"Don't worry about it."
"Hey." Dana waved a hand. "Remember me? I'm still interested. I can take a look at the place tomorrow. Maybe we can make it work between the two of us."
"Great. Mal, let's wet down your hair."
She felt too guilty to argue, and with her hair dampened, she sat stoically while Zoe snipped.
"I'd better tell you both why I went by the newspaper this morning to see Flynn, to whom I'm no longer speaking."
Zoe continued to snip as she told them about the painting in The Gallery and her belief that it was done by the same artist.
"You'll never guess who bought it," she continued. "Jordan Hawke."
"Jordan Hawke?" Dana all but squeaked. "Goddamn it, now I want chocolate. You must have some."
"Emergency supply, deli drawer of the fridge. What's the problem?"
"We were semi-involved a million years ago. Damn it, damn it, damn it," Dana repeated as she yanked open the drawer and found two bars of Godiva. "Godiva's your emergency chocolate?"
"Why not have the best when you're feeling your worst?"
"Good point."
"You were involved with Jordan Hawke?" Zoe wanted to know. "Romantically?"
"It was years ago, when I was still young and stupid." Dana unwrapped the bar, took a big bite. "Bad breakup, he took off. End of story. Bastard, creep, asshole." She took another bite. "Okay, I'm done."
"I'm sorry, Dana. If I'd known… Well, I don't know what I'd have done. I need to see the painting."
"Doesn't matter. I'm over him. I'm so over him." But she picked up the chocolate bar again, had another bite.
"I have to say something, and you might want the second emergency bar after I do. I can't buy coincidence on this. I can't rationalize it all. The three of us—and Flynn, your brother. Now Flynn's two best friends. And one of those friends is a former lover of yours. That makes a very tight circle."
Dana stared at her. "Just let me go on record as saying I really hate that part. Do you have another bottle of this wine?"
"I do. Rack above the fridge."
"I'll either walk home or call Flynn to pick me up. But I'm planning on being toasted by the time I leave."
"I'll drive you home," Zoe offered. "Go ahead and get toasted—as long as you're ready to leave by ten."
"Your hair looks fabulous." Swaying a little from trying to keep Dana company with wine consumption, Malory waved her fingers at Dana's new hair.
The subtle blond highlights accented Dana's dusky skin tone and dark eyes. And as a result of whatever else Zoe's magic fingers had done, the long, straight sweep looked sleeker, glossier.
"I'll have to take your word. I'm pretty blind."
"Mine looks fabulous too. Zoe, you're a genius."
"Yes, I am." Flushed with success, Zoe nodded at both of them. "Use that night cream sample I gave you for the next couple of days," she told Malory. "Let me know what you think. Come on, Dana, let's see if I can pour you into the car."
" 'kay. I really like you guys." With a drunk and sentimental smile, Dana threw her arms around each of them. "I can't think of anybody I'd rather be in the big mess with. And when it's over, we should have hair and drinking nights once a month. Like a book club."
"Good idea. 'Night, Mal."
"You want some help with her?" "Nope." Zoe wrapped a supporting arm around Dana's waist. "I've got her. I'm stronger than I look. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Me too! Did I tell you Jordan Hawke is a jerk?"
"Only about five hundred times." Zoe guided Dana toward the car. "You can tell me again on the drive home."
Malory closed the door, carefully locked it, then wove her way to the bedroom. Unable to resist, she stood in front of the mirror and experimented with the new cut, tossing her hair, tilting her head at different angles.
She couldn't tell, not exactly, what Zoe had done, but whatever it was, it was right. Could be, she mused, it paid to keep her mouth shut for a change instead of directing the hairdresser's every snip.
Maybe she should feel guilty and drink wine every time she visited the salon.
She could try the combination in other areas of her life. The dentist, ordering in restaurants, men. No, no, not men. She scowled at herself in the mirror. If you didn't direct men, they directed you.
Besides, she wasn't going to think about men. She didn't need men. She didn't even like men at the moment.
In the morning, she would spend an hour working on the puzzle of the key. Then she would dress, very carefully, very professionally. A suit, she decided. The dove gray with the white shell. No, no, the red. Yes, the red suit. Powerful and professional.
She raced to the closet, scanned her wardrobe, which was arranged precisely according to function and color. With the red suit in hand, she danced back to the mirror, held it in front of her.
"James," she began, trying out a sympathetic yet aloof expression, "I'm so sorry to hear that The Gallery is going to hell in a handbasket without me. Come back? Well, I don't know if that's possible. I have several other offers. Oh, please, please, don't grovel. It's embarrassing."
She fluffed her hair. "Yes, I know Pamela is the devil. We all know that. Well, I suppose if things are that bad, I'll have to help you out. Now, now, don't cry. Everything's going to be fine. Everything's going to be perfect again. Just as it should be."
She snickered and, pleased that all would soon be right with her world again, turned away to prepare for bed.
She undressed and lectured herself into putting her clothes away instead of just throwing them around the room. When she heard the knock on her front door, she was wearing only a white silk sleep shirt. Assuming it was one of her friends who'd forgotten something, she turned off the locks and opened the door.
And blinked at a grim-faced Flynn.
"I want to talk to you."
"Maybe I don't want to talk to you," she responded, trying to enunciate each word instead of slurring them together.
"We need to work this out if we're going to…" He took a good look at her, the wonderfully tumbled hair, the glowing face, the slim curves under clingy white silk. And the vague and glassy look of her eyes.
"What? You're drunk?"
"I'm only half drunk, which is completely my business and my right. Your sister is fully drunk, but you've no cause for concern as Zoe, who is not in any way drunk, is driving her home."
"It takes countless beers or an entire bottle of wine to get Dana completely drunk."
"That seems to be correct, and in this case it was wine. Now that we've established that, I'll remind you I'm only half drunk. Come in and take advantage of me."
He let out what might've been a laugh and decided the best place for his hands—well, not the best but the smartest—was his pockets. "That's a delightful invitation, sweetie, but—"
She solved the problem by gripping his shirt firmly and giving a good yank. "Come on in," she repeated, then fixed her mouth on his.
Chapter Eleven
Flynn found himself shoved back against the door, tripping over his own feet as it swung shut behind him. Most of the blood had drained out of his head by the time she'd gone to work on his throat with lips and teeth.
"Whoa, wait. Mal."
"Don't wanna wait." Her hands got as busy as her mouth. Had she actually thought she didn't like men? She certainly liked this one. So much that she wanted to gobble him up in quick and greedy bites.
"How come people always say you gotta wait? I want you to…" She clamped her teeth on his earlobe, then whispered a creative demand.
"Oh, God." He wasn't entirely sure if it was a prayer of thanks or a plea for help. But he was sure his willpower had a very specific limit, and he was fast approaching it.
"Okay, okay, let's just calm down here a minute. Malory." She slid her body over his, and when her eager fingers danced down, down, he felt his eyes do a slow roll to the back of his head. "Now hold on."