unless Shannon helped her. She was going to pay for her Finesse sessions with her babysitting money, and it seemed all too likely that her mother didn’t know she was there.
Shannon hesitated for a moment, debating the ethics. Then she caved in. After all, it wasn’t as if she were going to outfit the girl with a thong and spike heels. But take her babysitting money? Shannon couldn’t.
“Hold on just a sec, sweetie,” she told her. “I’ve just got to run get some paperwork.” She smiled reassuringly and slipped out of her office, closing the door behind her. Moments later, she stood in Jane’s office.
“I can’t charge this one,” she said. “It would be criminal. She’s all of fifteen. Isn’t there something she can do around the office?”
Jane tapped her pen on her nose.
“Stop that! I thought we broke you of that habit when you drew all over your face.”
“Dominic thinks I’m sexy with a Bic mustache. Can the girl type?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” Jane sat for a moment, thinking, and then brightened. “Mailings! She can help do the direct mail stuff. How about that?”
“Perfect.” Shannon spun on her heel, grabbed a generic information form off Jane’s credenza and returned to her own office.
“Here we go,” she said, handing the sheet of paper to Janna, who peered at it from under her stringy bangs. “If you’ll just fill this out, we can get started. The good news is that we’ve just begun a student discount program. Oh, and by the way, we’re looking for someone to help out here a few hours a week. Would you be interested? I know you’re not technically employment age, but we could just reduce your bill by the hours you work.”
Janna looked as if she might kiss Shannon. Mentally Shan pieced through her closet for a few things that would fit the girl. Babysitting money wouldn’t go too far in terms of haircuts, clothes and makeup.
When Janna left, it was noon, which vaguely surprised Shannon. She wasn’t hungry. She felt restless, her identity crisis rushing back into her consciousness. Who had actually given birth to her? Where was she now? What did she look like? What nationality was she? What were the circumstances under which she’d had a child—and given her away?
The questions flooded her mind and made her feel unbalanced. She had to get out of here for a while—especially before she faced Hal Underwood, a brain who had single-handedly built his own software company, so successfully that he was now taking it public.
That was impressive. A lot more impressive than failing as an actress; trying to make a living as just one more pretty face in an ocean of them. It also beat out a career grooming people like a monkey.
The unknown Hal Underwood was already giving her an inferiority complex; taking her back to high school where she’d been treated as the stereotypical dumb blonde.
Shannon swept her keys off the corner of her desk and grabbed her lime-green suede hobo bag. “Gotta run some errands!” she called to Lilia and Jane. “Back by one.”
She made her way outside, into the gray, chilly Connecticut spring. Hey, God. Don’t you know it’s April? Could you improve the weather just a bit?
Shannon got into her white BMW roadster and put the top down in defiance of the weather. The car, a gift from her parents, now seemed all wrong for her. Suddenly she hated it, hated the tan leather seats, hated the logo in the center of the steering wheel, hated the way she must look in the thing: like an expensive, privileged blonde with not a care in the world. What if her real mother was a waitress? A teacher? A postal worker? What if a car like this represented a year’s salary to her? The beemer seemed shameful in light of these questions.
She squealed out of the parking lot, the cold April wind in her hair, and headed for Highway 84.
Within moments the sky decided to dump on her, and it seemed fitting. Instead of putting the top up, Shannon let the rain soak her in a cold shower of reality. She pushed the leopard-print reading glasses to the top of her head and drove under the raindrops like a madwoman, not caring what she looked like to others.
Though the rain pelted her face and hair, trickled down the neck of her jacket and damn near froze her in combination with the wind, at least she felt alive. Not numb, as she’d been all afternoon yesterday and all night.
How ironic that I’m an image consultant. Because that’s all I am: an image. Everything about my life has been a lie.
4
HAL GRITTED his teeth, still obsessing about the information leak in his company. He’d satisfied himself that it wasn’t via an outside hacker, but only after hours upon hours of searching through the logs.
He turned into the Finesse parking lot five minutes early for his one o’clock appointment with Shannon Shane. He did not look forward to it, but he was never, ever late. All of this image b.s. was just another way to waste his time. He had more important things to do, damn it!
He glanced quickly into his rearview mirror to reassure himself once again that he didn’t look like Saddam. Okay, so the beard is bad. The hair is shaggy. But, hey! I have blue eyes. A nice smile, if anyone could see it under the mustache. No signs of mania.
He got out of his Explorer and walked, in the rain, to the entrance of this place called Finesse. Pretentious. Fussy. Annoying. This Shannon person, despite her sense of humor on the phone, would probably be one of those ladies who glided everywhere on high heels, had sprayed-into-place helmet hair and gazed at everyone with a fixed, vacuous smile.
Hal entered the place and said “Hello” to a woman in a beige silk suit. She blinked at him and took an unconscious step backward before returning the greeting. Maybe he did look like a terrorist on the run.
“Are you Shannon Shane?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry, but she’s not back from lunch yet. I’m Lilia London, one of Shannon’s partners. Won’t you have a seat?” She gestured toward a fussy little sofa.
Hal nodded at her and sat down on the awful thing, immediately feeling smothered by the pink cabbage roses on it. It was made for females. Females much smaller than him and with shorter legs.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Ms. London asked him.
He shook his head, stared out the window at the parking lot, and began systematically picking at the cuticle on his left thumb.
“You’re welcome,” he heard her singsong pleasantly under her breath.
He wasn’t meant to hear it. He craned his neck after her. “Uh. Uh! Thank you. Too much caffeine today. A gallon for breakfast.”
She peered around her office door at him and gave him a very nice smile. “You’re welcome.”
Hal reverted to a nod again and returned his gaze to the window. April, huh. Cursed Connecticut. Where is spring? The rain poured down, relentless.
Hal closed his eyes against the bleak weather and cracked his neck for tension relief. He flexed his shoulder blades and then opened his eyes to a most peculiar vision.
A
