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back in Charles’s chair, she felt none of the stomach-quivering anxiety that often rode hand in glove with a haircut.
    “You need a manicure,” Charles ordered, snipping away. “Sheila, squeeze in a manicure and pedicure for—what was your name, dear?”
    “Darcy. A pedicure?” The thought of having her toes painted was so … exotic.
    “Hmm. And you’ll stop biting your nails immediately.”
    Chastised, Darcy tucked her hands under the cape. “It’s a terrible habit.”
    “Very unattractive. You’re fortunate, though. You have thick, healthy hair. A nice color. We’ll leave that alone.” He brought a section of hair up between two fingers, snipped. “What do you use on your face?”
    “I have some moisturizer, but I lost it.” Selfconsciously she rubbed at her nose.
    “The freckles are charming. You’ll leave them alone, too.”
    “But I’d rather—”
    “Are you picking up the scalpel?” he asked, arching one of his thick, black brows, then nodding, satisfied, when she shook her head. “I’m going to do your face myself. If you don’t like the look, you don’t pay. If you do like it, you not only pay, you buy the products.”
    Another gamble, Darcy thought. Maybe she was on a roll. “Deal.”
    “That’s the spirit. Now …” He angled her head, snipped again. “Tell me about your love life.”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “You will.” He wiggled those eyebrows. “My work never fails.”

    By three, Darcy walked back into her suite. She was loaded down with purchases, and still floating. On impulse, she dumped everything on the sofa and dashed to the mirror. Myra had been right. Charles was a genius. Her hair looked pert, she decided with a chuckle. Almost sophisticated. Though it was even shorter than she had dared cut it, it was sleek and just a little sassy.
    Her bangs didn’t flop now, but spiked down over her forehead. And her face … wasn’t it amazing what could be done with those tubes and brushes and powders? They couldn’t make her a raving beauty, but she thought—she hoped—she’d stepped up to the threshold of pretty.
    “I’m almost pretty,” she said to her reflection, and smiled. “I really am. Oh, the earrings!” She whirled and dashed toward the bags, thinking the glitter against her face might just take her that final step.
    Then she saw the red message light blinking on her phone.
    No one knew where she was. How could anyone call her when no one knew? The press? Had the news gotten out already? No, no, she thought, clutching her hands together. Mac had promised not to give out her name. He’d promised.
    Still her pulse hammered in her throat as she picked up the phone and pushed the message button. She was informed she had two new voice mail messages. The first was from Mac’s assistant and had her releasing the breath she’d been holding. Mr. Blade would pick her up for dinner at seven-thirty. If that wasn’t suitable, she had only to call back and reschedule.
    “Seven-thirty is fine,” she whispered. “Seven-thirty is wonderful.”
    The last message was from Caine MacGregor, who identified himself as Mac’s uncle and invitedher to call him back at her convenience.
    She hesitated over that. She found she didn’t want to face the practical business of it all. Somehow it seemed much more romantic when it all remained dreamlike and impossible. But she’d been raised to return phone calls promptly, so she pulled out the chair at the desk, sat, and dutifully made the long-distance call to Boston.

    When Darcy opened her door and found Mac holding a single white rose, she considered it another miracle. He was something out of one of the stories she’d secretly scribbled in notebooks for years. Tall, dark, elegantly masculine, heart-stoppingly handsome with just an edge of danger to keep it all from being too smooth.
    The miracle was that he was there, holding out a long-stemmed rosebud the color of a summer cloud, and smiling at her.
    But what popped