Page 27 of Cruel Offer
“No.”
Nate puts the car in park, right next to a very clear No Parking sign. I look from the sign to him, still confused about why we’re here, but he just shrugs and says, “I own the hotel. I can park wherever I want. Get out.”
“Wait, sorry, what? You own the… Is this where I’m doing my wardrobe change?” I blurt, my mind reeling with how nonchalantly he just told me he owns the freaking Regent.
Ignoring my question, he gets out, comes around the car, and opens my door for me. Then, to my shock, he holds out his hand to take mine. As I step out of the car, his fingers thread with mine, his palm so warm that for the sparest second I forget that we’re supposed to act like a fake couple, and I almost pull back. But it feels so good, I’m glad I remembered not to resist.
Nate tosses his keys to a valet who addresses him as Mr. Windemere, and we walk through the lobby and take the elevator to the spa level. The second we start glidingupward, he drops my hand, and I try to pretend not to notice. I keep my mouth shut for the entire ride, even though I have a million questions buzzing around in my head.
When the steel doors glide open, he takes my hand again and leads me toward a set of frosted glass doors with ornate brass handles and the name Spa Regency etched into the panels. Nate holds open the door for me, and I walk into an entryway that’s nothing but gorgeous travertine stone from floor to ceiling, the smell of lemongrass and lavender, a huge chandelier glowing from above. Olive trees in pottery planters line the walls, and soft music plays from hidden speakers.
Instantly, all my spirits lift. I still don’t know what we’re doing here, but just the scent of essential oils and expensive bath products in the air makes me giddy.
“It’s time to make you look presentable.”
He says this close to my ear so the receptionist at the desk doesn’t overhear him. It’s the second time he’s insulted me this evening and my excitement fades away. The petite blonde behind the counter greets us in an overly cheerful voice.
“Welcome back, Mr. Windemere. And you must be Ms. Barclay. Welcome. We’ve got you down for a Brazilian, hair color and cut, and an outfit styling. Is that correct?”
I slowly turn and look at Nate. A Brazilian? Really? I’ve heard friends rave about it, but I’ve never had the desire to get my entire intimate area waxed completely bald. Including my butt crack.
Nate ignores my raised brow and gives the receptionist a sharp nod. “That’s correct.”
“Wonderful,” the receptionist says. “We’ll start with the wax. Right this way, please.”
My legs suddenly feel heavy. As I follow her to the changing room, it’s impossible to appreciate the luxurious decor and soft lighting, or even the plush, white robe that I change into and the cloud-like, fluffy slippers. I’m about to be tortured. And it’s even more panic-inducing when I head down the hallway and find Nate waitingin the treatment room.
He grins knowingly, as if fully expecting me to be shocked to see him there.
“You’re going to stay for this?” I sputter.
“Is that a legitimate question, or a complaint? It sounds to me like both.”
Shit. He’s right. I’m not being obedient.
I seal my lips shut, but my eyes narrow as I try my damnedest to will him to leave the room. Unfortunately, my death glare has no effect on him.
The technician looks between us but doesn’t say anything. She instructs me to lie down on the table and open my robe from the waist down. Thankfully, she keeps me partially covered for some modesty so he can’t see everything as she slathers very warm wax on places I never imagined wax would go. I grit my teeth and clench my eyes shut as she rips the wax strips off, leaving my sensitive places stinging and burning. But I don’t make a sound. I don’t want Nate to enjoy my agony.
When she’s done, she puts a generous amount of cooling cream on me and then leads me to a hair salon. The salon is empty, but the hairdresser seems to already bemixing up a bowl of color. She seats me in a comfortable chair and runs her fingers through my hair.
“I have to agree with you, Mr. Windemere. Those photos you sent me didn’t do her justice, but I do believe this shade of auburn will look beautiful on Ms. Barclay.”
Auburn? I’ve never wanted red in my naturally brunette hair. In fact, I’ve never had to do much with my hair in terms of color at all, because I’m very happy with the shade of chestnut brown that it is.
Windemere is sitting behind me—still supervising my makeover, apparently—and I don’t dare turn around to make eye contact and let him know I absolutely do not want to be a redhead. Before I can think of a suitable way to negotiate with him, the hairdresser puts the plastic cape around my shoulders and gets to work. I close my eyes once again, pretending to relax even though I’m getting more and more tense as the minutes go by.
I’m going to look awful.
I haven’t had my hair touched since my father’s downfall. Or my nails. I used to get weekly facials and massages and full-body exfoliation, but of course there’s no money for anything like that now. And I’m certainly not going to chip into my meager life savings to serve my own vanity. But this isn’t the pampering it should be. Not at all. Because all I can think about is that this new hair is going to give people something else to talk about. They already ridicule and turn their noses up at me. Why are we adding fuel to the fire?
An hour goes by, and the hairdresser finally rinses out my color. I don’t look in the mirrors as shegives it a little trim and blow dries it. I keep my eyes in my lap when she proudly announces that she’s done.
“What do you think?”
Of course,heanswers. “Very nice.”
Very nice, my ass. I can feel the hairdresser looking at me questioningly, but I refuse to see what awaits me in the mirror. Seeming unperturbed, she removes the cape and makes some pleasant small talk about enjoying the rest of my evening.
