Julienne laughed, all nervousness about her hair fading away, but in its wake came an unsettling thought. “Ramón, does Ethan still get his hair cut here?”
“Mmm, hmm,” he replied around the long-tailed comb he currently clamped between pursed lips.
Julienne took that to mean yes. “You’d never… I mean, you wouldn’t repeat anything we discussed—”
He flipped the comb out of his mouth and speared it into her hair with a ruthlessness that made her wince. “I’m quieter than your confessor. Trust me. Just because I take the man’s money doesn’t mean I like him. It’s business, and he’s a good tipper, especially at Christmas. Did you know he books his next appointment before he even walks out the door?”
“Organization was always one of his strengths.”
“I’m all for a little chaos myself, but I’m glad he referred you to me. I’m tremendously fond of you, and Uncle Thad. I knew one day you’d come to your senses….”
Julienne wasn’t exactly sure dabbling in self-hypnosis and letting Ramón renovate her from the ground up could be classified as sensible, but she’d spent the past twenty-one days preparing to put her plan into action. Tonight was the big night, her debut as a woman daring, beautiful and confident enough to catch a hot-blooded man’s attention.
The Naughty Handbook called it starting off with a bang, jumping feetfirst into her future as a woman who enjoyed her sensuality and made no apologies for it. A healthy sexual appetite was a natural, healthy thing.
Naughty girls have the courage to explore their desires.
But no matter how often she chanted key phrases and practiced suggestibility techniques, Julienne knew she could never start off with a bang by flirting with a total stranger. Uncle Thad was a very noble gentleman from another era and Julienne had lived with him since she’d been barely six years old. He’d raised her to be a moral, upstanding, good girl, and while she appreciated his efforts in shaping the woman she’d become, she had some work to do putting good into perspective.
She’d flirt tonight, but within comfortable parameters. Nicholas Fairfax wasn’t a stranger. Not exactly. Though she’d never met the man, she’d read every article and treatise he’d ever written. She’d studied his work so much that she could identify his subtle, yet aggressive technique on any building at a glance. She knew his credentials as a nationally recognized expert in the historic preservation field, every board he’d ever served on—and he’d served on many—and every lecture he’d ever given.
But she hadn’t known a thing about his personal life until his appointment last year to the President’s Advisory Council, a federal agency that oversaw and advised on all national historic preservation matters.
His presidential appointment had placed him under the media’s scrutiny and she’d learned that the founder of the renowned Architectural Design Firm, one of the largest preservation organizations on the West Coast, was not only a brilliant and ambitious architect, but an incredibly virile man.
If she could believe one-tenth of what the papers reported, the man she’d revered for his architectural brilliance was a naughty boy personified. And lucky for her, this naughty boy had accepted the commission to renovate the Risqué Theatre and would arrive for the closing performance tonight.
To her knowledge—and Julienne believed herself very knowledgeable about Nicholas Fairfax’s work—he’d never renovated any buildings in Savannah, which meant his black book might not be all filled up when he got off the plane.
She wanted her phone number to be his first entry.
Julienne knew she’d never catch a naughty boy’s attention looking the way she did now. Not that there was anything wrong with her looks. She’d always been very grateful for her natural, easily maintained appearance. But she’d never exactly been a fashion plate. Once she and Uncle Thad had settled in Savannah, she’d led the life of a busy student and an academic. She’d always leaned toward the conservative and hadn’t had the impetus to change.
Until now.
She clung to that thought through the color and shampoo process, a facial, a manicure and pedicure.
But when the first strands of hair to hit the floor were well over a foot long, Julienne’s anticipation veered sharply toward worry. “You won’t make it too short, will you?”
“Of course not.” Ramón exhaled sharply with impatience, spinning her chair so she faced away from the mirrors. “Don’t wig on me now, Jules, because you’ll look ridiculous if I stop. I’m only layering your hair to put some shape around your face. You won’t miss what I take off, trust me.”
Relax, girl. He’s brilliant and you know it, otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting in his chair.
Julienne tried not to cringe as the next chunk of hair hit the floor with a wet plop. She closed her eyes to shut out the stimuli of the busy salon. After all, her one-length hair had never been as much a styling preference as it had been a necessity.
Working in the field with Uncle Thad had taken them to some pretty remote parts of the globe, where regularly scheduled haircuts hadn’t been available. More often than not, schools hadn’t been available and as a result, her uncle and his crew had tutored her until she’d entered college. She’d only worn her hair one length because the style had been easy to pull back into a presentable ponytail. A comfortable style and since Julienne was officially done with comfortable…
“What kind of product do you have at home?” Ramón asked.
“I buy whatever you tell me to buy.” Eager-to-please Julienne. But no more. Opening her eyes, she resisted the urge to turn her head and peek in the mirrors.
“Shampoo, finishing rinse and an ends’ conditioner. That’s not enough. You need gel, mousse and spray now that you have shape, sweetheart. Celeste,” he called out and the tolerant receptionist hurried through the salon to join them. “Put a care package together for Jules. Basic styling products. Oh, and throw in some of the hair glitter, too. Pearlescent.”
“Pearlescent hair glitter?” Julienne asked.
“New-new, remember?” Shooing Celeste off, he poured a glob of what she presumed to be styling gel into his palm. “If you’re inhabiting places like the Risqué, you’ll need hair glitter, trust me. Now tell me what you’re wearing tonight.”
“I figured I’d decide after I saw the new me.”
“Tell me about the choices.”
As Ramón styled, Julienne told him about her formal-length black sheath and green velvet taffeta.
“I don’t like those,” he yelled over the roar of the blow dryer, motioning her to lean forward and put her head between her legs while he flipped the—gratefully—still considerable mass of hair over her head. “What else do you have?”
“A caviar-beaded skirt set.”
“What color?”
“Black.”
He snorted. “I thought you said you’d attended performances at the Risqué before. Sounds like all you do is go to funerals.”
Julienne might have scowled if she’d stood a chance of being seen, but as she was buried beneath damp hair with the blood rushing to her head, she could only correct him. “Black is a classic color for formal functions, not the only color I own. I have a pale-pink sequined ball gown I wore to a New Year’s party, but I