Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(52)

I kept my mouth shut, however, because Zenko had instructed all of us sternly that we must never, ever volunteer anything about our personal lives. Clients didn't want to hear our opinions, he had warned, and they didn't want to become friends. They came to Salon One to relax and be treated with absolute professionalism.

I heard a lot though. I knew which relatives were having arguments over who was monopolizing the family jet, who was suing whom over the management of trusts and estates, whose husband liked to go on canned hunts to shoot exotic game, where to go for the best custom-made chairs. I heard about scandals and successes, about the best parties, the favorite charities, and all the intricacies of leading a full-time social life.

I liked Houston women, who were funny and frank, and always interested in what was new and fashionable. Of course there were a few grand old ladies who insisted on having their hair permed, cut, and ratted into a big round ball, a style Zenko loathed and privately referred to as "the Drain Clog." However, even Zenko wasn't going to refuse these wives of multimillionaires who wore ashtray-sized diamonds on their fingers and could wear their hair any way they wanted.

The salon was also frequented by men of all shapes and sizes. Most were well dressed. with scrupulously maintained hair and skin and nails. Cowboy images to the contrary, Texan men are pretty fastidious about their appearance, everything scrubbed and clipped and strictly controlled. Before long I had assembled a clientele of regulars who came for lunch-hour manicures or neck and eyebrow trims. There were a few attempts at flirtation, especially from the younger ones, but Zenko had rules about that. And that was fine with me. At that time in my life I wasn't interested in flirtation or romance. I wanted steady work and tip money.

A couple of the girls, including Angie, managed to keep part-time sugar daddies on the side. The arrangements were discreet enough that Zenko either didn't notice or deliberately looked the other way. The agreement between an older, wealthier man and a younger woman didn't appeal to me, but at the same time I was fascinated by it.

There is a subculture of sugar daddies and sugar babies in most big cities. The arrangement is by its very nature temporary. But both parties seem to like its impermanence, and there is a kind of safety in its unspoken rules. The relationship starts out with something casual like drinks or dinner, but if the girl plays it right, she can coax a sugar daddy into paying for things like tuition, vacations, clothes, even plastic surgery. According to Angie, the arrangement rarely involved the direct transfer of money. Cash scrubs the romantic veneer off the relationship. Sugar daddies prefer to think of it as a special friendship in which they provide gifts and help to a deserving young woman. And sugar babies convince themselves that a nice boyfriend should want to help out his girlfriend, and in return she would naturally want to show her appreciation by spending time with him.

"But what if you don't want to sleep with him one night, and he's just bought you a car?" I asked Angie skeptically. "You still sort of have to, don't you? How is that different from being a—"

I caught myself as I saw the warning twitch of her mouth.

"It's not all about sex," Angie said tautly. "It's about friendship. If you can't understand that, I'm not going to waste my time trying to explain."

I apologized immediately and said I was from a small town and didn't always have a sophisticated understanding of things. Mollified. Angie forgave me. And she added that if I was smart, I'd get a generous boyfriend too. and it would help me achieve my goals a lot faster.

But I didn't want trips to Cabo or Rio, or designer clothes, or the trappings of a luxe life. All I wanted was to honor the promises I had made to myself and Carrington. My modest ambitions included a good home, and the means to keep us both clothed and fed. and health insurance with a dental plan. I didn't want any of that to come from a sugar daddy. The obligation of it. the gift-giving and sex dressed in the trappings of friendship... it was a road I knew I wouldn't be able to negotiate well.

Too many potholes.

Among the important people who came to Salon One was Mr. Churchill Travis. If you've ever subscribed to Fortune magazine, or Forbes, or a similar publication, you know something about him. Unfortunately I had no clue who he was, since I had no interest in finance and never reached for Forbes unless I needed fly-swatting material.

One of the first things you noticed upon meeting Churchill was his voice, so low and gravelly you could almost feel it underfoot. He wasn't a big man, medium height at most, and when he slouched you could have called him short. Except if Churchill Travis slouched, everyone else in the room did too. His build was lean but for a barrel chest and arms that were capable of straightening a horseshoe. Churchill was a man's man, able to hold his liquor and shoot straight and negotiate like a gentleman. He'd worked hard for his money, paid just about every kind of dues there were.

Churchill was most comfortable around old-fashioned types like himself. He knew which areas of housework were men's territory, and he knew which were women's. The only time he ever went into a kitchen was to pour himself coffee. He was genuinely perplexed by men who took an interest in china patterns or ate alfalfa sprouts or sometimes contemplated their feminine sides. Churchill had no feminine side, and he would have taken a swing at anyone would might have dared to suggest otherwise.

Churchill's first visit to Salon One happened around the time I started working there. One day the serenity of the salon was interrupted by a flurry of excitement, stylists murmuring, clients' heads turning. I caught a glimpse of him—a thick ruff of steel-colored hair, dark gray suit—as he was guided to one of Zenko's VIP rooms. He paused in the doorway, his gaze crossing the main room. His eyes were dark, the kind of brown that makes the irises nearly indistinguishable from the pupils. He was a good-looking old coot, but there was something offbeat about him, a hint of the eccentric.