The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [14]
Rosalita raked Angela up and down with a scathing eye. She was clearly unimpressed.
“I can’t take it any more, Rosalita. With that do, she might as well pin a ‘fugitive’ sign on her coat. Fix it for me, will you? We’ll consider it my good deed for the decade.”
“You’re too kind,” Angela murmured.
J.T. continued focusing on Rosalita. “I’ll pay, of course.”
Payment was the magic word. Rosalita started out asking for twenty but settled for ten. J.T. took the money from a highly skeptical Angela, pointing out that Rosalita certainly couldn’t do any worse than Angela had. Moments later Rosalita had Angela positioned in J.T.’s chair, the green towel wrapped around her neck. While she washed Angela’s hair and set about snipping with expert flair, J.T. propped himself up on the edge of the couch and opened a fresh beer despite Angela’s disapproving frown. He could see her wrist, now on her lap. It was badly bruised.
So now you’re beating up on women, J.T. Just how low do you plan on sinking?
In the disconcerting quiet of his living room he didn’t have an answer. He’d never considered himself a great man, not even a good man. But he had his few principles and they gave him comfort. Don’t lie and don’t pretend. Don’t hurt people weaker than yourself—there are enough SOBs out there who deserve it. Never, ever hurt a woman.
If Rachel could see him now, she would be ashamed.
He crossed over to the sliding glass door and watched the sunlight dance across the rippling surface of his pool.
“Terminé!” Rosalita announced.
Reluctantly, J.T. turned to inspect Angela’s new look. He froze, too stunned for words.
Rosalita had hacked off most of Angela’s hair. Now intricately layered strands darted before her ears, wisped at the back of her neck, and fringed around her eyes. The short-cropped hair should have made her look like a teenage boy, except teenage boys didn’t have cheekbones that high, noses that small, or lips that full. Teenage boys didn’t have saucer-shaped eyes of liquid brown, framed by thick, lush lashes.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured. “Jesus H. Christ.”
He started pacing. Even then he felt the tension curling up inside his belly.
“It’s . . . it’s a start.” Angela sounded a little stunned by the transformation herself as she gazed into the hand mirror.
Rosalita bustled away with the basin of soapy water, leaving them alone in the living room. A taut silence descended. Angela’s fingers began to fidget on her lap.
“Want a piece of advice?” J.T. said all of a sudden. “It’s free.”
“Doesn’t that make two good deeds in one day? I thought you’d already met quota for the year.”
“You caught me at a weak moment. Now, do you want the advice or what?”
“Okay.”
“Dye your hair,” he said flatly. “It’s the trick of a disguise—come up with something that looks even more you than the real you. I’d recommend a dark brown or auburn, something that fits your natural coloring. Then you’ll have a new look that’s subtle. Right now you’re too obvious.”
“Oh.”
“So there you go. Visit a pharmacy, buy some hair dye, and thirty minutes later you’ll be all set.”
“Thank you.”
He grimaced. “Advice wasn’t that good.”
“J.T., about yesterday. I need to talk to you, will you—”
“Hungry?” He turned to face her. “You need to eat more. I can make oatmeal.”
She hesitated, clearly wanting to return to the original topic. “That makes three good deeds,” she pointed out.
“Blame it on my upbringing. I certainly do.”
“Breakfast would be nice, I guess.” She nodded toward the nearly empty beer bottle dangling from his fingertips. “Looks like you’ve already had yours.”
“Yep.”
“Do you always drink so much?”
“Only to excess.”
“Vince didn’t say you were an alcoholic.”
“I am not an alcoholic. Prissy teetotaler.” He thumped the bottle against his thigh. She had an accent. A northern accent. Well educated. What had brought a well-educated northern woman all the way to the Mexican border, exhausted, malnourished, and obviously terrified?
His gaze fell to her thighs.
Shit.
He took a step toward her.