He glanced quickly into his rearview mirror to reassure himself once again that he didn’t look like Saddam. Okay, so the beard is bad. The hair is shaggy. But, hey! I have blue eyes. A nice smile, if anyone could see it under the mustache. No signs of mania.
He got out of his Explorer and walked, in the rain, to the entrance of this place called Finesse. Pretentious. Fussy. Annoying. This Shannon person, despite her sense of humor on the phone, would probably be one of those ladies who glided everywhere on high heels, had sprayed-into-place helmet hair and gazed at everyone with a fixed, vacuous smile.
Hal entered the place and said “Hello” to a woman in a beige silk suit. She blinked at him and took an unconscious step backward before returning the greeting. Maybe he did look like a terrorist on the run.
“Are you Shannon Shane?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry, but she’s not back from lunch yet. I’m Lilia London, one of Shannon’s partners. Won’t you have a seat?” She gestured toward a fussy little sofa.
Hal nodded at her and sat down on the awful thing, immediately feeling smothered by the pink cabbage roses on it. It was made for females. Females much smaller than him and with shorter legs.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Ms. London asked him.
He shook his head, stared out the window at the parking lot, and began systematically picking at the cuticle on his left thumb.
“You’re welcome,” he heard her singsong pleasantly under her breath.
He wasn’t meant to hear it. He craned his neck after her. “Uh. Uh! Thank you. Too much caffeine today. A gallon for breakfast.”
She peered around her office door at him and gave him a very nice smile. “You’re welcome.”
Hal reverted to a nod again and returned his gaze to the window. April, huh. Cursed Connecticut. Where is spring? The rain poured down, relentless.
Hal closed his eyes against the bleak weather and cracked his neck for tension relief. He flexed his shoulder blades and then opened his eyes to a most peculiar vision.
A white BMW roadster—with the top down!—pulled into Finesse’s parking lot next to his Explorer. The driver, a blonde with her wild, curly hair half plastered to her head, seemed in no hurry to get out of the car. She sat there, fingers drumming on the wheel, as if she were enjoying the end of a song on the radio. As if sunshine and blue skies stretched as far as the eye could see, and not gray, chilly pellets of rain.
Nuts. She is completely wacko. The blonde pulled her keys from the ignition, opened the door and slid out two black-leather-covered legs that went up to her armpits. She stood, pushed the door shut, bent over and shook her head like a dog. She walked toward Finesse, her bright orange leather jacket gaping open, leaving her convertible’s top down.
Forget nuts. That’s criminal! But Hal was riveted by her.
The woman stopped just outside the door, under the small green awning. She pulled a pencil out of the breast pocket of her jacket and leaned over again, shaking water from her hair onto the sidewalk. She twisted the wet, curly mass and wrung it out. More water puddled around her black spike-heeled boots.
As he watched, fascinated, she secured her hair into a knot with the pencil pushed through it and righted herself. Then she opened the door.
Hal got up from among the cabbage roses and addressed her as soon as she walked in. “You left your top down.”
“Hi,” she said, with an engaging smile. “You must be Saddam.”
“S—? Uh, yeah.” Hal pointed outside. “Your car!”
“I know, thanks. It will be fine.”
No, it won’t, you crazy woman. But you sure are…
“Thanks for pointing it out, though.” Her white tailored blouse was soaked and transparent. Hal tried his best not to look, but her nipples showed right through. His cheeks warmed. So did other parts of him.
“Your seats,” he said. “The car will be flooded.”
She shrugged. “So be it.”
She was Amazon perfection. Green cat eyes, delicate little nose, lips to make a man sob. Her breasts were full and taut; held in place by an unusual, unpadded bra. He could see little multicolored happy faces with tongues on it. Tongues. “Would you like me to go out and put the top up for you?” Do her panties match?
“No, thank you. Really, it’s fine.” She looked him over from head to toes—not rudely, just appraisingly. “I’m Shannon, by the way.”
He put a hand up to his face self-consciously. He couldn’t believe he was thinking about this woman’s panties within thirty seconds of meeting her! Peg was right. He’d been dating his computer for too long. But Shannon Shane was stunning. No other word for it.
Hal felt as though he was back in high school, gazing at the head cheerleader without a prayer. Cruel, cool blondes had surrounded him in his dreams then, laughing and pointing at him while he stood naked and tried to hide his sexual longing behind his hands.
He was once again the skinny dork behind the heavy glasses. The victim of a cruel prom prank that he never wanted to think about again. Samantha Stanton. Shannon Shane reminded him of Sam Stanton, possessor of a sadistic streak a mile wide—and too cool for school.
He braced himself, locked his knees unconsciously. Stuck out his hand without a trace of warmth. “Hal Underwood, aka Saddam,” he said. “Reporting for cleanup. Shall we begin interrogations?”
She cocked her head at him in silent evaluation. “Sure thing. Right after I find a towel.” She showed him into her office and gestured to the visitor’s chair opposite her desk. “Be right back.”
Hal tried not to notice her black-leather-clad rear end as it swung out the door but it screamed provocation and juicy, bad-girl, no-holds-barred sex. So much for his preconception of her. What kind of woman dressed like that for the office? Now hard as a rock, he needed to distract himself and…deflate.
He looked around her office. It shouted L.A. or Miami, not Farmington, Connecticut. For one thing, the walls were tangerine, and upon them hung framed black-and-white portraits of famous actors and actresses. A few framed and signed record albums were scattered artistically among them, adding color. In one corner stood a…what the hell was it? He didn’t know, exactly, but he liked it. A cross between a scooter, a bicycle and a lateral pull-down machine, the thing was painted in primary colors and splashed with secondaries like purple, turquoise, orange and lime-green. Hal tried, but failed, to discern any use for the creation. Maybe it was some mod, wild sex toy? There went his mind again, straight into the gutter.
His gaze moved to Shannon Shane’s desk, which consisted of a huge sheet of thick, beveled glass resting on four tall, hand-blown Murano vases. How she had found four different vases of exactly the same height, he didn’t know. He questioned the stability of the desk—not to mention the stability of its owner.
Behind the desk a Dr. Seuss calendar hung on the wall. How apropos. Hal had often wondered what the good doctor smoked, but the man never failed to make him smile. His gaze returned to the leather chair, and his mind to the gutter. He saw himself in the chair, with Shannon Shane astride him wearing nothing but that orange leather jacket.
Shannon chose this moment to return to the room with her jacket zipped over the wet shirt and happy-face bra. Thank God. He was hard enough without having to ogle the woman’s breasts. Not that he’d mind, exactly.
“So, Saddam,” she said. “I apologize for being late and wet.”
Wet. He almost groaned aloud. What was wrong with him?
“I got caught on the highway with the top down.”
“That’s okay,” Hal said.
He