only this appointment but another with the hotel boutique’s personal shopper for jewelry, shoes, and a dress, she’d asked him if he thought she was made of money.
He’d pulled out his wallet, handed her a five to pay back the tip, then reminded her she was the one donating to General Duggin’s Scholarship Foundation tonight.
Making sure she arrived looking the part of wealthy collector rather than pack rat was the least he could contribute to the cause—a cause he’d then started to dig into, asking her questions about her family and the importance of the documents Charlie had sent her to find.
Since she’d been stuck on the pack rat comment, frowning as she ransacked her duffel for the sandals she knew that were there, thinking how she really had let herself go since being consumed by this quest, she’d almost answered, had barely caught herself in time.
The story of her father’s wrongful incarceration and her determination to prove his innocence had been on the tip of her tongue before she had bit down. If Harry knew the truth of why she wanted the dossier, he would quickly figure out she had no intention of delivering it to Charlie Castro.
Then, no doubt, they’d get into an argument about the value of her brother’s life versus that of her father’s name, and he’d want to know why the hell they were going through all of this if not to save her brother.
She really didn’t want to go there with Harry. She was having too much trouble going there with herself. Finn would understand; she knew he would. As long as he was alive to do so when this was over…
At that thought, she groaned, the sound eliciting the stylist’s concern. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Too much color? Not enough? The highlights are temporary, remember? Three washings max, you’ll be back to being a brunette.”
“Oh, no. I was thinking of something else,” Georgia assured the other woman, meeting her reflected gaze. “I hadn’t even looked…”
But now she did. And she swore the reflection in the mirror couldn’t possibly be hers. “Wow,” was the only thing she could think to say, and so she said it again. “Wow.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too.” The stylist beamed at her handiwork—and rightly so. Georgia had never in her life looked like this. The highlights in her hair gave off a coppery sheen. Her layers, too long and grown out—she was desperate for a new cut—had been trimmed, colored, and swept up into an intricate rooster tail of untamed strands.
And then her face…Was that really her face? The salon’s makeup expert had used a similar color scheme, spreading sheer terra cotta on her cheeks, a blend of copper and bronze on her eyelids, finishing off with a gorgeous cinnamon-colored glaze on her lips.
And all of it matching the beautiful ginger-hued polish on the nails of all twenty fingers and toes. She could go for this girly girl stuff. Really.
Especially when she lifted her gaze to meet Harry’s in the mirror. He stood behind the stylist, his shoulders wide in his designer suit coat, his hands jammed to his lean waist, his smile showing just a hint of teeth.
She had no idea when he’d moved from where he’d been sitting to her chair, but the look in his eyes, the fire in his eyes, and the low sweep of his lashes was enough to make her swoon.
It had been so long since a man had shown that kind of interest in her that she didn’t know what to do, how to react, to respond. Except the truth was that it wasn’t the men. It was her.
She had refused to let any man close enough to do more than notice her skill for ferreting out valuable antiques for years now, longer than she could remember.
But now, here came Harry into the middle of her personal catastrophe, a veritable stranger who had the body of a god and a killer smile and eyes that were telling her dangerously sexy things about wanting to get her naked. He was helping her in ways that went above and beyond.
And she still had the night to
He’d pulled out his wallet, handed her a five to pay back the tip, then reminded her she was the one donating to General Duggin’s Scholarship Foundation tonight.
Making sure she arrived looking the part of wealthy collector rather than pack rat was the least he could contribute to the cause—a cause he’d then started to dig into, asking her questions about her family and the importance of the documents Charlie had sent her to find.
Since she’d been stuck on the pack rat comment, frowning as she ransacked her duffel for the sandals she knew that were there, thinking how she really had let herself go since being consumed by this quest, she’d almost answered, had barely caught herself in time.
The story of her father’s wrongful incarceration and her determination to prove his innocence had been on the tip of her tongue before she had bit down. If Harry knew the truth of why she wanted the dossier, he would quickly figure out she had no intention of delivering it to Charlie Castro.
Then, no doubt, they’d get into an argument about the value of her brother’s life versus that of her father’s name, and he’d want to know why the hell they were going through all of this if not to save her brother.
She really didn’t want to go there with Harry. She was having too much trouble going there with herself. Finn would understand; she knew he would. As long as he was alive to do so when this was over…
At that thought, she groaned, the sound eliciting the stylist’s concern. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Too much color? Not enough? The highlights are temporary, remember? Three washings max, you’ll be back to being a brunette.”
“Oh, no. I was thinking of something else,” Georgia assured the other woman, meeting her reflected gaze. “I hadn’t even looked…”
But now she did. And she swore the reflection in the mirror couldn’t possibly be hers. “Wow,” was the only thing she could think to say, and so she said it again. “Wow.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too.” The stylist beamed at her handiwork—and rightly so. Georgia had never in her life looked like this. The highlights in her hair gave off a coppery sheen. Her layers, too long and grown out—she was desperate for a new cut—had been trimmed, colored, and swept up into an intricate rooster tail of untamed strands.
And then her face…Was that really her face? The salon’s makeup expert had used a similar color scheme, spreading sheer terra cotta on her cheeks, a blend of copper and bronze on her eyelids, finishing off with a gorgeous cinnamon-colored glaze on her lips.
And all of it matching the beautiful ginger-hued polish on the nails of all twenty fingers and toes. She could go for this girly girl stuff. Really.
Especially when she lifted her gaze to meet Harry’s in the mirror. He stood behind the stylist, his shoulders wide in his designer suit coat, his hands jammed to his lean waist, his smile showing just a hint of teeth.
She had no idea when he’d moved from where he’d been sitting to her chair, but the look in his eyes, the fire in his eyes, and the low sweep of his lashes was enough to make her swoon.
It had been so long since a man had shown that kind of interest in her that she didn’t know what to do, how to react, to respond. Except the truth was that it wasn’t the men. It was her.
She had refused to let any man close enough to do more than notice her skill for ferreting out valuable antiques for years now, longer than she could remember.
But now, here came Harry into the middle of her personal catastrophe, a veritable stranger who had the body of a god and a killer smile and eyes that were telling her dangerously sexy things about wanting to get her naked. He was helping her in ways that went above and beyond.
And she still had the night to
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