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"Not one bit. And you can't back out, it'll look suspicious. Plus, they didn't originally plan to have you on the list for the pampering session, so Mr. Clipboard had to call in a specialist just for you. So not only would you backing out threaten our cover, you'd also actively piss off a lot of people that we can not afford to piss off."
I groan internally. This has to be her way of getting back at me for... well, being here. "You're insane, Dani."
She shrugs, the picture of innocence and wicked scheming. "Just blending in, Owen."
"You've got to be fucking me," I mutter, then my jaw clacks shut as I realize just what I've said. My eyes go to the ceiling, but I can still see the color of desire flash across her cheeks. If only. "How much time do I have before this nightmare?"
"Thirty minutes," she says. Then, after an exaggerated check of the time on her phone, she mimics my voice and says, "Actually, twenty-nine."
"You're the worst."
This is going to be hell. An assault on my dignity and something that, if word gets out about it — especially to Rook or Dixon — I will never live it down.
"If you don't want to do it, you can always go home," she says, mimicking me again.
"Like hell I will."
This is her revenge. Her attempt to drive me away. But I won't let her break me.
Twenty-nine minutes later, I'm sitting in a chair, surrounded by chattering women, feeling like a bull in a china shop. Elegant snacks are everywhere — miniature crepes, smoked salmon, caviar — and champagne flows freely. There's even hard liquor. Vodka, rum, and, thankfully, whiskey, which sits in a glass in my hand, slowly dissolving an ice cube while I stare at it and wonder just how bad things are going to get. Part of me is jealous of that ice cube. I want to dissolve into whiskey right now, too.
The pampering doesn't start off too bad.
My stylist, or 'professional pamperer' to use the term thrown around by the women in the room, is late. Each of the others pairs off with their pamperer, and I'm left alone with my whiskey and my dark thoughts.
Then there's a noise.
A door, open and closing with a flourish.
An announcement of my misery in a dramatic voice.
He walks in — the artist, my enemy for this morning. He's a whirlwind of energy, his laughter infectious, his gestures flamboyant. His presence is like a ray of sunshine, vibrant and full of life, and bound to kill my dignity with ruthless ferocity.
"Darling," he addresses me, "you look like you need a good pampering. My name is Horatio, and I'll be taking care of you this morning."
"Owen," I say, because I'm not so fucking rude that I won't respond when someone offers me an honest introduction, even if the prospect of what's to come after it creeps me out. Then I snort, frustrated by the ridiculousness of it all and the smug look on Danielle's face. She's living this up and loving every second of my discomfort. "And I doubt that."
"Sit, let me wrap you in my adoration," he says, with a flourish of a hairdresser's cape, "And let me bring out the rugged, handsome man within you."
All eyes in the room turn to me, largely because Horatio just draws attention to him with everything he does, and I know I have no damn choice except to sit down and let this man work on me.
So I do it.
Slowly, but I do it.
I've never hesitated this much at anything, and I've jumped into active gunfire with a smile on my face.
"So, tell me about yourself, handsome," he says as he wraps the cape around me and begins misting my head for some reason.
"Name's Owen."
"We covered that already, dear."
"Last name's O'Connell," I offer.
"Oh, so now I know three things about you: your first name, your last name, and what I'd love to be doing with you on a Friday night, if you weren't so obviously taken." He winks at me, knowing I'm uncomfortable, knowing he's got free rein to tease me, and the only reason I'm not shoving him away is because even I can hear he's only teasing. "What else can you tell me?"
"I was a Marine."
