Unzipped?

Hal stared at her. “What’s wrong with me? Jeez, I’ll get a haircut. There’s a barber down the street.”

“Hal, honey, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you need a bit more than a haircut. You need a whole new image and a handler. You need media training, too.”

“A handler? Oh, thanks very much, Peg!” Hal erupted from his chair and surged around the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and glared down at her. “I handle myself just fine. I’ll go see a barber, even shave off the face fuzz.” He fingered the itchy growth on his chin.

Peg shook her head. “Hal. Listen to me. You look only slightly better than Saddam when he came out of his hidey-hole—”

Hal’s jaw dropped. “That is not true.”

“Maybe a slight exaggeration, but not by much.”

“Would you like to check me for lice? Rat droppings?”

“Eeeuuww.” Peggy wrinkled her nose. “Calm down, Hal. I’m just trying to tell you that you need a major overhaul in the grooming, fashion and conversational departments. You’ve got to woo the media now. And we wouldn’t mind you wooing some women, either.”

“What’s wrong with my conversation?”

“You need to speak in sentences, in English, not C++. And normal people don’t call their computers ‘My Precious.’”

“It’s a joke,” Hal explained with heavy patience.

“It’s weird.”

Hal sighed. “Fine. Whatever. But I don’t see 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.”