Part 11 (1/2)
MARK TWAIN.
Lila!” The receptionist's voice was just short of a bray. ”Your six o'clock manicure is here.”
”Shh.” Lila shot the woman a look of aggravation. ”You'll wake Sam.” She watched as the man, now sprawled across her barber's chair, twitched in restless slumber, his dark lashes feathering across his rugged cheeks, his ma.s.sive shoulders more than filling the chair.
It happened every week. Judge Sam Nazar would show up for a shave and a trim, and within minutes his chin would fall to his muscular chest, his eyelids would droop, and a gentle snore would come rumbling from Lila's corner of the salon. Sometimes he even talked in his sleep, sharing the latest courtroom intrigue in a low murmur only Lila heard and never shared.
The other stylists found it amusing. ”Slumbering Sam” they called him-when he was fast asleep and out of earshot.
Wide awake, seated behind the bench in his flowing black robe, Judge Sam was a formidable sight. Only a fool would poke fun at such a giant in the Dallas judicial community. One of the youngest on the bench, Sam had a hard-earned reputation and a hard-driving style. Hadn't he tossed drug dealers behind prison walls for life without parole? Didn't he routinely send greenhorn attorneys running from his courtroom, their tails tucked between their trousered legs, afraid of disbarment or worse?
And the death penalty? An easy call for Judge Sam. He'd sentenced dozens of men to their deaths without blinking an eye or shedding a tear-if his countenance could be trusted.
The legends that swirled around Sam Nazar were legion, though how accurate the stories were-well, that was anybody's guess. Like that rumor about his wife burning to death in a tragic fire soon after their wedding. Somewhere in West Texas, people said, though n.o.body had newspaper clippings to prove it. Or the old yarn that he'd chased off a dozen gang members with a bone. A bone? Folks were crazy.
Then there was the tale about Sam killing a runaway lion at the Dallas Zoo. Witnesses said he didn't even have a gun, just wrestled the lion to the ground and broke the animal's jaw.
One look at his hands-twice the size of most men's-and Lila believed that one. Judge Sam was the law, and everybody in the Metroplex knew it. Judge Sam was also in love with her, and n.o.body even suspected it.
Me! Lila! Not a society type in sequins and furs-a stylist at a downtown salon. A nice place, sure, but she'd hoped for better someday. When Sam strolled into her life, she thought she'd found her ticket to riches and comfort. Even if he did talk about his G.o.d more than she liked, his tailored suits and designer ties told her there was gold underneath his high-and-mighty exterior.
But he didn't give her money or gifts. He only gave her his love. At least that's what he called it. She'd heard the word before, plenty of times, and it usually meant something else altogether.
He didn't offer her his name or promise they'd have a future together. He only offered his head in her capable hands every Thursday and his arms wrapped around her slim waist every Sat.u.r.day night.
”Liii-laa! Your next appointment is here.”
Ignoring the insistent voice of the receptionist blaring over the salon speakers, Lila slid a styling comb through Sam's hair and cast an admiring professional gaze on the natural body and dark, generous waves beneath her fingers. He wore his hair longer than any judge in Texas and didn't care who complained about it. Instead, he'd fix his piercing black eyes on hers and issue an order: ”Comb it any way you fancy, but take no more than an eighth of an inch off the ends. Hear me, gal?”
She looked down at him now, her scissors flas.h.i.+ng in the artificial light of the Cutting Edge, and sleeked a damp clump of hair flat between her fingers, sliding the sharp blade along the edge. Snip. One-eighth inch fell to the black-and-white vinyl squares beneath her feet. Snip. Another cascade of wet ends drifted to the floor. Lila worked in silence, blocking out the hubbub around her in order to concentrate on the man who'd come to mean much more than a greenback tip in the soda gla.s.s propped by her salon mirror.
She'd never told a soul how she felt about Sam. Wasn't sure she knew herself. He was surly and unpredictable and-truth be told-dangerous. He also had a charisma about him that hinted at old money, serious social connections, and Texas roots that went all the way down to molten rock, best she could tell.
Of this she was certain: If she'd met Sam a few years earlier, he might have kept her from chasing after all the wrong sort of men-the kind Sam threw behind bars every chance he got. They'd all been physically strong but morally weak, every one of those men, and their weaknesses had proven to be their undoing. Problem was, when they fell, they never failed to drag her down another notch with them.
Sam rolled his broad shoulders, trying to get more comfortable in her chair even in his sleep. The innocent action sent a cool s.h.i.+ver tripping up Lila's spine. Strength in a man always got her attention. It made her skin tingle and her breath catch and her imagination run wild. Sam Nazar was all about power. Powerful muscles wrapped around a powerful mind acquainted with powerful friends in high places. He scared her almost to the point of fainting when he dropped in her chair every Thursday afternoon. Maybe it was better that he snoozed while she snipped. It made her less nervous that way. Even if he did occasionally tuck love notes in her smock pocket or whisper endearments in her ear when she bent over him with conditioner in her palms, the man was definitely less threatening when his eyes were closed.
Sliding the comb beneath the long hair on the back of his neck, she smoothed the hair upward and felt a rough line of scar tissue underneath the black strands. What's this? She'd never noticed it before. Hmm. Intrigued, she ran a fingertip along the jagged length of it.
Without warning, Sam jerked, making her jump and accidentally jab his thick neck with her scissors. In an instant he was sitting up straight, fully awake and looking none too happy. She'd barely broken the skin, but still a dot of blood blossomed into a tiny stream running down the back of his neck.
”Wh-what the-!” His eyes were angry storm clouds as he pressed an expensive handkerchief against the wound.
”Judge, I'm...so sorry!” She watched him stanch the small red blotch while she swallowed a lump that was climbing up her windpipe with alarming speed.
He lowered his hand and glanced at the red spot; then his eyes met hers and cooled as quickly as they'd heated. A wry smile stretched across his face. ”Just a tiny scratch, sweetheart, judging by the blood.”
”W-well, you're the judge.” A wave of relief left her lightheaded, giddy. ”I'm truly sorry, Sam.” She gently touched the edge of the scar tissue hidden under his hairline. ”When I found this-”
He yanked her wrist with a rough twist. ”Don't touch that.”
”Oh! I didn't...you never...” Her relief dissipated like hair spray. She shrugged, hoping to appear nonchalant. ”It just surprised me, that's all.”
”Well...” He tossed her hand aside as if to dismiss the subject. ”No problem, Lila. Just a sensitive spot, that's all. Finish cutting while my hair's still wet, will you?”
Her hands were shaking as she gathered up another section of hair. ”Sensitive, you say? That scar tissue looks like it's been there awhile. Does it still hurt?”
His voice dropped to a murmur. ”Some wounds never heal.”
Oh. She guided her shears around his collar, pressing her lips shut until her curiosity got the better of her. ”It's a mean-looking line. Good thing your hair covers every bit of it. How...how did it happen?”
He turned to fix her with a steady gaze, giving nothing away with his eyes. ”Three guesses, beautiful girl.”
Her cheeks warmed, exactly as a girl's might, even though she'd seen three dozen hot Dallas summers come and go. ”Gee, Sam. Another one of your guessing games?” She sighed in mock exasperation. ”All right, first guess: Did you land on barbed wire on your daddy's ranch?”
He laughed. ”Try again.”
”Have a close encounter with a barstool in some Lone Star honky-tonk?”
”You know better than that.” Sam never touched the stuff.
She paused, considering. ”Did you find yourself at the wrong end of a jealous husband's straight-edge razor?”
The flicker in his ebony eyes was so slight she decided she must have imagined it. ”I give up, Sam. What really happened?”
His grin was a loaded weapon. ”A big dog bit me.”
All day Friday Lila couldn't get the mystery of Sam's scar out of her mind. There wasn't a dog in the world with a bite that wide or that lethal. Sam was hiding something from her, the creep. Didn't he trust her? Who was she gonna tell? It wasn't the scar that mattered, not really. The fact that he'd lied to her, that's what pushed her b.u.t.tons.
Late Sat.u.r.day afternoon she was finis.h.i.+ng up her last client, whipping off the teal vinyl cape with a flourish, when she noticed three men filling the archway into her corner of the salon. Big men, well dressed, with smiles that suggested they wanted something from her.
The minute her customer was gone the men made their move. She watched them, wary. Who were these guys-vaguely familiar and more than a little scary? She swallowed hard and waited while they circled around her.
The stocky man, jangling a set of keys in his hand, spoke first. ”Lila, isn't it? From Mesquite?”
She nodded, barely breathing. Was her foolish youth coming back to haunt her? What else did they know about her?
The man's voice was a measured growl. ”It's come to our attention that Judge Sam Nazar sits in this chair every Thursday.”
”Yeah,” another one chimed in. ”Falls asleep like a baby, we hear.” His laugh was ugly. ”Must have some kinda magic in those hands, miss.”
Lila bristled. ”How I serve my clients is my business.”
”Not when he's the most influential judge in Texas.” The tallest of the three stepped closer, automatically sending her body heat spiraling.
Power. Her instincts never failed her on that count.