Falling for the Enemy (2 page)

If he was smart, he’d go to Lexington for a haircut. Or Darfur. Or Mars. Any of those would be less risky. Hell, he’d cut it himself. He was taking care of all his other personal needs these days. Why break tradition? Especially not with a sultry salon owner he could too easily imagine giving him much more than a trim.

Chapter Two

Ginny flipped her sign to
Closed
and pulled the string to lower the bamboo blinds shielding the large, street-facing window of her salon. A glance through the glass sent a prickling sensation down her bare arms as tiny hairs stood at attention. There he was—Wolverine—standing at the curb, about to enter the crosswalk. Dusk had fallen in the time necessary to turn dark-haired Dilly Hill into a summer blonde, but the waning light didn’t matter. Nor did the fact that he wasn’t facing her. She recognized him by sheer size, shape, and the disciplined stillness with which he held himself.

He’d invaded her subconscious every night in the weeks since he’d saved her ass, interrupting her ordinary fare of “winning the lottery” and “forgetting to study for the Geometry final” dreams with erotic, naked adventures. The kind of adventures she awoke from all itchy and achy…and alone. She and her pillow had gotten unusually close, because a woman on a self-imposed sex hiatus had to take matters into her own hands. Talented as they were, her hands couldn’t conjure up the heat and tension of his body pressed against hers. They couldn’t recreate the thump of his heart or the weight of his strong arms wrapped around her. Imagination only got her so far, and she was quickly learning when it came to certain things, “so far” wasn’t nearly far enough.

Without thinking, she rapped the glass with her knuckle. If the sudden noise startled him, he controlled all outward tells. No jolt. No searching around for the source of the sound. He simply turned his head and zeroed in on her like he’d sensed her presence the entire time. She hurried to the door and pushed it open. “What are you doing right now?”

His clothes suggested nothing fancy. Wash-faded jeans showed off long, powerful legs and molded to an indecently perfect ass, while the plain, black T-shirt fit snug over biceps she wanted to sink her teeth into. Clearly not a man headed out for a night on the town, but he stayed silent for long enough to make her wonder if he planned to answer. She arched a brow and leaned against the door, sending him a silent “I can keep this stand-off going all night” message. She flexed her toes inside her unlaced, low-top Chucks and briefly wished for heels to lend her some height and authority, but spending all day on her feet had taught her to wear comfy shoes on the job. She’d just have to think tall and channel authority.

Maybe it worked, or maybe he was just the world’s slowest conversationalist, but he replied, “Nothing.”

His shuttered expression offered no nuance to the single-word response. Ditto for his body language—not so much as a head shake. Fine and dandy. Let him do his badass, stoic thing. It took more than that to intimidate her. “You saved my life. The least I can do is give you a shave and a haircut.”

The stoic expression slipped and his dark eyes became a war zone of conflicting emotions. Desire, (she hadn’t been on her hiatus so long she didn’t recognize that particular look), reluctance, and something indefinable she might have called panic on anyone else. He looked away, rasped his palm over his whiskered jaw, and when he faced her again, he had his give-nothing-away look firmly in place. “Okay. Thank you.”

Three words in a row. New record. “No, no. This is me thanking you,” she shot back as she held the door open with one arm and stepped aside to allow him to enter. His shoulder brushed against her chest when he squeezed past. The completely innocent contact sent not-so-innocent heat zinging through her, firing up nerve endings until even her toes tingled. For one disorienting moment she flashed back to the memory of having his tall, sturdy frame supporting her. He turned to her and cocked a brow, as if awaiting instructions, but a distinctly knowing look lurked in his eyes. Heat reversed course and stormed into her face.

Hold the phones, girl,
you
make people blush, not vice versa
.

“Have—” Geez, was that crackling noise her voice? She cleared her throat and tried again. “Have a seat there.” She pointed through her small lobby to the adjustable-height swivel chair in front of her workstation. “I’ll be right over.”

He nodded and walked to the chair. She flicked on more lights and finished lowering the blinds. It might have been smarter to leave them up, because her little salon suddenly seemed even smaller, but it was dark outside and she disliked working in a fishbowl.

To combat the intimacy, she detoured to the counter separating the waiting area from the main salon and turned on the radio. Bruno Mars filled the silence, crooning about sex and paradise. So much better. She turned the volume low and headed to the rinse sink at the back of her salon. Once there, she turned on the hot water and pulled a hand towel from the stack on the shelf beside the sink. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him stare at his reflection in her workstation mirror. No. Correction. He tracked
her
movements in the mirror. As she tested the temperature of the water, she became intensely aware of the band of exposed skin below the hem of her red tank top and above the hip-riding waist of her denim skirt. Was she flashing him a whale-tail? Awesome. She thrust the towel into the water. Nothing screamed “classy” like the back of her thong peeking out over the top of her skirt. She turned off the tap, tugged her tank down, and wrung the excess water from the towel. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Ginny.”

“Short for Jennifer?”

With the hot towel bundled to retain heat, she walked to the chair and met his eyes in the mirror. “Short for Virginia, but everybody calls me Ginny.”

Silence. She unfurled the steaming towel and held the corners by her fingertips to let it cool. “This is where you say, ‘Nice to meet you Ginny, I’m…state your name here.’”

The corner of his mouth tipped up in the slightest of smiles. “Shaun.”

“Lovely to meet you. Got a last name, Shaun?” She used the foot pedal to lower the chair a few inches, and then tipped it back slightly.

“It’s a mouthful.” Her attention drifted to his mouth, and in her mind she heard him add,
like everything about me
. Instead, he said, “Just call me Shaun.”

She puffed out a breath and pressed her lips together to calm the suddenly hyperactive nerve endings there. “All righty then. Lean your head back…perfect,” she said when he did as she asked. She draped the towel over his face. “Let me know if this is too hot.”

An indistinct murmur served as his reply. She took it as a no, and pulled a clean cape from a lower workstation drawer. A practiced flick of her wrists unfurled it over him. She secured it behind his neck, and then got busy whipping shave cream into a thick lather with her brush. When that was done, she used her palms to pat the towel against his cheeks for another moment, and then removed it and tossed it into the bin beneath the rolling cart parked next to her workstation. She eyed him in the mirror and brought her hands up to test his whiskers. Probably several days of growth, but not enough to warrant trimming with scissors first. Foam and a good, sharp razor would do the job.

Using the wide, badger fur shaving brush, she painted his throat, jaw, chin and cheeks with a layer of lather while considering conversation starters. Bluelick’s most mysterious new face sat in her chair. She didn’t intend to waste a golden opportunity to get the scoop on him. “Are you in town for business or pleasure?”

“Some of both.”

She put the brush and bowl on the counter and opened a drawer. “What kind of business?” The shiny silver shield of her straight razor winked from the neatly arranged selection of grooming tools. She took it out and pushed the drawer closed with her hip, and then stepped behind him again. His eyes latched onto the razor and stayed there as she opened it. She wouldn’t say he looked nervous, but he looked…cautious.

“Serious blade.”

“Five-eighths inch, full hollow, carbon steel straight razor. You’ll get a close shave.”

“And then some,” he muttered under his breath. To her he said, “You’ve done this before, right?”

Now she resisted the temptation to grin. “Please. I’m a licensed professional. Sit back. Relax. You’re in good hands.” She leaned in, tipped his chin up and placed the blade against his throat. Because the position put her mouth close to his ear, she modulated her voice and repeated her question. “What kind of business brings you to Bluelick?”

Her eyes found his in the mirror. He waited until she’d swept the blade from his Adam’s apple to his chin before responding. “The boring kind. Nothing worth talking about.”

Man, this guy was a tough nut. She cleaned the razor and positioned it for another pass. “You sell yourself short, Shaun. Bluelick’s a small town. A new face creates a big stir around these parts.” The next pass revealed another swath of smooth, sun-bronzed skin. Apparently a scruffy jaw wasn’t his normal look.

His mouth twisted into the phantom smile again. “Has the rumor mill been grinding away on me?”

She found herself returning the smile. He knew a thing or two about small towns. “Hell, yes. You’re the biggest mystery to hit Bluelick since someone set fire to a bag of dog poop and left it on Mr. Cranston’s porch. Theories abound,” she added as she cleared another path along his throat.

“I’m glad to know I rate right up there with dog crap. Let’s hear them.”

“Well, I can’t claim to know every single one.”

“
You
sell yourself short, Virginia,” he drawled. “I’ll bet you hear everything. Something tells me people open up to you.”

“Ginny,” she automatically corrected, though aside from her name, he’d gotten everything else right. People did tend to open up to her. But the same bout of self-improvement that had inspired her currently inconvenient sex hiatus had given rise to her vow to stop spreading gossip. She couldn’t necessarily help hearing things—she did own a beauty shop, after all—but she could resist the temptation to pass the stories along. No more talking behind people’s backs. Then again, did it count as talking behind a person’s back if the person she was talking to happened to be the subject of the rumor? Seemed like a legitimate loophole. Plus, she really wanted to know his story.

“I’ll give you the top three,” she said, working the razor over his jaw. A strong, masculine jaw. She tamped down on a wicked impulse to run her lips along the chiseled angle. “So long as you tell me if any of them are close to the truth.”

He waited until she lifted the razor off his skin, and then slowly nodded, never breaking eye contact. For one wild moment she imagined he’d read her dirty mind and given her the go-ahead to put her mouth on him, but then reason kicked in.

“Okay. Um…” She rifled through her mental files for the most plausible backstory while sliding the razor along his cheek. “You’re running from a checkered past, lying low in our backwater town while searching for redemption.”

A low, rusty laugh rumbled up from his chest.

“Not so much?” she guessed.

“What else have you got?”

“Let’s see.” She finished his other cheek and came around front to shave his upper lip. “Some say you’re one of those off-the-grid, lone-wolf types, bunkered in a cabin outside of town.”

A series of short, careful passes with the razor completed the shave. She straightened.

“Jesus, a little facial hair really freaks you people out. I notice a distinctly sinister theme to these theories.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his mildly offended tone. Using a clean towel, she wiped away the remaining flecks of shaving cream from his skin and inspected her handiwork…and nature’s. Mercy, what a face. High, slightly sloping forehead, straight nose, cheekbones only God could have sculpted, and lips so perfectly kissable there ought to have been a law against hiding them beneath overgrown facial hair. They parted as her fingertip traced his philtrum. Belatedly, she realized she’d advanced from checking the closeness of his shave to something else entirely.

She pulled her hand back and cleared her throat. “You look a little less sinister now, don’t you think?”

His eyes stayed on hers as he ran his palm over the lower half of his face. “I don’t know about that, but I’m definitely smoother. Thanks.”

Yet no less lethal, although without the shield of whiskers she could see fatigue dragging at the edges of his mouth. The shadows around his eyes looked more pronounced, too—less mysterious than plain old tired. Something in those eyes pulled at her. Something familiar. She couldn’t place it, but she couldn’t seem to look away either.

“What’s the last theory?” he prompted.

“Huh? Oh, ah, I guess this one’s kind of sinister, too. You’re the long-lost, black-sheep son of a prominent local family.”

A muscle clenched in his jaw an instant before he grinned and shook his head. “Very dramatic.”

Despite the offhand comment, she sensed some new tension in him. “Remember our deal.” She took a clean comb and scissors from the second drawer of her workstation and stepped behind him. “Any of them close to accurate?”

He hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. “Yes.”

“Really?” Surprise had her lowering the comb. “Which one?”

“Sorry, that information isn’t part of our deal. I agreed to tell you if any of them were close to accurate. I’ve done that.”

“Oh, please. Don’t mince my words. You know what I meant.”

“Yes,” he conceded, again without offering more.

She raised her scissors and snipped the air. “You sure you’re not the barber? You’re awfully good at splitting hairs.”

“That’s how us reclusive, black-sheep, redemption-seekers roll.”

She gave him a long, patient stare…the one most people took as permission to unload their troubles, complaints or frustrations, but it bounced right off him. Talk about frustrating. “Whatever. How do you want your hair cut? Be very specific, because I wouldn’t want to give you less than you expected.”

He laughed off her jab. “I can honestly say I don’t give a shit what you do to my hair. If it makes you happy, you can shave me bald.”

“Don’t tempt me.” She saw no point in hiding the irritation in her voice—he’d baited her, and he knew it—but shame on her for being so damn easy to bait. Irritated or not, she wouldn’t scalp him. Every single person who sat in her chair became a walking, talking advertisement for her business, and she took her business seriously. Additionally, she was poised to kick off her mayoral campaign tomorrow. Why give people a reason to doubt her judgment?