the lucky man?” Davii teased, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
Before Christian could answer, his phone vibrated again, and he reached for his headset while Davii frowned. “Christian Mercer.”
“Mr. Mercer, this is Emily-Anne Barrister.”
Christian’s eyes widened, and he went into full work mode, saying, “What can I do for you, Ms. Barrister?”
“Emily-Anne,” she said. “I’m planning an event, and everyone tells me that you’re the go-to person.”
Yes! Christian thought. Emily-Anne was the wife of Cortlandt Barrister, whose family had founded and bought newspapers throughout Indiana, Illinois, and western Ohio, as well as other publications, including an oddly successful magazine titled Hoe & Sew, which was geared toward the wives of farmers. Getting the Barristers as clients opened up a new world of possibilities for Christian. He reached under the black smock and extracted his PalmPilot, saying, “I’m sure I can help you. If you give me some of the details—”
“Oh, I’m not going to tie up your time on the phone,” Emily-Anne said. “I’ll make an appointment.”
Christian checked his calendar, they settled on a day and time, and he disconnected the call after a cordial good-bye. He was startled when Davii not only removed his headset but took the phone and turned it off. “Hey!” he protested.
“I realize you’re melded to that thing, but unless you want a nipped ear—or even worse, a bad haircut—while you’re here, you’re mine.” When Christian gave him a meek look, Davii smiled and repeated his earlier question. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“You’re the only man in my life, and you know it,” Christian replied.
“Oh, what a great liar you are. I’ve heard that one before.”
“I never lie.”
“Are you sure?” Davii asked.
“Why would I lie?”
“That’s not what I mean,” Davii said, staring pointedly at Christian’s reflection.
“I guess there’s a shortage of available men here, but I’m afraid I won’t be any help.”
“A boy can dream.” Davii sighed as a tight curl fell to Christian’s vinyl smock with a whisper, then said, “The prospects have improved. My roommate recently introduced me to one of her new co-workers.”
“Cute?”
“Edible,” Davii assured him, then chatted about other things while he cut and forced Christian’s hair into submission. He did a stellar job, as usual.
Unfortunately, Christian could never re-create Davii’s stylishly disheveled handiwork. He eyed himself in the mirror, thinking that Davii had managed to make him look like a soap actor or someone in a fashion magazine. “Your talents are wasted here. Ever consider moving on to greater possibilities?”
“Are you trying to persuade me to come to one of your seminars?”
“No, not at all. I’m completely serious.”
“Who knows what the future holds?” Davii asked with a shrug.
Christian went to the cashier and paid. He discreetly slipped a substantial tip into a tip envelope, wrote Davii’s name on the outside, and walked into the mall, checking his watch. He wouldn’t have time to eat anything before his next appointment, but hopefully he could squeeze in a half hour for himself before his evening seminar. If not, he’d gone without meals before. He’d survive.
While he headed toward Drayden’s, he called the Hotel Congreve and confirmed that his conference room would be ready that night. The popularity of the seminar mandated that he hold one every two months. Luckily, it was one of his favorites, titled, “The Importance of ‘Me’ Time: Fitting Your Dreams Between Soccer Practice and Work.” It was most rewarding when a busy career mom wrote him an e-mail to gush about how much his seminar had helped her. One woman in particular came to mind. A harried mother with four kids, Angela had decided to wake up two hours earlier than normal every day to experiment with baking pastries. After only four months, she had regular wholesale customers and would soon be able to quit her full-time job and work for herself. It was that kind of story that made Christian’s job worth it.
He found Leslie Harper on Drayden’s second floor in Women’s Haberdashery and gently eased a red suit from her hands, saying, “Red is a power color, Leslie, but this will make your complexion look cerise.”
“Is that bad?” Leslie asked with a stricken look. “I’ve got a promotion riding on this.”
He deftly grabbed a charcoal gray suit from a rack and said, “This one. Trust me. Try it on over your T-shirt.”
Later, after they paid for the suit and found a blouse and undergarments—when Leslie resisted, Christian reminded her that it was important to feel well-dressed from the skin out—he guided her downstairs to Cosmetics. The associate who helped them quickly allied herself with Christian while he gave Leslie makeup advice.
As Leslie signed her credit card slip, she said, “I sure hope all this is worth it.”
“It’ll pay for itself when you get your promotion,” Christian promised. “Shoes.”
“I can’t afford to buy shoes at Drayden’s!” Leslie yelped, and the Clinique associate cast a sad look her way.
“You can’t afford not to,” the associate said. “You should trust Mr. Mercer’s judgment.”
Christian was surprised that she knew his name and said, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I’m Kiki,” the woman said. The name seemed familiar, and Christian tried to place her. She laughed and said, “You don’t know me. You helped my boyfriend’s ex-wife when they were going through their divorce.”
“Oops,” Christian said. “Do you hate me?”
“Are you joking? Her demands were killing us. Then she went to your ‘Don’t Look Back’ seminar. Now she makes twice as much as he does. I think I got the wrong half of the couple.”
Leslie looked at Christian and said, “Shoes,” in the submissive tone of a Stepford wife.
As they neared Women’s Shoes, Christian regretted his decision. Two associates were with other customers, which left him at the mercy of the department manager, Natasha Deere, who was circling a display table like a marauding shark, followed by a young man in a dark suit. Christian did a double take, sure that the suit was Hugo Boss. Pricey for someone who appeared to be not only very young but a trainee.
He was relieved when an employee summoned Natasha to the cash wrap area, leaving the young associate free to approach Christian and Leslie.
“How can I help you today?” he asked Leslie, who turned toward Christian.
But Christian, having had a few unpleasant shopping encounters with Natasha in the past, was still keeping a wary eye on her and said, “I’ll bet if you cut her open, that Kintner boy would fall out.”
Leslie giggled, and the associate looked confused and said, “Who, Natasha? What?”
Christian laughed and said, “Maybe you’ve never seen Jaws. That woman’s always reminded me of something that should be approached only from the protection of a cage. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make fun of your manager. I’m Christian Mercer, and this is Leslie Harper.” He paused to unzip the garment bag he was holding and said, “Ms. Harper is looking for a pair of shoes to go with this suit.”
“There’s got to be something around here that will match that color,” the associate said blandly.
Christian resisted the urge to ameliorate his selling skills, merely asking, “Is there anything in particular you might suggest?”
The boy