by Savanna Fox
“Terry Banerjee comes here too?” Georgia asked.
“But of course,” Christopher said.
“I’d look stupid with hair like Terry’s,” Woody said grimly, “and I hate putting all that goop in it.”
“Product,” the stylist corrected. “We could go very short, because your skull has a wonderful shape.” He stood back and shook his head. “But no, I like longer hair, especially on a man with such healthy, thick hair.”
He glanced at Viv and Georgia. “Woody is an athlete, and long hair is synonymous with virility, isn’t it, ladies? Samson, and so on? Isn’t every middle-aged man’s greatest fear the loss of his hair?” He made a wry face. “Well, his second greatest fear, because after all hair does only symbolize virility. The hair is a poor substitute if the real thing is missing. Not that I imagine you’ll have to worry about the depletion of either, will you, Woody?”
Woody’s lips twitched. “No signs of trouble yet, Christopher.”
“I thought not.” He patted Woody on the shoulder. “I can always tell these things.”
“Longish hair, then,” Viv said, “and the beard needs to go.”
Georgia nodded.
“No,” Woody said flatly, and Christopher glanced at the two women.
“You may hate shaving,” Georgia said, “but you’re going to have to get used to it.”
He shook his head. “It’s a playoff beard.”
“A what?” she asked, as Viv also stared in puzzlement.
“We don’t shave during the playoffs.”
“Athletes have superstitions,” Christopher said.
“I’ve noticed that almost all the players for the Beavers and the Ducks have beards,” Georgia said. “But we’ll be doing ad photos and the scruffy beard just won’t work. If you read the contract, you’d know we—”
“Goddamn contract.” Woody scowled. “Shaving would jinx our luck. I can’t do it.”
Pointing out the childishness of the superstition wouldn’t be the most effective tactic. “I understand. But, Woody, not to be insulting, at the moment the beards aren’t bringing the Beavers much luck.”
“We’ll turn things around,” he said grimly.
“Of course you will,” Christopher said. “And I want to help. Here’s what I’m thinking. Maybe you need a fresh angle on the beard tradition.”
“A fresh angle?” Woody’s tone was wary.
“We won’t shave it,” the stylist said, “but we’ll trim it. It won’t be rough and sloppy, but neat, focused, and virile. Just like the Beavers’ game will be. And”—he turned to Georgia and Viv—“he’ll look utterly stunning, I promise you.”
Georgia turned to Viv. “It sounds like a good solution to me, but you’re the expert.”
“I trust Christopher.” Viv gave a sunny smile. “And we all want to do everything we can to improve the Beavers’ chances.”
Woody groaned.
“Shall we leave the boys to play?” Viv steered Georgia over to a corner where one of the delicate French couches sat beside a shiny Italian espresso machine. Clearly a regular, she fixed cappuccinos for both of them.
Georgia took a sip. “Poor Woody. He’s going to hate today, isn’t he? Hair and wardrobe?” Empathizing, she shuddered. However, her boss had given her a more-than-strong hint, and if Woody could man up to a makeover, she had to do her part. “Billy’s right that I could use some new clothes for the events I’ll be attending with Woody. Are there stores you’d suggest?” Evening wear had never been part of her wardrobe.
Viv’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll come with you. We’ll have great fun!”
Georgia winced, remembering her mom dragging her shopping as a child, buying her pink frilly dresses, then, as she neared the age of ten, miniskirts and skimpy camisoles. Clothes that made men look at her. Touch her. She shuddered at the memory of her mom’s boyfriend fondling her, then forced it away. She wasn’t that girl. She was a confident woman.
Dubiously, she studied Viv, today in a magenta and bright yellow pantsuit. Georgia might be confident, but no way would she wear figure-hugging, cleavage-revealing clothes like the blonde’s. Would Viv be any help in finding pantsuits in silk or satin, dressy yet tailored and unobtrusive?
Knowing that she’d hate every second of the shopping expedition, Georgia glanced with sympathy toward Woody. Interestingly enough, he didn’t look totally wretched. He was getting along well with Christopher Slate.
“Do you have something to wear tonight?” Viv asked.
The schedule called for Georgia and Woody to have dinner at an upscale restaurant and work on his table manners. Even though Viv said he’d acquitted himself well at dinner last night, Georgia couldn’t shirk this responsibility. At least they’d be in public, so that even if she did feel that strange sexual attraction to him—the one Woody said was mutual—she wouldn’t jump him and beg for more orgasms.
“George?”
“Sorry. I was thinking. Uh, this restaurant you booked— Hawksworth—it’s quite formal, right?”
“Yes. You’ll enjoy it. Excellent food, lovely ambience, intriguing cocktails, great wine list. And it’s in the Hotel Georgia, which seems apropos.”
Usually, when Georgia went out with friends, they ate somewhere casual. “I’ll wear a business suit.” A pantsuit. The one time she’d worn a skirt with Woody, he’d made her peel off her panty hose. Yes, it had been to improvise a fan belt, but she was afraid it’d be all too easy for him to talk her into doing it again, with far less justification.
“A dress with a nice jacket or wrap would be better.”
“I don’t own any dresses,” she confessed.
Viv beamed. “We’ll remedy that this afternoon.”
Georgia knew she’d be voting for pants instead, a fancier version of her normal business wear.
The other woman tapped a purple-tipped finger thoughtfully against her chin. “As for Woody, whatever suits or blazers we choose today will need alterations, but VitalSport has classy lines of jeans, casual pants, and shirts. Hopefully we’ll get a fit on those, and that’ll be fine for him tonight.” She glanced past Georgia and a smile widened. “Especially now that Christopher has worked his magic.”
Georgia looked up to see Woody, uncaped and looking anxious, walking toward them with Christopher almost dancing around him.
Woody’s hair was still on the long side, but it had fallen into shiny mahogany waves that complemented the pure masculinity of his strong features. It looked natural, not like he’d spent twenty minutes in front of a mirror. The neat beard and mustache suited his firm jaw and sensual mouth. Christopher had made Woody look more sophisticated and charming without sacrificing an ounce of his formidable masculinity.
Viv murmured, “Oh, my, he really does clean up well,” while Georgia just stared. No, she was not going to jump him and beg for sex.
Woody eyed Georgia. “Well?”
“I like it.” When she met his gaze, she felt a zing of sexual electricity. Quickly, she turned to the stylist. “Christopher, you’re as much a genius as Viv promised.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Viv purred, touching Georgia’s shoulder and guiding her away from Woody. “Because it’s your turn. Come and be caped.”
“What?” Georgia demanded, freezing in her tracks and trying to hug the floor with her feet. “No way!”
Woody laughed. “Go for it, Georgia. How can you refuse a genius? Not to mention Viv?”
“I don’t want a haircut.”
“Neither did I,” said Woody.
“It’s part of the contract you signed.”
“Aw, come on.” Mischief glinted in his eyes. “We’re a team, right?”
She was about to argue when she remembered Billy’s criticism of her wardrobe. Had he asked Viv to find a diplomatic way of changing Georgia’s hairstyle too? She nibbled on her bottom lip.
Viv took advantage of her indecision and in a matter of seconds had her draped in a dramatic purple-and-black cape and settled in front
of the mirror. “What do you suggest, Christopher?”
“No!” Georgia screeched. Then, more quietly, “I’ll submit to a haircut but not with the two of you watching. Go away!”
“She wants us to get lost,” Woody said to Viv, in a voice of exaggerated hurt.
“You were much more cooperative,” Viv said, patting his arm.
“I’m just a cooperative guy. Right, Georgia?”
“Would you just go?” she wailed, knowing her cheeks were on fire.
“Oh, fine.” Viv gave a phony huff. “But, Christopher, if she tries to escape as soon as we leave, tie her down.” She and the stylist exchanged double cheek kisses. “George, Woody and I will go to VitalSport for his fittings, and as you know they’re providing lunch. Catch up with us if you can, and otherwise we’ll meet at Holt Renfrew. They have a great selection for both sexes.” She took Woody’s arm and steered him toward the door.
He turned back, grinning. “See you later, Georgia. Have fun.”
Once the pair had disappeared, Georgia studied Christopher’s reflection in the mirror as he eased the clip from her hair and ran his fingers through the long strands. “I could use an inch off the ends,” she suggested.
“You need a lot more than that, dear.” He patted her shoulder. “You have lovely hair, but it’s thick and heavy, and the weight pulls the natural wave out of it. I’ll cut and layer it, give you something with body and personality.” He studied her from all directions. “We’ll definitely have to have feathery bangs.”
“Bangs? I haven’t had bangs since I was a kid.”
“Hush, now, and leave it to me. I truly am a genius.”
Georgia suppressed a whimper.
Sixteen
Woody walked to the Hotel Georgia, his muscles loose and pleasantly tired after a vigorous workout. He’d offered to pick Georgia up, but she said she preferred to take her own car to dinner. Since they’d cleared the air this morning, she’d been pleasant, even joked with him, but she’d kept things businesslike. Tonight, would she soften? He shouldn’t want that. His focus needed to be on the playoffs. His mom’s health and the VitalSport campaign were distraction enough.
The maître d’ greeted him. “Welcome to Hawksworth, Mr. Hanrahan. Your guest has yet to arrive. We have you in the Pearl Room.” He led the way, and Woody followed.
Weird how he could skate onto the ice with thousands of people in the stands and TV cameras aimed on him, and feel at ease, but walking into this classy place made him antsy. He sometimes went to upscale restaurants with the other players, but he preferred more casual places. Usually, he’d choose a sports bar, though he had to admit that restaurant Le Gavroche had been nice. Kind of cozy.
The Pearl Room was not cozy. Done mostly in shades of what he’d call cream but guessed must be pearl, with dark wood accents, it was elegant. A massive chandelier glittered with hundreds, if not thousands, of lights. The room was half-full, and the diners wore everything from evening wear to suits to jeans.
The maître d’ seated him at a table for two, with a well-dressed couple on one side and an empty table on the other. He might not feel like he belonged here, but at least he looked the part, thanks to Christopher Slate and to Viv’s selection of clothes from VitalSport. He had to admit, the guy who’d stared back at him from his bathroom mirror looked okay.
“Jeans and a jersey,” Viv had said when she’d handed the clothes to him. “Can’t complain about that, can you, Woody?” The jeans were black and slim-fitting, and the shirt was a brand-new design, whipped up when the company signed Woody. In the same caramel shade as the Beavers’ emblem, it was styled along the lines of a hockey jersey but was tighter-fitting and made of a fabric that looked expensive. Surprisingly, it was as comfortable as a well-washed tee. Yeah, Viv had lived up to her promise that nice clothes didn’t have to hurt you.
Now, sitting at a table decorated with a flickering candle in a glass holder and a small flower arrangement in—no surprise—shades of white and cream, he wondered what Georgia would wear. She’d participated in selecting his suits and tux at Holt Renfrew, but banished him when it was her turn to try on clothes. Fine with him. What guy would choose clothes shopping with a woman over a workout—or any other available option?
He expected her to wear another tailored suit. After all, she hadn’t let Christopher Slate do much with her hair. When she’d joined him and Viv, it had been slicked back as usual. Christopher had given her bangs, which suited her face, and he must’ve cut her hair because a few curls escaped the usual knot, but the style wasn’t much different.
Woody, keeping an eye on the entrance, gazed appreciatively at the lovely woman who was following the maître d’ across the room. It took him almost until she’d arrived to realize it was Georgia.
She wore a dress. Not all bright and figure-hugging like the clothes Viv wore, but something silky and golden that skimmed her curves, revealed her collarbones, and ended just above her knees. Knees—and legs—that shimmered as if she’d been sprinkled with gold dust.
A fringed shawl, cream and black with gold threads running through it, draped her shoulders. And her hair was totally different: a mass of loose, silky curls. Curls that begged to be twined around fingers, to have hands plunge through them to grip her head. Curls that would tickle his belly, his cock, if she leaned over him and—
Remembering his manners, he jerked to his feet. “Wow, you look great.”
Flushing, she sank into the chair across from him. “Thanks.”
He seated himself too, his thickening erection reminding him that these pants were tighter than his usual jeans.
She fiddled with a curl of hair. “Viv said I should get comfortable with the clothes and hairstyle before I attend events with you.”
“Huh.” Last week, Georgia had told him about her mom dressing to attract men, and her own refusal to use feminine wiles at work. He was glad Viv had persuaded her that looking more feminine could be part of her job. “That’s cool, and you even match the restaurant.”
She glanced around as if she hadn’t noticed her surroundings. “I guess I do. Except for my hair.”
Her hair was the flame, the sexy highlight of the whole room. No, she was the highlight. But he didn’t say stuff like that, much less even think it, normally.
“Fancy place,” he commented.
“Viv’s recommendation. I don’t usually eat at formal restaurants.”
“Me either.” He gave a wry chuckle. “But you already knew that.”
She smiled back, looking more relaxed. “We’re quite the pair.”
If only. With her looking like that, and his body throbbing with arousal, he wanted to forget all the reasons they shouldn’t hook up. She’d admitted she was attracted. Could he persuade her to give in to it? He said, “You can say that again,” giving it a hint of innuendo.
Unfortunately, she tensed again. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant, both of us trying out new clothes and hairstyles, coming to a place where we’re fish out—”
She broke off when a waiter came over to ask, “Would you care for a cocktail? We have a number of specialty ones. Perhaps our signature Hotel Georgia cocktail?”
“Sounds like it’s made for you, Georgia,” Woody said.
The waiter, who had a subtle gay vibe, beamed. “Your name is Georgia? How perfect!”
“I don’t usually drink cocktails,” she said dubiously. “What’s in it?”
“Plymouth gin, lemon juice—freshly squeezed, of course—and orange-blossom water, all frothed together with egg white. It’s as smooth as silk. But please, study the cocktail menu. We have several excellent choices.” He left them with the menus.
A minute or two later, Woody asked, “You having a cocktail?”
“I’m tempted.”
“Go for it.” If she gave in to one temptation, maybe he could tempt her further. Was he the only one at this table who was seriously turned on? “That Hotel Georgia thing?”
She nodded. “Usually
I drink wine, but it sounds intriguing.” She tapped the list. “So do a number of these.” Her lips curved and she said, almost like she was talking to herself, “Marielle would love this menu.”
“Marielle?”
“She’s in my book club.”
“You’re in a book club? What kind of books do you read?”
For some reason, she flushed. “Mostly literary fiction.”
He kept his mouth shut.
She grinned at him. “It’s okay. You can say what you think.”
He shrugged. “Sounds boring to me. But each to their own.”
To his surprise, she said, “Sometimes they are a little boring. Sometimes they’re great. I like that the club makes me read things I wouldn’t otherwise pick up myself.” Her lips twitched. “You can get some very interesting ideas from books.”
He had some pretty interesting ideas right now, from being with her. “I guess. And surprises are good sometimes. Like that saying about not judging a book by its cover.”
Her eyes flicked down, then up, and she gazed at him through dark brown lashes. “That’s very true. And I’ll admit, I judged you from the first video I saw. Maybe Billy Daniels gave me that one as a test.”
A waiter came to take their orders: a Hotel Georgia for the lady with the same name, and a large glass of water for Woody.
When he’d gone, Georgia said, “You’re not drinking?”
“Just a glass of wine with dinner. There’s a game tomorrow night. What do you mean about a test?”
She gazed across the table into his eyes. “To see if I was daunted by a Neanderthal with blood running down his face and a gutter mouth.”
He wasn’t sure whether to wince or chuckle at that description of himself. He hadn’t been at his best, but he’d been so damned pissed off, more about losing that last shot on goal than over the high stick that slashed his cheek. “You weren’t daunted.”
Humor lit her face. “Well, maybe a little.”
God, she was gorgeous, and he liked it when they talked like this, easy and a little teasing.
“But,” she went on, “if I’d turned down this account, I might not have been offered another.”