Accidentally Yours

“She thinks she’s trapped me. She thinks I can’t back out because I’ll look bad. Who the hell does she think she is?”

“A desperate mom?” Jason asked. “You have nothing to say to her.”

“I’m going to make her stop. No one holds me hostage.”

“You’re going to make the situation worse. You have a very competent staff. We want to do our job. Let us deal with her. You don’t need any more negative publicity.”

“I want her ass in jail,” Nathan muttered.

“Not going to happen. Let’s imagine that headline. She’s got the sympathy factor. I don’t like what she’s doing, either, but let’s be logical.”

Logic? Nathan wasn’t interested. Whether it was a well thought-out plan or just dumb luck, Kerri Sullivan had gotten plenty of play from her bogus statement. He’d actually been contacted by someone at the research facility in Songwood, asking about the particulars for the donation. They were, she’d informed him, ready to begin hiring. Two other parents of kids with Gilliar’s Disease had also tried to get through to him. Just to thank him, their messages had said.

“How the hell does one hairdresser get all this done?” he demanded.

“She’s got balls,” Jason said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

“Remember whose side you’re on,” Nathan told him.

“You don’t have to remind me. Being on your side is the reason I’m telling you to turn around and come home. Let me handle her.”

Nathan grimaced. “You’re breaking up,” he said into the perfectly clear connection. “I’ll call back when I’m on my way down the mountain.”

“Dammit, Nathan. Don’t you hang up. And don’t do anything either of us will regret.”

Nathan disconnected the call.

Thirty minutes later he was in downtown Songwood, letting his GPS system direct him to the Hair Barn. When he found it, he parked and walked directly inside.

The place was filled with women. Conversation stopped the second the glass door closed behind him. A dozen or so pairs of eyes settled on him, but he ignored everyone except the blonde he remembered from the restaurant.

Last week he’d been too pissed off to notice anything about her. Now he compared the real, live Kerri Sullivan to the picture in her folder.

She was fairly average. Blond hair, blue eyes, medium height. Pretty enough, in a corn-fed kind of way. There were a million women just like her in the Midwest, which wasn’t a good thing. If he had her arrested and she got the kind of press coverage he knew she was more than capable of generating, every one of those million women would relate to her. She’d come off as pure as Snow White and he’d be the damned evil stepmother.

He ignored everyone else in the place and walked directly to her.

“We have to talk.”

She paused in the act of sweeping up hair from the floor and glanced at him. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe I’m here to tell you what you want to hear.”

“You look way too angry for that to be true. I’m guessing you want to threaten me. I don’t accept threats during work hours and I’m on the clock for another hour.”

He swore silently. Jason was right—she had balls. Giant ones.

“Ms. Sullivan,” he began, aware of every other person in the place listening to their conversation.

“I said no,” she told him, squaring her shoulders and trying to stare him down. “I make minimum wage plus tips. The fact that you know who I am and where I work tells me that you’ve done your research. That probably included a copy of my last couple of tax returns. You know what I make. I’m a single mom. I can’t afford to miss time off work because you’re in the mood to talk.”

He wanted to crush her like the insignificant insect she was. But he also respected her ability to negotiate like a pro. Under other circumstances, he might find himself respecting her.

“Fine,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “How much do you want?”

“About fifteen million. I thought that was pretty clear.”

“I meant for our conversation.”

“I’m not taking your money for that.”

He glanced around, then returned his attention to her and lowered his voice. “What if I just tell them the truth? That you made it all up.”

Her blue gaze never wavered. “I’ll burst into tears and demand to know how you could be so cruel as to crush the hopes of an entire town.”

He swore. “We’re going to talk.”

She nodded slowly. “Fine. Have a seat. I’ll cut your hair.”

“You mean scalp me. No thanks.”

She leaned the broom against the wall and put her hands on her hips. She was trying to look tough, he thought, and failing miserably.

“Look,” she said. “I’m good at what I do. I’m relatively new in town and I’m still building my clientele. I’m also interested in convincing you to donate fifteen million dollars to save my son’s life. Why on earth would I want to risk all of that by scalping you?”

“You know I don’t want to give you the money and I’m willing to do just about anything to stop you. That doesn’t make us friends.”

“Maybe not, but whoever’s been doing your hair isn’t doing a very good job.” She patted her chair. “Come on. I’ll turn you into a chick magnet.”

“I’m already a chick magnet.” But he reluctantly lowered himself into the seat.

Behind him, conversation resumed in the salon. Several women pulled out cell phones. Great. Soon he’d have an audience.

She covered him in a black plastic cape, then reached for a spray bottle and wet down his hair.

“How’d you do your research?” he asked.

“Internet. I can only type about twenty words a minute, but I’m tenacious.”

“And talented. The letter from my company looks authentic.”

She smiled at him in the mirror and reached for scissors. He held in a wince when she made her first cut.

“It is authentic. You agreed to pay the money.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

“Someone who had nothing to lose might have a form letter from your office. Form letters, although rude and thoughtless, do come with letterhead. A good scanner, a little creativity, the right software and there we are.”