she should write in to Alias and suggest an episode where Sydney Bristow assassinated a bad guy by pretending to be a hairstylist. Who knew? Maybe they’d already done one.
The bodyguard frowned at the scissors and her, and exchanged a glance with Ms. Turlington, as if to ask whether she’d vetted Marly’s background. Ms. T. nodded, and he let them go. Great, the FBI has a file on my finesse with long layers. They know about the woman whose hair I turned purple back in beauty school, and they’ve looked into the dangers of me giving Hammersmith a mullet with neon-green hair extensions….
They knocked and then entered an elegant suite dotted with arrangements of flowers that had once actually grown somewhere. At one end of the room, near a window overlooking the ocean, was a desk and a rolling leather chair, turned away from them. Resting against the back of the chair was a head covered by unruly, dark curly hair.
“I need you to modify that paragraph in the Orlando speech,” Hammersmith said into a cell phone. “I am not saying that. Yeah. Thanks, Ricky. Gotta go.” The governor spun around in the chair and stood, his eyes riveting on Marly’s face.
The last thing she’d expected was for the man to be half naked! His chest was broad, exceptionally well-defined and lightly furred in the morning sunlight.
She felt her pleasant expression freeze in surprise and her tongue instantly absorb all the saliva in her mouth. That was what those white button-downs and blue silk ties covered? She’d imagined a doughy, career politician’s torso, well-padded with complacency and pork—not this ripped expanse of hard muscle and tanned, very masculine flesh.
“Governor Hammersmith, may I present Miss Fine?” said his assistant. “And,” she added with asperity, “may I get you your undershirt, sir?” She said the word sir as if she meant “small, naughty boy.”
Marly bit back a smile. Suddenly she knew who Ms. Turlington reminded her of: Miss Hathaway from the old “Beverly Hillbillies” show.
“Miss Fine,” said The Hammer, striding forward and taking her hand, “this is a definite pleasure.” He looked deep into her eyes and blinded her with a potent smile.
God help me, thought Marly. He’s twenty times more magnetic in person than he is on television. She had to avert her gaze or start babbling incoherently. So she dropped her gaze to his chest again.
“Thank you for coming all the way over here just to cut my hair.”
Nipples. I’m staring at the governor’s nipples. There’s something deeply wrong with this scenario. “Um, you’re welcome. Thank you for asking me.”
Hammersmith seemed just as taken with her chest as she was with his, truth be told. She could almost feel his eyes searching for the bra straps that weren’t there under her double tank tops. She could almost feel his gaze spanning her waist, too, and evaluating the length of her legs under the gypsy skirt. She resisted the urge to wiggle her toes as he looked at those.
“I’ve never seen blue toenail polish,” he said.
He had to be kidding. What century did he live in?
“It’s the same color as your eyes.”
She forced a smile to her lips. “I think that’s a compliment….”
He nodded. “What do you call that color of blue? Royal? Cerulean?”
“Rebel,” she said with a self-conscious shrug. “That’s what the manufacturer calls it, anyway.”
“Rebel,” he repeated, his eyes scanning every curve of her again. “I like it.”
Ms. Hathaway—uh, Turlington—bustled back in with a plain white T-shirt and handed it to Hammersmith with a meaningful glance. He nodded his thanks at her and dropped it on the desk. Then he sat next to it and gestured Marly toward the rolling chair.
Ms. Turlington’s lips thinned in disapproval and she resembled nothing so much as a skinny, bad-tempered owl in pearl earrings.
“Was there something you needed, Maria?” the governor asked innocently.
“Your shoes and socks are near the sofa, sir.”
“Why, so they are! Thank you for calling my attention to them. Now, maybe we could all have some coffee from room service?” He turned toward Marly. “You like coffee?”
She shook her head. “Chai or green tea, actually. Thanks.”
“Will you order all of that, then, Maria?”
“Right away, Governor. Have you had breakfast?”
He shook his head and suddenly his blue eyes gleamed. “You know what sounds good? Strawberry waffles with syrup and whipped cream. You like waffles, Miss Fine?”
“Yes, but no, thanks.”
“Whole grain toast, fruit and a boiled egg is what your nutritionist has on the menu for you, sir.”
The Hammer waved a dismissive hand at his assistant. “That guy is a puritan and a sadist. Get me the waffles, please. And an extra-large orange juice.”
“But the carbohydrates—”
“—are delicious. Thanks, Maria. Be sure to order yourself something. I’ll let you know if we need anything else.” And the governor slung an arm around her stiff, thin shoulders and walked her to the door. “What would I do without you, hmm?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.” And Ms. Turlington, the poor dear, exited with as near to a flounce as she was capable of.
“She thinks she’s my nanny,” The Hammer said.
“Mmm.” Marly was noncommittal. “So…what would you like to do with your hair?”
“Well, I was thinking along the lines of Billy Idol or Dennis Rodman.”
She choked. Governor Hammersmith wasn’t at all what she’d expected.
“I figured that look would go over well next time I had to speak to a Rotary Club or cut the ribbon at the grand opening of a new senior citizens home.”
“So you’d like me to pierce your ears, too—and custom order a spiked dog collar? Rip the sleeves out of your Brooks Brothers’ button-downs? And how about a few tattoos?”
“Exactly.” He nodded. They exchanged a look of amused understanding. Then he ruined it. “You’re even prettier than the picture in Shore magazine.”
She felt her cheeks warming as she opened her nylon bag and pulled out a salon cape. Not only should she cover that chest for her peace of mind, but also to protect him from the little hairs that would fly everywhere during his haircut.
“I said to Maria, ‘She’s really cute. Call that one.’”
Marly lifted an eyebrow. Great way to pick a stylist, Governor. What if I’m a really cute butcher? But she didn’t say it out loud. “What happened to your regular hairdresser?”
“She just had a baby,” he explained. “And she’s retiring for a while to be a mom. I didn’t have time to look for someone else in Tallahassee before this meeting, so we called you.”
She was back to looking at his chest again, and all that male skin and muscle was having a bad effect on her. Her breathing had gone shallow and heat had bloomed at the back of her neck, under her arms and in other places she didn’t want to think about.
“Are you Irish?” he asked.
She blinked, then shook her head. “Dutch by heritage.”
“All that dark hair and the big blue eyes and the flawless skin—I thought maybe Black Irish. Though you’re not pale—your skin’s sort of olive.”
“There’s some Greek back there somewhere,” Marly said. “And you? You have the same coloring.”
“English,