Jessica reached for a rich golden brown, but then dropped her hand to her side, figuring it'd probably make her look like a big brown wren. But Lily pulled it out of the stack.
"I think most of us tend to be drawn to the colors that look good on us," she said. "Not always, of course, but more often than not." She held the sweater up to Jessica. "Look, you have excellent instincts. This brings out the highlights in your hair and makes your skin look really creamy. Try it on."
By the time they finished shopping that afternoon, Jessica found herself the proud owner of two new sweaters, new makeup, and even a new pair of shoes. She'd tried to protest the latter, citing the practicality of her current pair of casual oxfords.
But Lily had merely looked at her with raised eyebrows and demanded, "Practical for what, plowing the lower forty? I'm not suggesting you toss them away, Jess, just save them for tramping the cliffs. Meanwhile, buy yourself these darling ballerina flats for the less athletic moments. Heck, if you're looking for practicality, slip-ons have that in spades. Think about it: For someone who likes to go barefoot in her own apartment, this style is much easier to kick off and slide back into. Not to mention how good pretty can be for your health. It relieves stress. I can testify that seeing you wear something other than those big old clodhoppers has dropped my stress level considerably."
So Jess laughed and bought them, secretly delighted. She knew her new purchases and a few quick lessons in applying makeup wouldn't magically transform her into a beauty. And it certainly wouldn't address her worries concerning her marriage. But for nearly the first time in her life, she felt stylish. Not just passable or neat, but genuinely stylish. And that made her feel attractive. It was as if a light had come on, as if the secrets that other women took for granted had finally decided to reveal themselves to her, too. And even knowing that sooner or later Lily would go back to California, Jess felt confident she was actually learning the skills to continue making choices that would highlight her assets.
There was a surprising amount of power in that.
It was getting late when Zach heard the knock, and he swore softly into the phone. "Someone's at my door."
"Then I'll let you go," Rocket promptly replied.
"And don't worry; I'll start looking into the background of Beaumont's family right away."
"You're the man, Miglionni. Something is sure as hell fishy here, and if anyone's got the juice to dig me up a motive, it's you." They settled on a time for him to call back for the results, and Zach hung up just as another knock sounded at his door.
"I'm coming, already," he growled, and strode over to yank it open. "Hold your damn hors—" At the sight of the woman on the other side of the door, the words dammed up in his throat.
Because the last person he expected—or wanted—to see was Lily.
And the last place he wanted to see her was in his bedroom.
But there she stood, all five and a third feet of her in her crazy sky-high heels, looking like sin incarnate and smelling like heaven. He didn't want to let her in, and he opened his mouth to make an excuse—any excuse—so he could shut the door in her face and safely keep her on the other side. But before a single word left his lips, she sashayed right past him into his room. The next thing he knew, she was crossing within a foot of his bed and bringing with her every damn memory he'd struggled all day long to suppress.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, hey, c'mon in," he said with carefully understated irony. "Make yourself right at home."
She turned to him. "I've been thinking."
"Ah. I thought I smelled something burning."
She gave him a look that was surprisingly repressive for a woman who was anything but repressed. "Very funny. You need a minute to get all your blonde jokes out of your system, or do you wanna hear what I have to say?"
He could use a minute, all right, but not to assemble his arsenal of jokes. The woman scrambled his brain. He'd been raised to be polite to women, yet every time he turned around he found himself acting rude as hell toward this one.
Still… did he want to hear what she had to say? No . He didn't want to have to deal with her, period. Then again, she looked as if she were about two seconds away from walking over and taking a poke at him with one of those competent little fingers of hers, and he really didn't think he could handle her touching him right now. He didn't trust what he'd do if she laid hands on him—and wasn't that a hell of a thing for a trained warrior to have to admit? Yet it was nothing short of the truth. It was all he could do just to squelch the fantasy that raced through his mind of the various ways he could keep those capable hands busy. So he gave her a brisk, impersonal nod and said, "My apologies. What have you been thinking?"
"That somebody really ought to call the police about the kidnapping."
That actually took his mind off wondering what it would be like to lay her down on the bed just a few steps behind her.
At last. Someone who showed a little common sense. He gave her a wholly approving look that for once didn't have a thing to do with her sex appeal. "You and me both, sweetheart."
"You agree?"
"Hell, yes. You heard me arguing this morning wi— No, I guess that was before you came downstairs." He rolled his shoulders. "Anyway, I had this very argument with Mrs. Beaumont. Christ, Lily, I'm a soldier—I believe in the system. But not only did Mrs. B. threaten to kick my butt out of here if I called in the feds over her objections, she said she'd deny Glynnie and David were even kidnapped!"
Lily looked properly horrified, and he was filled with a sudden comradely warmth toward her. He took a few steps closer.
"That's just plain foolish!" she said indignantly.
"Amen to that." He couldn't believe he hadn't realized before how intelligent she was.
"So what do we do?"
"We proceed cautiously. We've got five days to work on her, and Rocket—" At her furrowed brow, he cut himself off to say, "You remember my friend John Miglionni who stopped by the house?" He got a flash of Rocket laughing himself silly on the phone a few minutes ago after he'd started to tell Zach he'd discovered Lily was exactly who she'd claimed to be, and Zach'd had to admit he'd already found that out for himself. Then, recalling his behavior when he'd introduced them back in Laguna Beach, not to mention the way he and John had double-teamed her, he braced himself for an acid response.
But she merely nodded. "Of course. Mr. Sensitivity. You call him Rocket?"
"Yeah, it's his Marine handle. He's a private detective now, and he's checking out the reliability of the local FBI." He patted her shoulder with companionable bonhomie as he explained the reason for John's inquiries.
Big mistake. She was soft and warm beneath his fingers, and it took an effort to remove his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to eradicate the feel of her and groped for the hail-brothers-well-met emotions of a moment ago. He cleared his throat. "Don't, uh, worry about it, okay? One way or the other—hopefully with the feds' help, but even without it—I will see to it that everything works out all right."
Lily stared up into his eyes, and blinked when she saw their normal gray watchfulness all warmly avuncular as he gazed back down at her. She didn't get this guy—she didn't get him at all.
Oh, not the trust-me-I-can-take-care-of-everything attitude—that struck her as pretty typical of the Zach she'd come to know. But earlier today he'd kissed her like she was the hottest woman in the known universe— and now he was patting her like a decrepit old dog? Good Lord. And to think she'd hesitated to come to his room for fear he'd jump to the wrong conclusion. Talk about worrying over nothing.