Accidentally Yours. Susan Mallery

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      He swore. “We’re going to talk.”

      She nodded slowly. “Fine. Have a seat. I’ll cut your hair.”

      “You mean scalp me. No thanks.”

      She leaned the broom against the wall and put her hands on her hips. She was trying to look tough, he thought, and failing miserably.

      “Look,” she said. “I’m good at what I do. I’m relatively new in town and I’m still building my clientele. I’m also interested in convincing you to donate fifteen million dollars to save my son’s life. Why on earth would I want to risk all of that by scalping you?”

      “You know I don’t want to give you the money and I’m willing to do just about anything to stop you. That doesn’t make us friends.”

      “Maybe not, but whoever’s been doing your hair isn’t doing a very good job.” She patted her chair. “Come on. I’ll turn you into a chick magnet.”

      “I’m already a chick magnet.” But he reluctantly lowered himself into the seat.

      Behind him, conversation resumed in the salon. Several women pulled out cell phones. Great. Soon he’d have an audience.

      She covered him in a black plastic cape, then reached for a spray bottle and wet down his hair.

      “How’d you do your research?” he asked.

      “Internet. I can only type about twenty words a minute, but I’m tenacious.”

      “And talented. The letter from my company looks authentic.”

      She smiled at him in the mirror and reached for scissors. He held in a wince when she made her first cut.

      “It is authentic. You agreed to pay the money.”

      “And if I hadn’t?”

      “Someone who had nothing to lose might have a form letter from your office. Form letters, although rude and thoughtless, do come with letterhead. A good scanner, a little creativity, the right software and there we are.”

      “You contacted me before?” he asked, knowing he shouldn’t be surprised.

      “Of course. I sent in a grant proposal. Your committee didn’t even consider it. Evil bastards.”

      “We get a lot of requests,” he said absently, wondering why she’d been turned down. The report in his car also contained some information on Wallace’s lab. According to all accounts, he’d been close to a cure before the explosion.

      “How old was your son when he died?” she asked.

      The unexpected question cut through him like a laser. He stiffened, then consciously forced himself to relax.

      She wanted them to connect over shared pain, he reminded himself. To convince him to give her the money.

      He said nothing.

      She combed several strands together, then trimmed the ends.

      “Cody’s nine. In the fourth grade. He’s bright, which helps, because sometimes he has to miss school. You remember what that was like. He likes all sports, but baseball is his favorite. I swear, we’ve seen every televised baseball game since he was three. Now that we’re in Washington, he’s a Mariners fan.”

      Daniel had liked football, Nathan thought, then pushed the memory away. Damn Kerri Sullivan.

      “I have a very expensive team of lawyers,” he said, his voice as conversational as hers had been. “They’re going to take care of you. You can go away quietly or with a lot of noise, but you will go away.”

      She stepped back to study the cut, then moved in close again and picked up her scissors. “What are you going to do? Throw me in jail?”

      “If necessary.”

      She leaned closer. “Coldhearted billionaire throws mother of dying child in jail. Zoning commission refuses zoning petition. They kind of go together, huh?”

      “Blackmail is illegal.”

      She stepped back and smiled. “Blackmail. Oh, right. Because I have the power. I couldn’t even sleep with your chauffeur when I tried.”

      “Tim is gay.”

      “I found that out. But he was very nice about it, which I appreciated. The man has style. You could learn a lot from him.” She trimmed more hair. “Face it, Mr. King. I’ve already won. You can’t go back on your word. You’ll look like the villain most people think you are. Write the check and walk away. Consider it your good deed for the month.”

      “I will not be manipulated by some hairdresser.”

      “Of course you will. You got to the top by doing what has to be done. Think of me as an unexpected expense.”

      He narrowed his gaze. “You don’t care what you do, as long as you get your money.”

      The chair spun so fast he started to slip. He grabbed the arms and found himself facing Kerri directly. Her blue eyes were the color of the ocean during a storm.

      “You want to build your fancy-assed condos, have at it. I don’t care. But let me be completely clear. I am fighting for my son’s life. So you’re right. I will stop at nothing. I will march into that zoning commission, place my hand on a Bible and lie. I will tell everyone who asked that you promised the research facility the money and now you’re trying to get out of it. I don’t care if I go to hell, Mr. King. I care if my son lives.”

      He recognized her desperation. He’d felt it once. He’d been just as determined and it had all been for nothing. He’d lost and the morning he’d buried his seven-year-old son, he’d vowed he would never care about anyone ever again.

      The door of the Hair Barn opened and a teenager with a camera walked in. He marched over to Kerri’s station, aimed and took a picture.

      “The local paper?” Nathan asked when the kid left.

      “Uh-huh. I’m guessing one of the other customers called the paper to say you were here. I’m doing this for Cody, but there are other lives on the line. This town is dying, and opening the research facility again will bring it back to life.”

      He swore under his breath. He didn’t give a damn about the town or her or her kid. He just wanted his permit to build his towers. The ones with his name on them so he could show the world what he’d done and who he was.

      Kerri turned him back to the mirror, rubbed something sticky into her hands, then through his hair. She smoothed and squished and then whipped off the cape and stepped back.

      “I’m done.”

      He studied himself. The cut was good. Damn good. Unless the crap she’d put on his head gave him a rash, she’d been totally professional.

      He stood and reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

      “Seventy СКАЧАТЬ