After Hours Bundle (23 page)

Martinez sighed and sat in a club chair. He spread his knees and dangled his clasped hands between them. Not a hair on his head fell forward, however; it was all sprayed into place.

“The polls, Jack. People cut you some slack before because of the way Lady Annabel dumped you so publicly.”

“I dumped her!”

“A matter of spin, Jack. Poor Hammer, left practically at the altar…”

“I would never have married her!”

“Water under the bridge, Jack. The point is, now the polls are reflecting that people think you're too wild. They don't want a playboy running the state—they want a responsible, settled adult. They'd love to see little Jacks bouncing around the capitol lawn.”

“I fail to see how that's anyone's business but mine.”

“Jack. Don't be naive. You're a public figure with a political career at stake. You could be in the running for a vice-presidential seat in the next six years or so. Get your ass married to an appropriate woman or jeopardize all that. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Martinez.” Jack cast him a glance of impatience, bordering on dislike. The waffles sat heavy in his stomach and the syrup and whipped cream gurgled. He should have eaten the damned whole-grain toast and omelet, but he was beyond sick of being told what to do every second of every minute of every friggin' day. Leader of the state? Hell, he felt more like a trained ape.

Jack, who'd grown up in politics like his father before him, found it hard to take it all seriously. Politics wasn't his calling; it was Dad's calling, but he'd found himself fresh out of law school and going into retired Senator John Hammersmith's law firm, without even an interview. His experience was so alien compared to that of his friends, who clerked and schmoozed and interviewed wildly—everywhere from Miami to New York to San Francisco.

He'd felt guilty and not particularly deserving of his golden-boy status as John Hammersmith Jr. born with a pedigree and dimples to match.

His mother had a law degree and connections, as well. But if she wanted to, she had the luxury of fading into the woodwork and just being exceptionally well married. Jack wondered what it was like to have options like that; be female; choose your role in society.

Did she feel guilty about not being more of a trailblazer? Had she burned her bra back in the seventies, only to walk right back into its harness like an obedient broodmare? He mused about it. Jeanne kept her mouth shut about such things.

Martinez was waxing poetic about poll numbers and Lyons advocating that he play in some charity golf tournament.

Jack nodded, the waffles in his stomach gurgled around some more, and he found himself thinking about Marly Fine. He put a hand up to his neck, still feeling her cool, efficient hands in his hair and the rhythmic snipping, eyes always measuring, gauging length and proportion and thickness.

He had a lot of hair. If he ever let it grow, he'd probably resemble an afghan that had just stuck its paw into an electrical outlet.

Marly had done an exceptional job of making him look suave and
goober
natorial. But suddenly Jack wished he had rock star hair and maybe an earring through his nose; a different perspective on life and how to live it. A perspective that would make him more appealing to a woman who wore blue toenail polish and no bra and a long gypsy skirt that Jeanne Hammersmith probably wouldn't give to the housekeeper for polishing the silver.

He hadn't lied when he'd said that the instant he'd seen her picture he'd known Marly was The One. He'd seen it in her cool blue-green eyes and the dark sheen of her hair. In the way she held herself and the tilt of her pointed little chin.

She was the kind of woman who inspired love songs. She was a Helen…a woman who caused men to do crazy things. Such as tell her within moments of meeting her that she was The One.

Jack grinned. Because she hadn't giggled and blushed; she hadn't taken it as a come on that could help her career if she played ball. She'd just told him flat-out that he was nuts.

The general public didn't tell Jack that he was nuts—only his inner circle did. So Marly had stepped into that circle without even trying.

The public treated him with deference and respect that he wasn't convinced he deserved. Then there was his father, who didn't respect him much at all—but who envied him.

“I didn't have anybody's coattails to ride when I got elected senator,” he was fond of saying—especially when he'd had a couple glasses of Basil Hayden's finest bourbon. “I did it on my own steam.”

Yeah, well, some of us have more steam—aka hot air—inside us than others, Senior.

Rock star hair. Yup, that's what he needed for the reelection campaign. And maybe a sapphire nose ring instead of the blue silk power ties. He'd appeal to the younger demographic, create an identity for himself apart from the Hammersmith name.

Jack blew out a cynical breath.
Yeah, right. And I'm gonna grow a breast on my forehead, too.

Because he was stuck with the Hammersmith name—and even worse, he was Hammersmith
Junior
. Chip off the old blockhead.

He tried to focus on what Martinez and Lyons were droning on about now, but he had a hard time caring. Instead he wondered exactly what his great-great-grandfather had said first to the Italian girl he'd crossed continents to find.

Had he said, “
Signorina bellissima,
I know you are The One?” Or had he actually employed some subtlety? Jack had never found subtlety particularly useful. Either people didn't catch it at all or your message was diluted entirely.

Subtlety was not to be confused with the fine arts of political innuendo and favor-currying. Now he excelled at those…but wasn't exactly proud of the fact.

Yeah, the more he thought about it, he needed to cultivate rock star hair and maybe one of those terrible little soul patches on his chin. That sure as hell would appeal to the conservative voters—about as much as a girlfriend who wore a long braid down her back and no bra.

No bra…hmm. The Hammer suddenly wondered if Marly had a policy against underwear altogether. He really wouldn't mind finding out.

“S
O
?” S
HIRLIE
, 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.