The idea was that the spa functioned as a relaxing, fun preparty spot where clients could start their evenings while being pampered and polished.
“Would you like to book your package all at once,” Peg asked, “or in three separate treatments?”
The Man hesitated for a moment. “Three separate treatments, please,” he said.
“All right.” Since Shirlie wasn’t responding to the verbal cues, Peg took the appointment book from her apparently nerveless hands and flipped through the pages. “When would you like to come in?”
“Uh, tomorrow? Say, around six or seven?”
She scanned the book. Their part-time massage therapist was off tomorrow. She’d have to take the appointment herself. “Seven o’clock all right?”
“That’ll be fine, thanks.” He continued to scan the premises. What was he, an engineer? Again, he didn’t seem interested in the design, the multicolored walls or the distressed, hand-painted cement floor.
He did seem interested in her—she could feel it in his gaze—but it was as if he didn’t want to be.
There was something about him that she didn’t trust, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. And why did he seem familiar? It wasn’t just that his casual, cocky, muscular stance reminded her of Eddie.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. There’s nothing sinister in a guy signing up for a sea salt scrub.
She tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow she’d be running her bare hands all over those broad shoulders of his, that smooth, tanned muscle. Her body went on full, red-hot alert, which wasn’t in the least professional.
Shirlie was still pinned in the receptionist’s chair by the visual force of the man, riveted by that butt of his as he strode to the door. Was that a trickle of drool at the corner of her mouth?
The butt was indeed Grade A prime. And his chinos fit him just right. The Man’s back muscles rippled as he opened the door, and both Peg and Shirlie sighed as he walked through it and let it close behind him. God, what was wrong with the pair of them? This was Miami—they saw male models all the time.
It wasn’t until he’d disappeared from sight that Peg realized she’d forgotten to get his name and phone number. Had she really been lecturing Shirlie in that smug, worldly way just a few minutes ago? She herself was just as bad!
“What do you think he looks like with his clothes off?” Shirlie asked reverently. “Did you catch his name?”
Peg shook her head sheepishly. “No, but I’ll be the one doing his sea salt scrub tomorrow, so—”
“Shut-up-no-you-are-not!”
“Yep.”
“Some people have all the luck. I’m going to get my license, I swear.”
“Believe me, not all your customers will look like that. There are some people you do not want to see naked. Case in point, Pugsy Malloy. I close my eyes when I have to do Pugsy.”
Shirlie sighed. “Yeah, but I think I’d sign up for five Pugsys if I could have just one what’s-his-name.”
Peggy laughed. “Okay, Miss Babble. Wipe the slobber off the reception desk.”
Shirlie wrinkled her nose. “I did babble, didn’t I? I’m so embarrassed. But you were drooling, too! Don’t deny it.”
“I did not drool,” said Peg with dignity. “I just salivated a little.”
Judging from her face, a horrifying possibility had just occurred to Shirlie. “You don’t think…you don’t think that guy does steroids, do you? I mean, it would be a crying shame if—”
Peggy pursed her lips. “Judging by his body, I can’t say I’d be surprised.” She began to flatten the cardboard box that had held the new products.
“Tomorrow at eight, you have to give me a full report! Plus his name and number.”
“Shirlie, I’m not likely to see that part of him. I do work with a sheet, hon.”
“Oh, c’mon! Can’t you take a little sneak peek? Just for me?”
“No,” said Peg, laughing. “That’s not ethical and you know it.” She tossed the flattened box into the trash.
“Who said anything about ethics? I just don’t want to waste my time if he’s hung like a garden slug.”
Peg shook her head. “Shirl, you’re impossible. Go dancing tonight. Get it out of your system. Do everything I wouldn’t do, and have fun. You know I adore you, but I cannot check out a customer’s equipment on the sly.”
“Can you step on the sheet accidentally? And, hey, do you have a camera phone? Or you could text message me from the back room—”
“No. I’m going to lunch now. Can I get you anything while I’m out? A foot-long hot dog, perhaps?” She laughed as Shirlie threw a wad of paper at her, and ducked out the door.
Peggy walked down the block to a local sandwich shop, grimacing at the heat and humidity of Miami in May. Unfortunately, her seven-o’clock appointment the next day had now started to assume a significance of epic proportions. The question was, would her client’s significant proportions also be epic?
3
AT FIVE MINUTES TO SEVEN, Peggy put a William Ackerman new age CD into the treatment room’s stereo system and hit the play button. She lit an imported French candle—Japanese-quince scented—and spread plastic, clean white towels and a fresh sheet on her massage table.
She looked around the room, satisfied that it was soothing and calming. The walls were a delicate pale blue, with a mural of trees, grass and rolling hills on one side and a beach on the other. Marly, the salon’s hairstylist, had painted them, plus a mural of an open window on one end, since the real thing was absent. The window “looked into” a cozy living room, so that the client felt as if he or she was being treated in an outside garden bower. They’d added a real window box at the painted sill and planted silk flowers in it. The effect was charming and magical—as well as soothing.
For some odd reason, butterflies had invaded Peggy’s stomach. She emerged from the treatment room and rounded the corner, walking down the apple-green hallway and then into the hall near the front of the spa, wiping her palms quickly on her lab coat as she heard the door of After Hours open and close. A deep voice announced that Troy Barrington was here for his seven o’clock appointment.
Troy. The Man’s name, at last. It fit him: one no-nonsense syllable, and masculine in the extreme. Peg still couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to ask it yesterday.
She braced herself to go out and get him, tying her hair back into a ponytail since it was best not to shed on the clientele. She buttoned her lab coat and then pulled a tube of Sugar Lips Ride Him Raspberry from her pocket. She dabbed some on her lips while simultaneously scolding herself for primping. She’d sworn off men for a year, remember? Plus, the guy was an über-jock, for God’s sake, and she’d sworn off jocks for life.
Peg walked into the reception area. She should have brought a tissue to wipe the drool from Shirlie’s chin. The girl’s cheeks were flushed, and she kept rearranging a vase of flowers, managing to snap half the blooms and leaves off them.
Peggy remembered a time when hot men had made her nervous. But that was so long ago, before she’d learned that they were all schmucks. The butterflies she’d felt in her stomach? Puh-lease. It was just hunger: she wanted her dinner.
“Nice to see you again, Troy.” Peg held out her hand to him. See? It wasn’t shaking the tiniest bit.
Troy had been inspecting the display of erotic lipsticks with a raised brow, paying special attention to Whip Me Cream.
He