“Are you going to invite me inside?” she asked.
“Are you going to go away if I don’t?”
“No.”
He gave her a hard look for several long seconds before hemp „ turned and walked across the stone flooring. As she’d noticed yesterday, he moved slower than men of his age. His cane was a smooth extension of his left hand. What she hadn’t noticed was that he used the cane on his left side, the wrong side. She might not have noticed at all if not for the big brouhaha about Gregory House using his cane on the wrong side in the television medical drama House. The writers of House had made a mistake, but she supposed Mark Bressler used the wrong side because he wore some sort of splint made of aluminum and blue Velcro on his right hand.
“There’s nothing for you to do today,” he said over his shoulder. “Go home.”
“I have your schedule.” She closed the front door behind her, and the three-inch heels of her sandals echoed on the marble floor as she followed him into a large office filled with hockey memorabilia. “You have an appointment with your orthopedic doctor this morning at ten-thirty and an interview with Sports Illustrated at one o’clock at the Spitfire.”
He leaned his black cane against the edge of a massive mahogany desk and turned to face her. “I’m not doing the Sports Illustrated interview today.”
Chelsea had worked with a lot of difficult employers. It was her job to get them where they needed to be, even when they didn’t want to be there. “It’s been rescheduled twice.”
“It can be rescheduled a third time.”
“Why?”
He looked her in the eyes and said, “I need a haircut.” Either he was a bad liar or he just didn’t care if she knew he was lying.
She pulled her phone out of her handbag. “Do you have a preference?”
“For what? A haircut?” He shrugged and lowered himself into a big leather chair.
Chelsea dialed her sister’s number, and when Bo answered she said, “I need the name of a good hair salon or barber.”
“Gee, I don’t know,” her sister answered. “Hold on. I’ll ask Jules. He’s standing right here.” Chelsea walked to the window and pushed aside the heavy drapery to look out. The fight she’d had with her sister the night before still bothered her. If the one person in the world she loved and trusted above all others thought she was a loser… was she?
Bo got back on the line with the name and number of a salon in Belltown. Chelsea hung up, then dialed. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” she said as she turned back to the room.
“You’re wasting your time,” Mark grumbled as he opened a drawer in the desk. “I’m not doing the interview today.”
Chelsea held up one finger as the salon picked up. “John Louis Salon. This is Isis.”
“Hello, Isis. My name is Chelsea Ross and I work for Mark Bressler. He has an important interview and photo shoot with Sports Illustrated this afternoon at one o’clock. Is there any way you can get him in for a cut and blow?”
“Cut and blow? Jesus,” the grump behind the desk contin ihe desknued to grumble.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Isis assured her in a tone usually used by uppity receptionists in snooty salons.
“We’ll be grateful if—” The bitch put her on hold.
“Even if I get my hair cut, I’m still not doing the interview.”
Chelsea moved the phone away from her mouth. “What’s your next objection?”
“I’m not dressed for it,” he said, but she knew that was a lie too. She hadn’t a clue why he didn’t want to do the interview, but she doubted it had anything to do with the way he looked. Which, even she had to admit, was absolutely gorgeous in a casual, scruffy way that only truly good-looking men could get away with. Too bad he was such a jerk.
“Well, since it’s just an interview and not a photo shoot, I don’t think it matters.”
“You said photo shoot.”
“Yeah, I may have prevaricated.”
“You lied.”
Isis came back on the line, and Chelsea returned the phone to her mouth. “Yes.”
“We have a two o’clock opening.”
“I need to have him cut and blown and on his way out the door by twelve-forty-five.”
“Well, I don’t think we can help you.”
“Let me talk to your manager because I’m fairly sure he or she will want to take credit for making the captain of the Chinooks’ hockey team look good in a magazine that is read by millions worldwide.” She looked across the room at a big poster of Mark all geared up and shooting a puck. “Or I can just as easily chose another salon if you —” She pulled the phone away from her face and stared at it. “Bitch did it again,” she muttered, and moved to the framed poster. Mark didn’t look all that different in the poster than he did today. Maybe a little meaner. His brown eyes a little more intense as he stared out from beneath the black helmet on his head. She studied his eyes and then glanced over her shoulder to study him. “What are you doing?” she asked as she watched him pick up the phone on his desk.
“Calling the service to send a car.”
“There’s no need. It’s my job to get you to your appointments. I’ll drive you.”
“In what?”
“My car.”
He pointed the phone at the front of the house. “That piece of shit in my driveway?”
She held up her finger once more as Isis came back on the line.
“We can get Mr. Bressler in at noon.”
“Fabulous. What’s the address?” She moved to the desk and wrote on a sticky note before flipping her phone closed and dropping it in her bag. “You don’t like the Honda, fine. What wheels do you have in your garage?”
He set the phone back i' w phone n the cradle. “You want to drive my vehicle?”
It wasn’t unheard of. She’d driven her former employers around in their cars all the time. The more D list, the more they’d wanted to appear as if they had drivers. “Sure.”
“You’re fucking nuts if you think I’m going to let you drive my car. I saw the dents in your Honda.”
“Minor parking lot dings,” she assured him. “Isn’t your car insured?”
“Of course.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his wide chest.
“And wouldn’t it be more convenient for you to have me chauffeur you than waiting around on a car service all the time?”
He didn’t say anything, just scowled.
She looked at her watch. “It’s after ten now. You don’t have time to wait for a service to pick you up.”
“I can be late,” he said with the confidence of a man who was used to the world waiting on him.
“I’m offering you an opportunity to make your life easier, and you’re being obstinate and unreasonable for no logical reason. Unless you like to depend on a car service.”
“What’s the difference between depending on a service and depending on you? Other than you’re more annoying.”
She held up three fingers and counted down. “I’m cute, you don’t have to tip me, and I’m already here.”
He stared at her for several long moments, then slowly stood and reached for his cane. “You’re not that cute. If you ‘ding’ my car, I’ll kill you.”
She smiled and followed him out of the room. Her gaze landed on his wide shoulders and followed his tapered back to his waist. A wallet bulged the pocket of his dark nylon running pants. There were some men who wore sweats and looked like goof-balls. Then there were men like Mark who made them look good, with his long legs and tight behind. He might have had a serious accident six months ago, but his body was still hard from a lifetime of exercise. “Don’t you get a little lonely living in this big house by yourself?” she asked to fill the silence.
“No.” The way he walked, his cane, and the splint on his hand contrasted with his dominant aura. A clash of strength and vulnerability that was appealing. And which he totally ruined with his rude, abrasive personality. “Until recently, I’ve rarely been here,” he added. “For the last few years, I’ve been meaning to put it on the market. You interested?”
