why you’re so concerned about the media.”
Ryan, his attorney and the neighboring office tenant, stuck his head through the door. “There is a definite need to be concerned, Hal. Sorry to eavesdrop, but it’s about time we had this talk. Peg and I are performing an image intervention here.” He took a bite of the ham sandwich in his right hand and pushed up his glasses with the left.
Hal folded his arms and glared at Ryan. “Begging your pardon, sir, I hadn’t realized you were chief counsel for GQ.”
“What I look like doesn’t matter,” Ryan said. “What you look like does. You are the CEO of Underwood Technologies. If you resemble a caveman, people will assume U.T. is run by an unstable loon. We want them to buy stock, not wonder about your mental health.”
Hal threw up his hands. “They’re buying part of the company, not part of me! And my mental health is just fine.”
“You are the face of the company, Hal. The face and the voice—and the future. It’s time for a new image, my man.”
IT’S TIME for a new image, my man. The words reverberated in Hal’s head as he glared at the business card in his hand. He’d finally chased off Peg and Ryan after promising to call the number on the card. What crap. Hadn’t he started his own company so that he could avoid such things as dress codes, brownnosing and Corporate Career Ken dolls?
Finesse, said the card. Shannon Shane, Image Consultant and Media Trainer. No doubt she’d try to dress him in khaki pants and a navy blazer, the Connecticut State Uniform. She’d try to dye his hair blond and cap his teeth. She’d chase him with a pair of penny loafers—but she’d never get him into them.
Hal wiggled his toes in his ancient running shoes with the frayed, grungy laces. No freakin’ penny loafers, by God. He glared at the card again before picking up the phone and dialing.
“Finesse, Shannon Shane speaking.”
Shannon. The only females he’d ever known named Shannon had been gorgeous and stuck-up. Like Heathers and Tiffanys.
“Hello?”
Hal cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. I’m, uh. Well, I wanted to make an appointment.”
“Okay, I’d be happy to do that. Will you tell me your name?”
God, the unknown Shannon’s voice was sexy. Throaty and a bit raw. “Uh, name. Right. I’m Hal. Underwood.”
“Great, Hal. I think I heard that you might get in touch. You were referred by…?”
“My—uh, sister.” Could I sound more lame? Yup. “And my mother.” Worse and worse. “Oh, and my attorney.” Perfect.
A faint tremor of laughter sifted through her voice. “Sounds like they ganged up on you.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“And you don’t appreciate it.”
“No. Not really.”
“What do they— What do you think the issue is?”
He remembered Peg’s comments, and they stung. “I’m taking my software company public in a month,” he said. “And apparently…” He paused. “Apparently I look worse than Saddam when they found him in the hole.”
There was no mistaking her amusement this time, though she tried to pass off the gurgle as a cough. “I—I see. Sounds urgent. Why don’t we make an appointment for tomorrow afternoon?”
“You work Saturdays?”
“We often do, to accommodate our clients’ schedules. Is one o’clock convenient for you?”
“Fabulous. Wonderful. Couldn’t be better. I will live,” Hal said through gritted teeth, “for one o’clock.”
“If it’s any comfort to you at all,” Shannon Shane told him, “Saddam cleans up very well. Of course, he could do with an eye lift.”
Hal stared disbelievingly at the receiver of his telephone before punching the off button. What had he just gotten himself into?
3
TODAY WAS A TYPICAL Saturday, but Shannon didn’t recognize her own body. Who is that, reflected in my glass office door? It’s an Unidentified Flying Blonde, aka me, moi, myself. The same self I was yesterday, but…not.
Adopted. She was adopted.
She hovered like an alien outside her reflection in the door of Finesse.
Her image looked back at her: a tall, rangy blonde in black leather pants, black spike-heeled boots and a cropped, orange leather jacket. But she could have been watching another person approach. Her mind, usually sharp and aware, floated above her shoulders: detached in a helium balloon and connected by only a ribbon.
And I’m not even on drugs. She felt insubstantial, as if she could simply fade through the door like a wraith. Who is that woman entering my place of business? Who is she?
Shannon pulled up short between the two plaster urns full of ivy that flanked the door and put out a hand to connect with the heavy steel handle. Pull to open. Step over threshold. Smile at Jane and Lilia, your friends and business partners.
Jane looked up from her desk and peered into the reception area. “Shannon? Are you okay?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”
Lilia came out of her office with her appointment book and cell phone. “You look tired. Did you sleep last night?”
“Not much,” Shannon admitted.
“Out partying late?”
Shannon shook her head. She thought about lying to Jane and Lil, telling them that she’d stayed up late watching a movie or reading a book. Instead she just bypassed them and went to the kitchen for coffee. Pull yourself together.
She had three different appointments today, and she couldn’t be in space like this. But she had a feeling that she’d never walk steadily on earth again.
Melodramatic tendencies, Shannon. You’re not auditioning for daytime soaps anymore. The voice in her head sounded just like Mrs. Koogle’s, their ninth-grade English teacher.
It was a shame she wasn’t reading for the soaps today. Because at least in the auditions, she’d had a script to follow, lines to memorize, the anchors of the character and a plot. Plus the adrenaline of the circumstances: will this be my lucky break? Will I get a callback?
Today she had no adrenaline. No script. No happy—or even cliff-hanger—ending. Nope, this was her life. And while there had been days when she felt it was stuck in an endless, quaint New England traffic roundabout, at least she’d been moving. Her mother’s revelation yesterday had brought her to a complete standstill.
Lil followed her into the kitchen and Shannon could feel her friend’s concerned gaze on her back. If she touches me, I’m done for.
Lil’s
