of wine in record time. She stared at him through slitted, smoky eyes that she’d taken great pains making up.
He was cleaning up the last toe on her right foot with a wooden cuticle stick and a bit of acetone when she said huskily, “What ish thish thing between us, Alejandro?”
Alarmed, he repeated, “Thing?”
Then she lurched forward and stuck her left foot, wet polish and all, into his crotch. “Oh, baby! Is that a python in your pants?”
He looked down, his jaw working. Red nail polish—all over his trousers. He searched for tact. Remember, she’s a client.
She blinked at the mess, giggled and covered her mouth with a hand. “Oops. Sorry…”
He gently removed her foot and wiped her ruined toenails with a paper towel soaked in acetone. He didn’t bother with his pants—they were history. “Señora, I think the wine may have gone to your head.”
She put a hand on her heart. “No, it hasn’t. I feel this ’lectricity in the air when I’m with you, and I can tell you feel the shame way.” She glanced meaningfully at his, er, python, which wasn’t feeling at all aggressive. In fact, it had practically shrunk up to his chin.
He had to step carefully. “Indeed, señora, you are very beautiful, and a man would have to be dead not to, ah, desire you. However, you are a married woman and a mother—I could not possibly act on such an attraction. It cannot be.” There, was that dramatic and mournful enough? He hoped so.
“Just because I have kids doesn’t mean I’m dead.” To his horror, Heather began to cry.
He stared at her, aghast.
“You think I’m a tramp, don’t you?”
“No, no, no, no, no! I think you’re a lovely lady,” Alejandro said desperately. “Really.”
“You think I’m ugly.”
“No! You are gloriously, stunningly beautiful.”
“Then you think I’m fat.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I do not think you’re fat. You’re like a—” he searched wildly “—a gazelle!”
“Now you’re calling me an animal?”
“It was a compliment! Gazelle—you know, graceful. Svelte! Dainty.”
“You don’t waaaaaaant me,” she moaned.
“I do. I want you, Heather, more than—than words can say. Madly. Passionately.”
“You do?”
He nodded, his hand over his heart. “But first, we must paint your toenails, yes?”
She gave a woeful sniff. “Uh-huh.”
“Excellent. Now, give me your scrumptious foot, mi corazon. Let me make it as lovely as the rest of you.”
Heather stuck out her foot and her lip at the same time while he thought wildly of what disease or disability to claim so that he could get out of this mess.
She sulked for a while.
Syphilis? Or erectile dysfunction? Eeny meeny miny mo, catch a whopper by its toe…please, lady, just let me go!
Then the heavens intervened. “By the way, you should know that I’m not really in the mood anymore, Alejandro.”
Praise God and all His angels. Alejo dredged up a wounded expression. “But…I am devastated.”
She shrugged and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Then she folded her arms across her chest and pressed her knees firmly together. If he hadn’t been so relieved, he might have poked his eyes out with the cuticle stick.
Women. Hard enough to understand them when they were sober. He couldn’t keep up with their lightning changes of mood then, much less adding alcohol to the equation. All he knew was that he’d been spared, thanks be to Jesus.
Alejandro polished Heather’s toes for the second time that night, and then escaped from the room, only to run into Peggy Underwood, his other partner.
Peg, the spa’s massage therapist, stuck her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat and looked pointedly at his crotch. Her eyebrows climbed into her hair. “Alejo, did your client try to Bobbitt you?”
He could feel his face sizzling. “No. She, um…”
“Tried to play footsie with your tootsie?”
“That about covers it.”
Peggy grinned. “Sweetie, it’s gotten to the point where we can tell which women are your clients. The ones who come in for their pedicures in short skirts. They’re absolutely shameless!”
“Yeah, tell me about it. I can’t keep doing this, Peggy. If my buddies find out…” He shook his head.
“Alejandro. Since you’ve been doing pedicures, our revenue on them has shot sky-high. Like it or not, your fifty-dollar pedicures are bringing in over two thousand dollars a week, and don’t tell me to hire someone else, because it’s you they want. Shirlie tells me we get calls all the time, asking for the guy who looks like Jesse Metcalfe from Desperate Housewives. If you’re not available, they say they’ll wait.”
“But it’s humiliating!” he complained. “You don’t understand. Peruvian men don’t give manicures or pedicures. They just don’t! You have no idea what will happen if this gets out. I will be branded rosquete, be the butt of jokes, kicked off the soccer team!”
“What’s a rosquete?” Peggy asked.
Alejandro shuddered. “It’s very rude. It means big doughnut, and it’s used to describe gay men.”
Peg snorted with laughter.
“It’s not funny!” he hissed. “Not at all.”
“Sorry,” she said, trying and failing to smother her mirth.
“I’m telling you, I cannot do this anymore.”
She sobered. “Alejo, it’s just until we get the business loans paid down. You said it yourself.”
“Yes, and my MBA loan, and—There’s no end in sight. Meanwhile I’m dying inside every time I touch a woman’s foot or hand!”
“Sweetie, how many men would beg to be mauled by beautiful women all day long?”
He growled.
“Plenty of Asian men do nails. Why shouldn’t you?”
He growled again.
“I know, I know. But we’ll keep your secret. None of the clients even know your real name, Señor Manos, and your friends just think you’re an owner. It will be fine. Our secret. Just for a few more months.”
He
