It was the extraordinary, seesaw-like balance between men and women that Dustin didn’t even try to comprehend, and generally attempted to steer away from.
That was at least partly the reason Dustin remained single at age thirty. His experience with relationships with the opposite sex had, frankly, made him more than a little world-wise when it came to women.
He liked being on his own, being his own man and answerable to no one but himself and God.
And for some strange woman to get paid for meddling in his private affairs, pushing her ideals on him—what kind of woman would take such a job?
This Isobel Buckley must be on a real power trip. He could only guess at what kinds of torture she would concoct for him.
Still, it was only six weeks.
What could happen in six weeks?
Chapter Three
Isobel was more than a little anxious about meeting the man she’d heard so much about. With all she’d been told, she had absolutely no idea what to expect when she actually met the real person.
Dustin Fairfax.
She had thoughtfully recommended a public venue for their first meeting, knowing both of them would feel a bit more comfortable with other people around, especially at this first encounter.
She admitted being nervous herself, at least inwardly, which was silly, really. She did this for a living, after all.
But this was different. The nuances weren’t lost on her, and she was certain they weren’t lost on him, either. Dustin wasn’t coming to her for her expertise and help—or at least it was not his idea to do so—and she wasn’t even certain he was coming willingly.
Camille and Addison had made the arrangements, and here she sat, in a quiet deli on 16th Street, waiting for Dustin to show up.
If he actually materialized.
She still wasn’t convinced he was a willing guinea pig in this experiment, and that fact was something she meant to establish before this day was over. She wouldn’t blame him if he found somewhere else to be and didn’t make their meeting at all.
He was already twelve minutes late to their appointment, not that she was counting. She tried to distract herself by watching the people around her, the usual eclectic hodgepodge of faces and accents that made Denver so interesting. Coffee shops were the best for finding interesting people to view.
But no matter how hard she tried, her gaze kept straying back to the front door, her adrenaline rushing every time the bell indicated a new customer was entering or exiting.
She had purposefully taken a seat at a corner table where she could easily see the entrance. She wanted to have a moment to watch Dustin before they were formally introduced.
She wiped her palms against her conservative navy blue, calf-length-split rayon skirt, ostensibly to straighten it—for at least the tenth time. She straightened her back and adjusted her posture, an incidental habit she was hardly aware of but often performed.
Suddenly a man burst through the door like a Tasmanian devil, lifting his hat and scrubbing his hands through his thick black hair. He looked around, his eyes sweeping across the tables with a glazed, harried look.
He was obviously searching for someone, and he definitely fit the profile she’d been given for Mr. Fairfax—six feet tall, medium build, black hair, green eyes.
Isobel froze, not giving any indication she saw him at all. She lowered her eyes to the table and pinched her lips.
She was afraid this was how it would be.
Her first impression wasn’t good.
Dustin’s black hair, what she could see of it from under a backward-faced, navy newsboy cap, was long—nearly shoulder length—and thick and curly. She wondered if anyone had ever told him his hair-style had gone out in the eighties.
Way out.
The thought made her laugh, and she politely covered her mouth with her hand.
His big green eyes were friendly, though, and he was smiling. Those were immediate pluses, in her book. Not many people faced life with a grin these days. It was a rare blessing to see.
Polishing up the outside of a man would be a piece of cake for her, but how could she ever hope to turn some weirdo into a socialite?
Apparently, that was one worry she could cross off her list. Kindness showed in every line of his face. Somehow, after seeing him in person, she felt in her heart she could work with him.
His clothes were another matter.
He was attired in faded, holey blue jeans and a navy blue T-shirt that had seen better days. She couldn’t even decipher the writing on the front. And his old tennis shoes—once white, as far as she could guess, but now a scuffed gray—were abominable.
She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. Part of her screamed to duck under the table, however ungracefully, and hide from the man. Back out of the plan. Get away from it all.
But then she remembered her purpose here, and with this thought came resolution. This was a job like any other job, however different in form it—he—presented itself.
It was time to buck up and do what she was hired to do.
Of course, Dustin was an unconventional scalawag who was continually late to his appointments. Hadn’t she discussed this very thing with Addison and Camille? Why else would Addison feel compelled to hire an image consultant to clean him up and generally organize his life for him?
And how hard could it be, really?
Her mind was already envisioning a sharp pair of scissors in her hand, lopping off great handfuls of his thick black hair. Her smile widened.
“Mr. Fairfax,” she called, waving her hand. “Over here.”
The man turned at her voice and smiled as he approached. “Please, call me Dustin,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “All my friends do. And you must be Iz-a-belle,” he said, pronouncing her name with a crisp Italian accent. His emphasis was strongly on the last syllable. “Belle. It has a nice ring to it.” He laughed at his own joke, but Isobel just shook her head.
She stared at him for a moment, trying to get her bearings. No one had ever, in the whole course of her life, called her Belle before.
Everyone, even her mother, called her Isobel. Camille called her Izzy sometimes, but they had known each other forever.
“Isobel Buckley,” she corrected subtly, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Dustin Fairfax,” he said, turning his chair around and straddling it. “But of course, you already know my name.”
“Yes,” she agreed mildly, linking her fingers on the tabletop to keep from fidgeting. It was important that Dustin have confidence in her dignity and refinement if he was going to take any advice from her. It wasn’t his problem she was feeling as if she were walking on shaky ground at the moment.
“Don’t feel awkward on my account,” he said with a wink.
Despite herself, her heart fluttered. The man was certainly a charmer, if a badly dressed one. And how had he known she was feeling off-kilter? Had he seen it in her expression? She determined then and there to take better control of herself and the situation.
She cleared her throat and looped a lock of her deep brown hair around her index finger, twirling it in lazy circles. “Let’s start at the beginning,” she suggested.
“Sounds reasonable,” he agreed. That he was genuinely amicable was clearly apparent to Isobel and worked immediately in his favor. He appeared unusually relaxed and free of the usual stark brassiness most men his