Karen Kendall - Unzipped?

And I want to find out who’s leaking information to my competition. No way did Greer Conover develop a prototype, on his own, that’s just like ours. Conover had always been a sneak and a slime, and he’d frequently cheated off Hal’s tests in college.

“Okay,” said Shannon. “Then we’re looking at a multistage process. First we need to work on some surface stuff like a haircut, a shave and some new clothes.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Painless, I promise.”

“Uh-huh.” She had a beautiful smile and because of it, he didn’t trust a word she said. The smile was a tool.

“And by the way, underneath all that hair, I think you’re much better-looking than Saddam.”

Lay it on thick, baby, so I’ll write you a check. He flashed her a sardonic glance. “That’s not saying much.”

She laughed. “Okay, during stage two we’ll work on things like small talk and posture and media training. And during stage three, I’ll teach you how to become irresistible to women.”

“Irresistible, huh?”

“Absolutely.” Her voice was firm. Again, no trace of amusement. A damn good actress, was Shannon Shane.

“All this in the next thirty days?”

She nodded.

Hal sighed. “When do we start and how much is all this going to cost me?”

She looked at her watch, a platinum number that had probably cost some sucker boyfriend more than Hal paid Tina, his receptionist, in a year. “We start now. I made a tentative appointment with a stylist for you. He’s a good friend of mine, so he held a slot open.”

Stylist? The very word sounded ominous to Hal. Expensive and suspicious. “I go to a barber close to my office.”

“Not anymore, you don’t.” She gave him a sunny smile. Then she named a ballpark sum for her services that scandalized him.

Hal’s jaw dropped open. “Do you know how many computers I could buy for that money?”

She met his gaze squarely. “You don’t need any more computers. Do you?”

Hey, a guy could always use more computers. He would admit nothing.

“And you do need a new image, right?”

A matter of opinion.

“So you’re going to need a lot of coaching, good suits for media interviews, new glasses, new shoes—”

“No penny loafers.” Hal laid down the law.

“What?”

“Don’t even try.”

“Penny loafers? No, of course not. Nobody but a dyed-in-the-wool, New England preppy would wear those things. We’re going for a much more hip, intellectual but sexy image.”

Hal almost laughed at the idea that he could ever be hip or sexy. He looked again at Shannon Shane’s Dr. Seuss wall calendar. She was a kook. A gorgeous kook. But she wasn’t going to make him wear penny loafers.

“All right,” he sighed. And against his inclination and better judgment, he placed himself in Shannon’s too-beautiful hands.

SHANNON FELT LIKE A FRAUD, a farce and a failure. And all the orange leather jackets in the world couldn’t change the facts: she, a failed actress, was nothing compared to someone like Hal Underwood, a guy so brilliant that he’d not only founded his own software company but was about to take it public.

Sure, she could help him with his public image. If only he could help her with her private one. People never got past her surface. For as long as she could remember, she’d been a victim of stares from both sexes. The stares of men were at best admiring and at worst downright lustful. The stares of women were usually hostile, envious or despairing.

She’d gotten used to being looked at—after all, there was nothing she could do about it—but she’d never get used to the strange emotions her appearance produced in other people. And she’d never grow accustomed to the feeling that nobody ever heard a word she said—they simply watched her lips move. Worse—she now didn’t even know who she was, and therefore what she had to say.

Since her car was flooded, they took Hal’s to see Enrique, her stylist.

His salon was a sumptuous ode to blue velvet. The curved reception desk was upholstered in a deep navy, as was the long sofa. Various chairs and pillows ranged in hue from royal to turquoise to periwinkle. Even the cornice boards were turquoise velvet.

A tall vase of peacock feathers stood in one corner, and on the one wall that wasn’t dominated by gilt mirrors hung every employee’s state cosmetology license framed in monstrously ornate gold.

Shannon had gotten used to Enrique’s royal environment. Hal stood like a deer in the headlights and gazed in stupefaction at the Early Bordello decor while Enrique danced out to greet them.

“’Allo, beeeyoootiful,” he said to Shannon.

“Hi, Enrique.” She kissed him on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Bueno.” A small, vivacious man who barely reached to Shannon’s shoulders, he assessed Hal with great interest. He stroked his chin. He tapped his foot. He walked around him in a circle and peered at him.

“I theenk we have good things under all thees hair, my friend.”

Hal hunched his shoulders and sent a desperate look to Shannon. It clearly said, “Get me outta here!”

She smiled.

“Come!” ordered Enrique. “You seet here, in my chair.” He looped his arm through Hal’s, to the poor guy’s discomfort, and dragged him off to his lair. Shannon repressed a giggle and followed.

“First, we shave, yes?” Enrique tugged on Hal’s beard.

“Ow!”

“Is no a good look for you. Off!” The stylist brandished an old-fashioned razor.

“Uh,” said Hal, fingering his neck. “Why not let me do that?”

“No, no. Is for you to relax.” The little man pushed him into a salon chair and immediately flipped it back to a lounging position. Within moments, he had his victim’s face smothered in shaving cream and was scraping away. Hal looked about as relaxed as a lobster being held over a pot of boiling water.

As Enrique scraped, he hummed tunelessly, achieving a virtually indescribable sound. Shannon concentrated on describing it anyway, so she wouldn’t laugh at the panicked expression in Hal’s eyes, and came up with Ricky Martin meets whale calls.

“Enrique may slaughter a tune, but he won’t slit your throat,” she reassured Hal.

The man who emerged from under all the white lather fifteen minutes later had high cheekbones, a strong jaw and a full lower lip. Paired with those blue eyes, even behind his cheesy glasses, the combination was striking. Shannon couldn’t help staring. Hal didn’t look at all like Saddam. He looked…good. Really good.

Enrique snatched off Hal’s glasses and then took the poor man’s face between his hands and turned it this way and that. He smoothed back the overgrown, shaggy hair, pursed his lips and cocked his head. “Sí!” he announced, to no one in particular.

“Sí?” Shannon asked. “Do you think a Caesar cut, or a little longer on top?”

“Caesar, yes, he has the bones for it.”

“He does?” asked Hal. “I mean, I do?”

“Yes, yes!”

“I’m not so sure about th…” Hal trailed off as great whacks of hair began to fall at Enrique’s feet. “Wait—”

“Be calm. You are in the presence of genius,” Shannon assured him.

“Yes, me! Genius! That ees so.” Enrique practically danced as he worked, fingers flying.

Hal closed his eyes and seemed to be praying. More hair flew as the stylist’s scissors flashed.

When the menacing chops ceased, Hal opened his eyes again and fished for his glasses, settling them onto his nose. He had become a different person, and judging from his expression, he couldn’t quite believe it.

For her part, she was floored. Hal was hot!

Enrique allowed the spectacles back on with a frown. He still snipped and fussed and compared lengths of hair in his fingers, but he seemed pleased. Hal stared at the stranger in the mirror.