His hand slipped under the elastic waistband of his briefs and imagined he was untying the knot at the nape of her neck. He could almost feel those flame-red curls searing his fingers. The cool velvet of her skin would soothe the ache while his boiling blood pumped through his veins. He pictured the pulse in her throat throbbing, those full pink lips bare and swollen from his kisses, and her emerald eyes, hazy and lazy with desire.
Full, plump breasts spilling into his hands. Every inch of her soft, round curves molding to him. She’d whisper his name.
Tom yanked his hand from his shorts and flung himself from the bed. He stared at the mussed comforter accusingly, as if the midnight blue duvet cover Wendy Nelson picked out was the reason he was panting like a pug after a tussle with an ottoman. He spun on his heel and stalked to the bathroom.
Leaning on the vanity, he stared hard at his reflection. He didn’t like what he saw. More gray in his hair. The lines around his eyes and mouth dug deeper. The stubble poking through at his jaw was tinged with red and white. He closed his eyes and pushed away from the mirror, rocking back on his heels.
Showing his age. Sean was right. He wasn’t twenty anymore. Hell, he wasn’t even thirty or forty. Forty-six was on the downhill side of fifty.
Tom met his gaze in the mirror, bared his teeth, and sucked in his stomach. He carefully ignored the slight bulge of flesh above his hips and patted his still-flat abs. The ceramic toothbrush holder Charlotte
Lowenstien
placed on his vanity wobbled when he yanked his brush free.
He glared at the three open holes on the cup, wondering what in the world he could have possibly said or done to give a woman as smart as Charlotte the impression he’d ever need more than one. Reaching for the toothpaste, he squirted a generous stripe onto the brush. Frankly, he wondered why any of them even tried. Like any reasonably sane divorce attorney he was virulently opposed to marriage. He’d seen enough of how determined and vengeful a woman can be once they’re on the other side of the altar. The whole relationship thing was just a game of cat and mouse, and Tom was equally determined he would never be some feline female’s prey.
But he liked women. Really, he did. In his twenties he tore through women like a starving man at a smorgasbord, and they all but leapt onto his plate. By the time he hit thirty, he’d honed his tastes, appreciating his women the way a foodie appreciates truffles, pate, or any of that other crap he wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. And every woman he dated seemed to think she had the flavor he’d savor. Forty came and went, and he mellowed a bit. Tom wasn’t opposed to a long-term relationship. The trouble was finding a woman who didn’t think a relationship entailed redecorating his apartment or the third finger on his left hand.
He stared at the toothbrush holder then peeked through the door at the rumpled duvet. Tomorrow, he’d be back on the prowl again. Tomorrow, he’d start all over with the same old blinds and a ceramic toothbrush cup he never wanted. A long, tired sigh seeped from his throat and a smirk twisted his lips as he saluted his reflection with the dripping toothbrush.
“At least my gums aren’t receding. Yet.”
Chapter Three
Early Monday morning, Maggie unlocked the rear door of The Glass Slipper Day Spa & Salon and slipped inside. The alarm’s beeps pierced her skull like ice picks. Maggie feared the size of her head would give the aliens from
Mars Attacks!
a run for their intergalactic money.
She punched in the security code, picked her way past the shampoo bowl and styling stations, and tried to avoid catching a glimpse of herself in a mirror. It wasn’t easy. The spa’s interior was a veritable funhouse. Scanning the glossy plank floor for
unswept
hair seemed a valid excuse to avert her gaze. The elastic holding her ponytail tugged the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck. Just a little more pain as punishment for her over-indulgence.
She skirted past the closed doors of the treatment rooms and ducked into the snug, cozy space at the very end of the narrow hallway. Her office. Her haven. This was the heart of the business. The business she never dreamed she ever wanted.
The overhead lights sprang to life and Maggie reeled back, shielding her eyes. Once she blinked away the dancing spots, she lit a candle and switched on the sound system. The soft strains of soothing strings built to a gentle soar. She hadn’t a clue what the tune was or who composed it, but she hummed along, every lilting note long committed to memory. There would never be any of that
twangy
New Age crap in her spa, and certainly no Kenny G.
Lowering herself into the leather chair behind the open desk, she turned on the computer and pushed off with her feet. She closed her eyes as she rolled back to the wall and waited for the machine to boot. A low groan slithered from her lips. She tried to lose herself in the sweet, swirling music, wishing it could carry her away from the prospect of payroll and inventory. She wanted to escape her aching head, the worry making her stomach roil, and the constant trickle of fear tripping its way through her veins.
The marital troubles her friend Tracy confessed over margaritas and hot fudge sundaes Saturday night scared her. For far too long she’d held Tracy and Sean’s marriage up as her ideal. Tracy had everything—the handsome, hard-working husband, the perfect suburban home, and three lovable ragamuffins. All that was missing was a damn Golden Retriever.
The morass of mixed emotions her friend’s confession unleashed set Maggie back on her spiked heels. Sympathy, resentment, heartache, and jealousy battled for dominance, but lost by a mile. The fact that Tracy Sullivan had everything Maggie ever wanted and stood on the brink of throwing it all away made her unaccountably…happy.
And that made her horrible—a horrible, terrible excuse of a woman. Her good friend broke down and confessed the collapse of her marriage, and a tiny, ugly little part of her rejoiced. She couldn’t help it. For some reason she found perverse pleasure in learning her perfect friend was royally screwing up her perfect life.
Of course, by the time Tracy dropped her in front of her Wicker Park building, Maggie was sufficiently wretched enough to polish off the rest of Friday night’s merlot. She coaxed the sympathy and heartache she wanted to feel for her friend from the evil clutches of that happiness. By Sunday morning she was forced to admit another illusion lay shattered. That night, Maggie sat in her living room wearing Betty
Boop
pajamas and drenching Fred’s fur with fat, salty tears. She amped the pity party up a notch by making mad, passionate love to a bottle of
meritage
and passing out on the rug.
The computer beeped and Maggie surged forward in the chair. Her stomach lurched and her giant head spun. She let it fall forward into her hands. Pressing the heels of her palms to her brow, she vowed to be better, to atone for her sins. She promised herself she’d order inventory, process the week’s payroll, and make her twelve o’clock meeting at Haven House even if it killed her. A sharp, stabbing pain in her temple indicated that it damn well might.
The spa was closed. Mondays were the days she usually got things done, and she had a full agenda. Too full to nurse a case of Bordeaux brain. Desperate, she promised the hangover gods if they made it stop, she would call Tracy and repeat her offer of a spa night for just the two of them. She swore she’d stamp out that little spark of happiness, even if it scorched the soles of her beloved
Louboutin
slingbacks
. Desperate times called for drastic measures.
Covering her stomach with one hand, Maggie also silently pledged to ban the grape from her apartment. Except on social occasions, of course. Starting now she’d be the friend she always thought she was and the strong, independent woman she wanted to be—not this clenched-up, wine-drenched, unholy mess of girl.
****
“You’re so good with them, Maggie.”
Maggie’s head popped up and the tubes of mascara samples she was packing into a large black case spurted from her clenched fist. Sheila McKenzie, the diminutive founder and director of Haven House, stood just inside the doorway to the common room. The silver-haired woman chuckled as she scrambled to recover the wayward wands.
She shook her head, flashing a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”
Sheila patted her carefully coiffed hair and floated into the room. Maggie watched the woman’s tiny feet, determined to figure out exactly how the spry septuagenarian pulled the whole floating thing off while wearing three-inch heels.
“Nothing gives a woman a shot of confidence like a swipe of lipstick,” Sheila murmured, choosing one of the tubes arrayed on the table and twisting its base until a stick of bold vermillion appeared. A benevolent smile touched the corners of her more subtly shaded lips. “I haven’t received your R.S.V.P. for the benefit yet, Maggie.”
“You don’t think it’s a little perverse to hold a five-hundred-dollar-a-ticket fundraiser for women who are wearing other people’s cast off coats?”
One perfect eyebrow arched. The older woman’s warm brown eyes gleamed with an unidentifiable sparkle. “Not at all. Most of those people have forgotten how much they paid for last season’s coat and you can bet they paid much more than five hundred dollars for this year’s latest trend.”
Maggie gathered the remaining tubes and pots of make-up and dumped them into the case. She nodded to the tube in Sheila’s hand. “That one would suit you.”
A smile quirked Sheila’s lips. “Do you think so? It’s been a long time since I tried to pull off a color so daring.”
“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
The older woman threw her head back and laughed. The rich, bawdy guffaw contrasted sharply with her conservative knit suit. Silvery tresses glinted in the harsh florescent light. Her chocolate eyes flared. “Maybe in my day….”
The laugh gave Maggie permission to prop her hip against the low table and ask the question she always wanted to ask. “How did you end up doing this?”
Sheila’s smile didn’t slip as she capped the lipstick and dropped it into the pocket of her knit suit. “I used to be a social worker. I saw a lot of abuse—women, children….”
“You were?”
The smile turned a touch enigmatic. “Maggie, didn’t your mother ever tell you that you can marry more money in five minutes than you can make your entire life?”
A startled laugh burbled from her lips. “No, but my Grandma told me if I wished on the evening star, my prince would come.”
Sheila’s brown eyes twinkled like the evening star. “Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman.”
“She was.”
The older woman tugged at the hem of her immaculate suit jacket. “Then I suppose she also told you those princes can be damn unreliable. Best not to wait on them.”
“No, she didn’t tell me that part, but I think I figured it out on my own.”
“That’s because you’re a smart woman.” Sheila sighed, her shrewd glance taking in the entire common room in the blink of an eye. “Besides, even if you snag one, you never know when you’ll lose him. When Howard passed away, I found myself at loose ends.”
“So, naturally…” Maggie prompted, gesturing to the cinderblock walls of the renovated building that now housed ten abused women and their offspring.
“I don’t have children or grandchildren, and there’s only so much bridge one can play. I started Haven House twenty years ago, but it wasn’t until after Howard was gone that I mustered the nerve to stop being the woman who signed the checks and took the plunge. Getting involved, personally involved…” She flashed a brilliant smile. “Best decision I ever made.”
“You’re saving their lives.”
“They saved mine,” Sheila corrected.
Maggie shook her head, undeterred. “You take them in, feed them, clothe them, provide counseling, teach them job skills—”
“And beauty skills,” Sheila added, nodding to the case. When Maggie rolled her eyes, she shook her head adamantly. “Do not discount what you do for them, Maggie. Their bruises are more than skin deep. On top of being frightened, they feel unworthy, inferior, and ugly. After an afternoon with you, they actually want to look in a mirror. That’s a huge step.”
“Sometimes it feels silly. Like I’m arming them with a tube of lip gloss and saying, ‘Go get ‘
em
, Tiger!’”
“You know it’s so much more than that,” Sheila chided. She pulled a rectangle of cream-colored cardstock from her pocket. “Here’s your ticket. I’ll expect to see you a week from Saturday.”
“Does anyone ever tell you no?”
A smug smile tugged her lips. “It happens. Not very often, but it does.”
Maggie reached for her purse. “Let me write you a check.”