The Winning Hand (6 page)

“Your hair is a part of your body and requires a professional.”

“I know. You’re right. Absolutely.” The back of her throat began to tickle and she swallowed gamely. It wasn’t the time to laugh, however nervously, she reminded herself. Instead she tried an apologetic smile. “It was an impulse, a rebellion actually.”

“Against what?” His fingers dove into her hair and began to knead and tug. “Being well-groomed?”

“No. Well … there was this man, and he kept telling me how I should wear it, and how it should be, and it made me mad, so I whacked it off.”

“Was this man your hairdresser?”

“Oh, no. He’s a businessman.”

“Ha. Then he has no business telling you how you should wear your hair. Cutting it off was brave. Foolish, but brave. The next time you want to rebel, go to a professional.”

“I will.” She took a deep breath. “Can you do anything with it?”

“My dear child, I’ve worked miracles with much worse.” He snapped his fingers. “Shampoo,” he ordered.

She’d never felt more pampered in her life. It was so beautifully indulgent to lie back, to have her hair washed, her scalp massaged, to listen to the birdlike murmurs of the shampoo girl. Even when she was back in Charles’s chair, she felt none of the stomach-quivering anxiety that often rode hand in glove with a haircut.

“You need a manicure,” Charles ordered, snipping away. “Sheila, squeeze in a manicure and pedicure for—what was your name, dear?”

“Darcy. A pedicure?” The thought of having her toes painted was so … exotic.

“Hmm. And you’ll stop biting your nails immediately.”

Chastised, Darcy tucked her hands under the cape. “It’s a terrible habit.”

“Very unattractive. You’re fortunate, though. You have thick, healthy hair. A nice color. We’ll leave that alone.” He brought a section of hair up between two fingers, snipped. “What do you use on your face?”

“I have some moisturizer, but I lost it.” Selfconsciously she rubbed at her nose.

“The freckles are charming. You’ll leave them alone, too.”

“But I’d rather—”

“Are you picking up the scalpel?” he asked, arching one of his thick, black brows, then nodding, satisfied, when she shook her head. “I’m going to do your face myself. If you don’t like the look, you don’t pay. If you do like it, you not only pay, you buy the products.”

Another gamble, Darcy thought. Maybe she was on a roll. “Deal.”

“That’s the spirit. Now …” He angled her head, snipped again. “Tell me about your love life.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You will.” He wiggled those eyebrows. “My work never fails.”

By three, Darcy walked back into her suite. She was loaded down with purchases, and still floating. On impulse, she dumped everything on the sofa and dashed to the mirror. Myra had been right. Charles was a genius. Her hair looked pert, she decided with a chuckle. Almost sophisticated. Though it was even shorter than she had dared cut it, it was sleek and just a little sassy.

Her bangs didn’t flop now, but spiked down over her forehead. And her face … wasn’t it amazing what could be done with those tubes and brushes and powders? They couldn’t make her a raving beauty, but she thought—she hoped—she’d stepped up to the threshold of pretty.

“I’m almost pretty,” she said to her reflection, and smiled. “I really am. Oh, the earrings!” She whirled and dashed toward the bags, thinking the glitter against her face might just take her that final step.

Then she saw the red message light blinking on her phone.

No one knew where she was. How could anyone call her when no one knew? The press? Had the news gotten out already? No, no, she thought, clutching her hands together. Mac had promised not to give out her name. He’d promised.

Still her pulse hammered in her throat as she picked up the phone and pushed the message button. She was informed she had two new voice mail messages. The first was from Mac’s assistant and had her releasing the breath she’d been holding. Mr. Blade would pick her up for dinner at seven-thirty. If that wasn’t suitable, she had only to call back and reschedule.

“Seven-thirty is fine,” she whispered. “Seven-thirty is wonderful.”

The last message was from Caine MacGregor, who identified himself as Mac’s uncle and invited
her to call him back at her convenience.

She hesitated over that. She found she didn’t want to face the practical business of it all. Somehow it seemed much more romantic when it all remained dreamlike and impossible. But she’d been raised to return phone calls promptly, so she pulled out the chair at the desk, sat, and dutifully made the long-distance call to Boston.

When Darcy opened her door and found Mac holding a single white rose, she considered it another miracle. He was something out of one of the stories she’d secretly scribbled in notebooks for years. Tall, dark, elegantly masculine, heart-stoppingly handsome with just an edge of danger to keep it all from being too smooth.

The miracle was that he was there, holding out a long-stemmed rosebud the color of a summer cloud, and smiling at her.

But what popped out of her mouth was the single thought that had revolved in her muddled brain since her call to Boston.

“Caine MacGregor is your uncle.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He was attorney general of the United States.”

“Yes.” Gently Mac lifted Darcy’s hand and placed the rose stem in it. “He was.”

“Alan MacGregor was president.”

“You know, I heard that somewhere. Are you going to let me in?”

“Oh. Yes. But your uncle, he was
president
,” she said again, slowly, as if she’d been misunderstood. “For eight years.”

“You pass the history quiz.” Mac closed the door behind him and took a good long study of her. A
warm hum of approval moved through his blood. “You look fabulous.”

“I—really?” Distracted not only by the compliment, but the delivery, she glanced down. “I would never have chosen this,” she began, running a hand over the copper-hued skirt of a dress that was shorter, snugger and certainly more daring than anything in her previous wardrobe. “Myra at the boutique, the eveningwear boutique downstairs, picked it out. She said I belonged in jewel colors.”

“Myra has an excellent eye.” And likely deserved a raise, he thought, making a circling motion with his finger. “Turn around.”

“Turn—” Her laugh was both pleased and self-conscious as she executed a slow twirl.

A big raise, Mac decided as the flippy little skirt danced around surprisingly delightful legs. “They’re not there.”

“What?” Her hand fluttered to the dipping bodice, checking. “What isn’t there?”

“Wings. I expected to see little fairy wings.”

Flustered, she laughed again. “The way this day has gone, I wouldn’t be surprised to see them myself.”

“Why don’t we have a drink before we go to dinner, and you can tell me how the day’s gone?”

He walked to the bar to take a bottle of champagne out of the minifridge. She loved to watch him move. It was the animal grace she’d only read about, sleek and confident. And again, slightly dangerous. But to see it … She let out a little sigh. It was so much better than just imagining.

“Charles cut my hair,” she began, thrilling to the celebratory sound of the cork popping.

“Charles?”

“In your salon?”

“Ah, that Charles.” Mac selected two flutes from the glass shelves and poured. “The customers tremble, but always go back to Charles.”

“I thought he was going to boot me out when he saw what I’d done.” She gave her short locks a tug. “But he took pity on me. Charles has definite opinions.”

Mac skimmed his gaze over her hair, then down until his eyes met hers. “I’d say in your case he saw the wings.”

“I’m only to pick up scissors to cut paper from now on.” Her eyes danced as she accepted the glass Mac offered. “Or pay the consequences. And, if I bite my nails, I’ll be punished. I was afraid to ask him how. Oh, this is wonderful,” she murmured after a sip. Closing her eyes, she sipped again. “Why would anyone drink anything else?”

The pure sensual pleasure on her face had the hum in his blood quickening. A babe in the woods, he reminded himself. It seemed wiser all around to keep the bar between them. “What else did you do?”

“Oh, the salon took forever. Charles kept finding other things he said were absolutely essential. I had a pedicure.” Humor danced into her eyes again. “I had no idea how wonderful it is to have your feet rubbed. Sheila put paraffin on my feet. Can you imagine? My hands, too. Feel.”

He took the hand she held out, in all innocence. It was small and narrow, the skin as smooth as a child’s. He had to check the urge to nibble. “Very nice.”

“Isn’t it?” Delighted with herself, Darcy smiled and stroked a finger over the back of her hand. “Charles said I have to have a full body loofah and some sort of mud bath, and … I can’t even remember. He wrote it all down and sent me to Alice at the spa. She makes the appointments. I have to be there at ten—after I work out in the health club, because he believes I’ve been neglecting my inner body, too. Charles is very strict. May I have some more?”

“Sure.” A little war between amusement and baffled desire waged inside him as he poured more champagne.

“This is a wonderful place. It has everything. Wonderful surprises around every corner. It’s like living in a castle.” Her eyes closed with pleasure as she drank. “I always wanted to. I’d be the princess under a spell. And the prince would scale the walls, tame the dragon—I always hated when they killed the dragon. They’re so magical and magnificent. Anyway, once the prince came, the spell would be broken, and everything in the castle would come to life. The colors and the sounds. There’d be music
and dancing. And everyone would be so happy. Ever after.”

She stopped, laughed at herself. “The champagne’s going to my head. This isn’t at all what I wanted to talk to you about. Your uncle—”

“We’ll talk about it over dinner.” He slipped the flute from her hand and set it aside. He spotted the glittery little evening bag on a table and handed it to her.

She slanted him a look as he led her to the elevator. “Can I have more champagne at dinner?”

Now he had to laugh. “Darling, you can have whatever you want.”

“Imagine that.” With a blissful sigh, she leaned against the smoked glass wall.

He pushed the button for the circular restaurant on the top floor. She’d bought perfume, he thought, something woodsy and perfect for her. He decided the best place for his hands was in his pockets. “Did you try out the casino?”

“No. There was so much else to do. I looked around a little, but I didn’t know where to begin.”

“I think you began pretty well already.”

She beamed up at him as the doors opened. “I did, didn’t I?”

He led her through a small palm-decked foyer and into a candlelit dining room ringed by windows where silver gleamed against white linen.

“Good evening, Mr. Blade. Madam.” The maître d’ made a slight bow and, with his shoe-black hair and round body, reminded Darcy of Tweedledee of Alice fame.

Another rabbit hole, she thought as they were led to a curved banquette by the window. She never wanted to find her way out.

“The lady enjoys champagne, Steven.”