannon’s partners. Won’t you have a seat?” She gestured toward a fussy little sofa.

Hal nodded at her and sat down on the awful thing, immediately feeling smothered by the pink cabbage roses on it. It was made for females. Females much smaller than him and with shorter legs.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Ms. London asked him.

He shook his head, stared out the window at the parking lot, and began systematically picking at the cuticle on his left thumb.

“You’re welcome,” he heard her singsong pleasantly under her breath.

He wasn’t meant to hear it. He craned his neck after her. “Uh. Uh! Thank you. Too much caffeine today. A gallon for breakfast.”

She peered around her office door at him and gave him a very nice smile. “You’re welcome.”

Hal reverted to a nod again and returned his gaze to the window. April, huh. Cursed Connecticut. Where is spring? The rain poured down, relentless.

Hal closed his eyes against the bleak weather and cracked his neck for tension relief. He flexed his shoulder blades and then opened his eyes to a most peculiar vision.

A white BMW roadster—with the top down!—pulled into Finesse’s parking lot next to his Explorer. The driver, a blonde with her wild, curly hair half plastered to her head, seemed in no hurry to get out of the car. She sat there, fingers drumming on the wheel, as if she were enjoying the end of a song on the radio. As if sunshine and blue skies stretched as far as the eye could see, and not gray, chilly pellets of rain.

Nuts. She is completely wacko. The blonde pulled her keys from the ignition, opened the door and slid out two black-leather-covered legs that went up to her armpits. She stood, pushed the door shut, bent over and shook her head like a dog. She walked toward Finesse, her bright orange leather jacket gaping open, leaving her convertible’s top down.

Forget nuts. That’s criminal! But Hal was riveted by her.

The woman stopped just outside the door, under the small green awning. She pulled a pencil out of the breast pocket of her jacket and leaned over again, shaking water from her hair onto the sidewalk. She twisted the wet, curly mass and wrung it out. More water puddled around her black spike-heeled boots.

As he watched, fascinated, she secured her hair into a knot with the pencil pushed through it and righted herself. Then she opened the door.

Hal got up from among the cabbage roses and addressed her as soon as she walked in. “You left your top down.”

“Hi,” she said, with an engaging smile. “You must be Saddam.”

“S—? Uh, yeah.” Hal pointed outside. “Your car!”

“I know, thanks. It will be fine.”

No, it won’t, you crazy woman. But you sure are…

“Thanks for pointing it out, though.” Her white tailored blouse was soaked and transparent. Hal tried his best not to look, but her nipples showed right through. His cheeks warmed. So did other parts of him.

“Your seats,” he said. “The car will be flooded.”

She shrugged. “So be it.”

She was Amazon perfection. Green cat eyes, delicate little nose, lips to make a man sob. Her breasts were full and taut; held in place by an unusual, unpadded bra. He could see little multicolored happy faces with tongues on it. Tongues. “Would you like me to go out and put the top up for you?” Do her panties match?

“No, thank you. Really, it’s fine.” She looked him over from head to toes—not rudely, just appraisingly. “I’m Shannon, by the way.”

He put a hand up to his face self-consciously. He couldn’t believe he was thinking about this woman’s panties within thirty seconds of meeting her! Peg was right. He’d been dating his computer for too long. But Shannon Shane was stunning. No other word for it.

Hal felt as though he was back in high school, gazing at the head cheerleader without a prayer. Cruel, cool blondes had surrounded him in his dreams then, laughing and pointing at him while he stood naked and tried to hide his sexual longing behind his hands.

He was once again the skinny dork behind the heavy glasses. The victim of a cruel prom prank that he never wanted to think about again. Samantha Stanton. Shannon Shane reminded him of Sam Stanton, possessor of a sadistic streak a mile wide—and too cool for school.

He braced himself, locked his knees unconsciously. Stuck out his hand without a trace of warmth. “Hal Underwood, aka Saddam,” he said. “Reporting for cleanup. Shall we begin interrogations?”

She cocked her head at him in silent evaluation. “Sure thing. Right after I find a towel.” She showed him into her office and gestured to the visitor’s chair opposite her desk. “Be right back.”

Hal tried not to notice her black-leather-clad rear end as it swung out the door but it screamed provocation and juicy, bad-girl, no-holds-barred sex. So much for his preconception of her. What kind of woman dressed like that for the office? Now hard as a rock, he needed to distract himself and…deflate.

He looked around her office. It shouted L.A. or Miami, not Farmington, Connecticut. For one thing, the walls were tangerine, and upon them hung framed black-and-white portraits of famous actors and actresses. A few framed and signed record albums were scattered artistically among them, adding color. In one corner stood a…what the hell was it? He didn’t know, exactly, but he liked it. A cross between a scooter, a bicycle and a lateral pull-down machine, the thing was painted in primary colors and splashed with secondaries like purple, turquoise, orange and lime-green. Hal tried, but failed, to discern any use for the creation. Maybe it was some mod, wild sex toy? There went his mind again, straight into the gutter.

His gaze moved to Shannon Shane’s desk, which consisted of a huge sheet of thick, beveled glass resting on four tall, hand-blown Murano vases. How she had found four different vases of exactly the same height, he didn’t know. He questioned the stability of the desk—not to mention the stability of its owner.

Behind the desk a Dr. Seuss calendar hung on the wall. How apropos. Hal had often wondered what the good doctor smoked, but the man never failed to make him smile. His gaze returned to the leather chair, and his mind to the gutter. He saw himself in the chair, with Shannon Shane astride him wearing nothing but that orange leather jacket.

Shannon chose this moment to return to the room with her jacket zipped over the wet shirt and happy-face bra. Thank God. He was hard enough without having to ogle the woman’s breasts. Not that he’d mind, exactly.

“So, Saddam,” she said. “I apologize for being late and wet.”

Wet. He almost groaned aloud. What was wrong with him?

“I got caught on the highway with the top down.”

“That’s okay,” Hal said.

He refrained from mentioning that there was a little button in her car that would have taken care of the problem. He wished he had a little button to take care of his.

Hal looked at the bizarre object in the corner again and pointed to it. “What is that?”

Shannon laughed. “That is a work of art by up-and-coming sculptor Gilbey O’Toole.”

“Ah.”

“Do you like it?”

Hal nodded slowly. “Yes, I do. I was just a little mystified.”

“It reminds me of something Dr. Seuss would build. I love it. And Gilbey is the brother of a good friend of mine.”

Hal sat silent, unable to think of much to say, besides “Take me now!” which even he knew was socially unacceptable.

“He had a big show in Boston,” she continued.

Hal looked at her.

“And he sold every piece. He’s got another coming up in New York.”

She gazed at Hal expectantly.

“Uh. Great,” he said. God, those long, leather-clad legs…

They sat for another long moment. Shannon spun in her chair and pulled a legal pad from a drawer in her credenza. She made a note on it.

Hal read it upside down. Small talk, she’d written. Wonderful. She was noting down his failings while he drooled over her.

“I don’t like small talk,” he said. “It’s a waste of time.”

Shannon caught her top lip between her teeth. “Okay. Then why don’t we get straight to the point of why you’re here. Various people have ganged up on you—your mom, your sister… Why do you think they’re doing that? And why now?”

“I’m in the process of taking my company public. The underwriters are in full swing right now. I can’t really talk about it. But my legal advisor is on this tangent about how I’m the face of the company, and the future rests upon me…blah, blah, blah.”

“And what about Mom and Sis?”

“Yeah.” Hal looked down. “My mother wants me to produce hairless microhumans.” All I want to do is practice. With you.

“Excuse me?”

“Babies. Mom wants grandchildren. My sister just wants me to have a social life.” God, I sound like such a dweeb. Again, he was back in high school, being picked on by the Beautiful People. Except this was worse. He was now (figuratively) on his knees before a Beautiful Person, offering to pay her to de-dork him. Painful. This is just painful. Inside, Hal cringed. Outside, he just blinked at her.

“What do you want, Hal?”

Amazing. She didn’t seem to be laughing at him at all. Probably because there was a fat check involved. “What do I want? Well, primarily I want my company to succeed. And I want them all off my back.”

And I want to find out who’s leaking information to my competition. No way did Greer Conover develop a prototype, on his own, that’s just like ours. Conover had always been a sneak and a slime, and he’d frequently cheated off Hal’s tests in college.

“Okay,” said Shannon. “Then we’re looking at a multistage process. First we need to work on some surface stuff like a haircut, a shave and some new clothes.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Painless, I promise.”

“Uh-huh.” She had a beautiful smile and because of it, he didn’t trust a word she said. The smile was a tool.

“And by the way, underneath all that hair, I think you’re much better-looking than Saddam.”

Lay it on thick, baby, so I’ll write you a check. He flashed her a sardonic glance. “That’s not saying much.”

She laughed. “Okay, during stage two we’ll work on things like small talk and posture and media training. And during stage three, I’ll teach you how to become irresistible to women.”

“Irresistible, huh?”

“Absolutely.” Her voice was firm. Again, no trace of amusement. A damn good actress, was Shannon Shane.

“All this in the next thirty days?”

She nodded.

Hal sighed. “When do we start and how much is all this going to cost me?”

She looked at her watch, a platinum number that had probably cost some sucker boyfriend more than Hal paid Tina, his receptionist, in a year. “We start now. I made a tentative appointment with a stylist for you. He’s a good friend of mine, so he held a slot open.”

Stylist? The very word sounded ominous to Hal. Expensive and suspicious. “I go to a barber close to my office.”

“Not anymore, you don’t.” She gave him a sunny smile. Then she named a ballpark sum for her services that scandalized him.

Hal’s jaw dropped open. “Do you know how many computers I could buy for that money?”

She met his gaze squarely. “You don’t need any more computers. Do you?”

Hey, a guy could always use more computers. He would admit nothing.

“And you do need a new image, right?”

A matter of opinion.

“So you’re going to need a lot of coaching, good suits for media interviews, new glasses, new shoes—”

“No penny loafers.” Hal laid down the law.

“What?”

“Don’t even try.”

“Penny loafers? No, of course not. Nobody but a dyed-in-the-wool, New England preppy would wear those things. We’re going for a much more hip, intellectual but sexy image.”

Hal almost laughed at the idea that he could ever be hip or sexy. He looked again at Shannon Shane’s Dr. Seuss wall calendar. She was a kook. A gorgeous kook. But she wasn’t going to make him wear penny loafers.

“All right,” he sighed. And against his inclination and better judgment, he placed himself in Shannon’s too-beautiful hands.

5

SHANNON FELT LIKE A FRAUD, a farce and a failure. And all the orange leather jackets in the world couldn’t change the facts: she, a failed actress, was nothing compared to someone like Hal Underwood, a guy so brilliant that he’d not only founded his own software company but was about to take it public.

Sure, she could help him with his public image. If only he could help her with her private one. People never got past her surface. For as long as she could remember, she’d been a victim of stares from both sexes. The stares of men were at best admiring and at worst downright lustful. The stares of women were usually hostile, envious or despairing.

She’d gotten used to being looked at—after all, there was nothing she could do about it—but she’d never get used to the strange emotions her appearance produced in other people. And she’d never grow accustomed to the feeling that nobody ever heard a word she said—they simply watched her lips move. Worse—she now didn’t even know who she was, and therefore what she had to say.

Since her car was flooded, they took Hal’s to see Enrique, her stylist.

His salon was a sumptuous ode to blue velvet. The curved reception desk was upholstered in a deep navy, as was the long sofa. Various chairs and pillows ranged in hue from royal to turquoise to periwinkle. Even the cornice boards were turquoise velvet.

A tall vase of peacock feathers stood in one corner, and on the one wall that wasn’t dominated by gilt mirrors hung every employee’s state cosmetology license framed in monstrously ornate gold.

Shannon had gotten used to Enrique’s royal environment. Hal stood like a deer in the headlights and gazed in stupefaction at the Early Bordello decor while Enrique danced out to greet them.

“’Allo, beeeyoootiful,” he said to Shannon.

“Hi, Enrique.” She kissed him on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Bueno.” A small, vivacious man who barely reached to Shannon’s shoulders, he assessed Hal with great interest. He stroked his chin. He tapped his foot. He walked around him in a circle and peered at him.

“I theenk we have good things under all thees hair, my friend.”

Hal hunched his shoulders and sent a desperate look to Shannon. It clearly said, “Get me outta here!”

She smiled.

“Come!” ordered Enrique. “You seet here, in my chair.” He looped his arm through Hal’s, to the poor guy’s discomfort, and dragged him off to his lair. Shannon repressed a giggle and followed.

“First, we shave, yes?” Enrique tugged on Hal’s beard.

“Ow!”

“Is no a good look for you. Off!” The stylist brandished an old-fashioned razor.

“Uh,” said Hal, fingering his neck. “Why not let me do that?”

“No, no. Is for you to relax.” The little man pushed him into a salon chair and immediately flipped it back to a lounging position. Within moments, he had his victim’s face smothered in shaving cream and was scraping away. Hal looked about as relaxed as a lobster being held over a pot of boiling water.

As Enrique scraped, he hummed tunelessly, achieving a virtually indescribable sound. Shannon concentrated on describing it anyway, so she wouldn’t laugh at the panicked expression in Hal’s eyes, and came up with Ricky Martin meets whale calls.

“Enrique may slaughter a tune, but he won’t slit your throat,” she reassured Hal.

The man who emerged from under all the white lather fifteen minutes later had high cheekbones, a strong jaw and a full lower lip. Paired with those blue eyes, even behind his cheesy glasses, the combination was striking. Shannon couldn’t help staring. Hal didn’t look at all like Saddam. He looked…good. Really good.

Enrique snatched off Hal’s glasses and then took the poor man’s face between his hands and turned it this way and that. He smoothed back the overgrown, shaggy hair, pursed his lips and cocked his head. “Sí!” he announced, to no one in particular.

“Sí?” Shannon asked. “Do you think a Caesar cut, or a little longer on top?”

“Caesar, yes, he has the bones for it.”

“He does?” asked Hal. “I mean, I do?”

“Yes, yes!”

“I’m not so sure about th…” Hal trailed off as great whacks of hair began to fall at Enrique’s feet. “Wait—”

“Be calm. You are in the presence of genius,” Shannon assured him.

“Yes, me! Genius! That ees so.” Enrique practically danced as he worked, fingers flying.

Hal closed his eyes and seemed to be praying. More hair flew as the stylist’s scissors flashed.

When the menacing chops ceased, Hal opened his eyes again and fished for his glasses, settling them onto his nose. He had become a different person, and judging from his expression, he couldn’t quite believe it.

For her part, she was floored. Hal was hot!

Enrique allowed the spectacles back on with a frown. He still snipped and fussed and compared lengths of hair in his fingers, but he seemed pleased. Hal stared at the stranger in the mirror.

Shannon stared, too.

“Bueno!” Enrique exclaimed. “Behold Caesar!”

Shannon doubted that the great Julius had ever worn a polyester-blend plaid shirt or hideous glasses, but she didn’t contradict the stylist, who was clearly proud of himself.

Hal, still squinting into the mirror in disbelief, muttered something about the Ides of March.

Enrique made a dive for his glasses again, but Hal blocked him.

“Off!” the little man insisted. “These must go goodbye-bye. They ruin my brilliance. You get the contacts, eh?”

Shannon nodded. “Next stop, Fashionocular.”

Hal began to protest but was soon felled into silence by the magnitude of Enrique’s bill. Shannon hid another smile as he goggled at the charge.

“You’re kidding me,” he croaked. “This is robbery!”

Enrique drew himself to his full height of five foot nothing and puffed up like a blowfish. “Perdón?” His tone was ominous. “Rrrrobbery?”

Hal stood his ground. “Larceny.”

Enrique tilted his head to the side and narrowed his black eyes. “Eh? I no familiar weeth thees word. But is obvious rrrrude.”

Hal looked again at the charge slip and didn’t deny it.

The stylist whirled on one foot, his chest heaving, and glared at Shannon. “He takes back thees insults, or—” he stooped to the salon floor and gathered up two fistfuls of hair “—I glue back thees hairs to his face!”

Shannon laid a hand on the enraged man’s arm, but he shook it off, casting the hair clippings into Hal’s open mouth.

While he blinked, shocked, and spat them out, she said quickly, “Enrique! He didn’t mean it. Robbery—it’s just a turn of phrase. Cute. You know, ha-ha! Hal here was making a joke. Weren’t you, Hal?”

“Uh, no,” he said, blue eyes stormy. He pulled more hairs off his tongue and lower lip. “No, I was not making a joke.”

Enrique hissed like an angry Latin goose.

“Hal!”

“What?”

“You’re not making this situation any better.” She dug into her hobo bag for her wallet, pushing him out the door of the salon. “Wait for me outside while I pay him and try to salvage my relationship with the only top stylist this side of New York!”

AS HAL WATCHED through the glass door, arms crossed and foot tapping, a silent Shakespearean tragedy unfolded inside. Shannon’s lips moved earnestly while Enrique’s back remained steadfastly turned to her. She kept speaking until his shoulder eased a quarter turn in her direction, and he finally nodded.

She waved an obscene wad of cash at him, but he shook his head and made her talk to The Hand. Patiently she entreated his palm until he apparently got tired of extending it, since he rubbed at his bicep.

Hal snorted.

Shannon next said something to Enrique that actually made him smile, though his lips turned downward again and his nose went up as soon as he beheld Hal through the glass. She added a phrase.

Enrique gestured at him in obvious disgust and then nodded. The stylist finally snatched the cash, kissed Shannon’s cheek and strutted off, this time like an insulted rooster.

She opened the door, emerged, and then sagged against it, eyeing Hal with severity.

Uh-oh. He didn’t care much about Enrique, but he’d gone and pissed off the Goddess. Would she zap him with a moon ray, or something? Turn him into a fire hydrant frequented by neighborhood dogs? He squinted balefully at her jacket, at the way her glossy blond hair slid over it and beckoned his gaze to exactly breast level. He looked away from the forbidden zone.

“Tact, Hal. I know it’s a four-letter word, but you need to get some. You put me in a really bad position with Enrique, back there.”

Hal could practically feel his jaw jutting out in stubborn righteousness.

“He’s very proud of his work, and he’s cut the hair of a lot of bigwigs, no pun intended. You can’t tell him that what he charges is robbery!”

“But—”

“It would be like one of your clients saying you overcharge. That your software is garbage.”

Hal chuckled. “Never. That just wouldn’t happen.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I don’t think Enrique’s ever had it happen, either. Have you looked at yourself, by the way? He’s worth every penny!”

“So he cut a few inches off my mop. And what is this Caesar crap all about? Please tell me you’re not hauling me off to be fitted for a toga and ankle-wrap sandals next?”

Shannon’s lips twitched. “No. But believe me, Enrique did a lot more than chop a few inches. He’s truly an artist.”

Snort. “I still don’t see why he’s worth six times what my regular barber charges.” Hal raked his fingers through the new Caesar cut, frowning. “I should charge him—he kept a lot of my hair! He probably runs a good racket selling the stuff for toupees out his back door.”

Shannon closed her lovely green eyes briefly. “Enrique does not sell clippings for hairpieces, I can assure you….”

Though he saw annoyance sparkling and radiating from her irises, he also discerned amusement. Was this Amazon sex goddess laughing at him again, on top of everything? The situation just sucked, plain and simple. He was going to wring Peggy’s neck for getting him into this.

They reached his Explorer and Hal walked around to the passenger side to unlock and open Shannon’s door for her. He supposed it was one of those things a goddess expected. She climbed into the truck one long leg at a time, and he tried not to notice the delicate musculature revealed under the leather pants. Tried to ignore the more interesting creases and crevices where the lucky pants rode her hips and thighs. He failed.

He gave himself a stern internal lecture.

This woman is nothing but a torment sent by my sister and a scourge upon my bank account. I am not interested in her pants or anything inside them.

Like most lectures, it went ignored. Not only was he lying to himself, but he was hard again.

6

HAL SWUNG INTO the driver’s seat, started the ignition and checked the rearview mirror before backing out of his parking spot. What the hell? Who the hell? Oh. It was him. His new appearance was going to take some getting used to.

“Okay,” said Shannon, his tormentor and scourge. “You want to head toward Avon, Hal.”

He had a strong suspicion that he didn’t want to do that at all. “Why?”

“We’re going to update your eyewear now.”

“I just got these glasses a year and a half ago. I don’t need new ones.”

She blinked rapidly. “The frames are new, too, or just the lenses?”

“The lenses.”

“That’s what I thought. Those frames date back to about 1989, don’t they?”

“Uh…”

“Never mind.” Shannon reached over and cupped his jaw, tilted his chin toward her.

Hey, I’m trying to drive, here, woman! But he didn’t say it. The touch of her fingertips awakened exhilaration in him, plucked at some hidden longing that he didn’t want to acknowledge. A sweet lemon scent tickled his nostrils—her hand lotion?

“We need something smaller, lighter, with a more rectangular shape,” she said, after moistening her lips.

Was it his imagination or had her eyes gone smoky for an instant? No, what we need is to get naked right here on Route 4. Hal jerked his gaze back to the road.

“And I’d like you to try a set of contact lenses.”

“No. They irritate my eyes and drive me crazy.”

“When was the last time you tried them?”

“College.”

“They’ve made some improvements since then. Some of the new extended-wear lenses are so thin and flexible that you can’t even feel them.”

Hal sighed and kept driving. He had a feeling it was going to be a long day, and every moment spent with Shannon Shane was time he wasn’t tracking the source of his information leak. If he didn’t find it before the IPO… Such a possibility didn’t bear thinking about.

He put a hand up to tug on the whiskers normally abundant on his chin. Damn it! Nothing but skin. How far would this transformation go? The back of his neck was cold, too, and his head felt lighter. Hal wondered if this was how a sheep felt after its wool got harvested.

He looked over at the source of his torment, but Shannon now seemed lost in a world of her own. The fingers of her left hand drummed restlessly on the leather seat between them, every now and then gripping the edge and then losing purchase, falling back to the cushion. The drumming began again seconds later. Her smooth olive skin stretched taut across the fine bones, seeming to barely contain her energy.

She seemed disturbed, deep in thought, trying to come to terms with something.

What went on in the brain of a goddess? Hal found himself vaguely surprised that he wondered. For surely goddesses didn’t ponder much—they just accepted the worship of others as their due and basked in the glory.

Shannon was obviously not in the least dim, but he doubted that she was contemplating the philosophy of Nietzsche or Kant.

She roused herself out of her reverie long enough to give him adequate directions, and soon they were turning into the strip mall that housed Fashionocular, scene of his next trial by fire.

The vague sense of doom hanging over Hal morphed immediately into dismay as he followed Shannon through the door. Hundreds—thousands?—of blank spectacles met his gaze, rows upon rows of them, running from floor to forehead level. He’d never seen so many at once. He’d always bought his glasses at one of the lower-end department stores, and had never chosen from more than perhaps fifty styles.

He looked around. Horn-rims, wire-rims, plastic-rims of every possible width. Round lenses, cat’s-eye lenses, elliptical lenses, rectangular ones. And you could see the world in any hue: blue, green, yellow, tan, pink or even purple. The frames all stared at him, mocked him, disembodied though they were.

“I can’t possibly try all these on,” he said to Shannon. “I’d need hours…even days.”

“Of course not,” she said. “You’re going to work with Marta, trying on different contacts, while I select between five and ten pairs. Okay?”

“But I don’t want to stick little bits of plastic onto my eyeballs. I told you that….”

She nodded until he wound down a bit, feeling that she’d actually listened to him this time. Then she stuck a finger in his back and propelled him toward a plump, pleasant-looking woman.

“Marta? This is Hal Underwood. He’s a little squeamish about contact lenses, but I think he’s only tried the hard ones, years ago. I’m putting him into your care.”

“Hi, Mr. Underwood. We’ve got all kinds of soft lenses now that you can’t even feel, I promise. And look how handsome you are! Why would you hide that face behind glasses?” She smiled flirtatiously at him.

Handsome? The woman was hallucinating. Or more likely, Shannon paid her to butter up the clients she brought in.

Muttering to himself, and wondering when he could get back to his office and pursue more worthwhile things than his appearance, Hal sat in a squat rolling chair in front of a counter that held a circular, magnified mirror. Marta asked what his vision was—20/600 in the left eye and 20/740 in the right—and then brought out several little boxes and sanitized her hands.

Then she reached with her forefinger and thumb into the tiny well of a contact case, and came up with something that looked exactly like a round piece of plastic wrap.

Hal stared at it.

“It’s painless, really,” Marta promised. “You put it on your index finger, like this, and add a drop of solution. Then guide it into your eye and blink.”

He grimaced. “And then how in the hell do I get it out?”

She dimpled and demonstrated. “You’ll grasp it just like this and pluck, presto.”

Yeah. Pluck, presto. Hal had a feeling he would die with the little pieces of Glad wrap still on his corneas. He hoped they were sticky so they’d hold the coins over his eyes when he got buried.

But aside from some blinking to get rid of excess solution, he had to admit the lenses were comfortable—and he even saw more clearly. His old glasses had obviously not been strong enough. He felt absolutely nothing in his eyes, and accepted Marta’s recommendation of two-week extended-wear contacts.

Hal peered at himself in the mirror, still shocked at his changed appearance. He’d noticed before that the little Latin bandit Enrique had left his hair in uneven but somehow choreographed chops and wisps. He touched it, mildly revolted by the waxy, sticky goop the stylist had worked in.

But, well…look at that. He had Brad Pitt’s hair, if not his box office draw. Especially without the glasses, and with his new improved vision, he didn’t look half bad. Huh. Now if he could only find the source of the info leak, he’d be One Hundred Percent Man.

SHANNON SHORED UP her initial assault with a half dozen choices in designer eyewear. She cornered a reluctant Hal and slipped them on and off his face. Really, it was quite amazing how different he looked in each pair. More and more sophisticated. More and more confident—even authoritarian.

She debated between the last two pairs: one with a heavier, dark rectangular frame and the other with a lighter, more streamlined rimless frame.

“Hal, do you have any preference?”

“Nope,” he said. “I just want to be able to see.”

She decided in favor of the heavier frame. His strong angular jaw balanced out the glasses well, and they gave him an aura of power. Pair them with that hair, a little stubble, a black cashmere V-neck and…yum. You could find yourself wanting to skinny-dip in those Bahama-blue eyes of his.

He cleared his throat and looked away.

Shannon realized with a start that she’d been staring at him for about five minutes straight, and blinked. Come to think of it, he’d been staring at her, too.

And he’d been looking inside, trying to figure her out, not slobbering over her body and thinking of dragging her off to a cave by the hair. After years of experience, she could tell the difference.

She pushed the thought away and told Marta which frames they’d purchase. And then she braced herself, because with the nonglare coating, the shatterproof glass, the cool sunshade attachment and the costly designer frames, Hal was going to—

“Whaaaat?! How much did you say?”

—have an aneurism and a heart attack all at once.

“YES, BUT WHAT YOU’RE NOT understanding, Hal,” she told him in the privacy of the Explorer, “is that Marta can’t help the prices! She doesn’t make them up, she just works there. And you make her feel really bad when you squawk over the total.”

“Well, it makes me feel really bad, too! Who pays over six hundred dollars for a pair of glasses? I don’t see any diamond studs in them….”

“Hal, listen to me. You’re paying for a whole image, here. You’re essentially going to be advertising for your company, and you want to project an image of intelligence, decisiveness, sophistication. You want people to have confidence in your work, so—”

“So I’ll show them the damned product. Why does it matter what I look like? Is our society really that shallow? I should be able to do my own at-home, bowl-over-the-head haircut and wear glasses frames fashioned from a coat hanger! None of this has anything to do with how good I am or how effective my software will be in streamlining business processes. This is bullsh—”

Shannon threw up her hands. “Should, should, should,” she said, exasperated. “In an idealistic world, Hal, all of that would be true. But that’s not the kind of planet we live on.” She blew out a breath, shook her head and twisted her hair into a knot. She dug into her bag for a pencil and secured the curly mass on her head.

“Look. Why don’t you take me back to Finesse, okay? It’s obvious that you’re completely hostile to this whole process, and quite frankly you’re hurting my feelings at this point. I’m just trying to do my job, not bilk you of your life savings.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a muscle jump in Hal’s jaw. She turned away and looked out the window instead, at the road rushing under them like gray flannel, the grass an emerald blur, telephone poles whizzing by like matchsticks. The neat Cape Cods became pale flashes, their unique weathered charms lost in a fog of succession.

Did her birth mother live in one of those? Or in some stucco place in Florida? A limestone house in Texas? A ski chalet in Utah or Colorado?

Hal’s voice reached her on her imaginary journeys. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” He reached out and put his hand on her arm.

A frisson of strange awareness shot through her. She turned to him, surprised. It was rare, in her experience, for a man to apologize. His gaze bored into hers, and again she had the feeling he saw far more than she was used to.

He had a small mole in the middle of his right cheek—on a woman it would have been called a beauty mark—and she found herself wanting to touch it. She did no such thing.

“I know,” she said. “Thanks.”

He nodded and she let the noises of the car comfort and steady her. The sound of the wind rushing past, the rumble of the engine, the muffled tap of brakes as they slowed for a turning vehicle ahead.

“Did you grow up around here, Shannon?”

The question caught her by surprise. “Close.” She hesitated, anticipating his reaction. “Greenwich.” A lot of people assumed she was a snob when she told them she grew up there.

“Interesting. You don’t seem like the Greenwich type.”

“I’m not.” She left it at that.

“How did you get into this line of work?”

“Oh. Well, a friend suggested it, actually. My friend Jane, who’s a co-owner of Finesse. We were all in dead-end jobs—at least they were—I was just a miserably failing actress, out in L.A. with a hundred thousand of them.” She laughed self-consciously.

“That takes guts,” Hal said.

“No. It takes naiveté and delusion.” She chuckled again, but even to her own ears it sounded forced.

“You can call it what you want to, but I call it courage. To put your dream on the line like that, to move away from everything familiar…”

I could kiss him. The thought didn’t shock her as much as it should have. I could kiss him for saying that to me right now. It’s like he knows how badly I need to hear it.

They had turned into the parking lot of Finesse, and Hal idled the truck near her sodden car, the only other one in the small lot.

“Thank you,” she said to him. Then she leaned over and acted on her thought.

7

SHANNON’S URGE TO KISS Hal had appeared impulsively out of nowhere, and as far as kisses went it was supposed to be friendly, quick and not too personal.

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