Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(62)

I grinned. "Well, you should have waited until you hired someone else before you got rid of him." I filled a spray bottle with tap water.

"I have someone else in mind."

"Who's that?"

Churchill made a brief, impatient gesture to indicate it was of no importance, and settled back in his chair. I dampened his hair and combed it carefully. As I cut his hair in careful layers, I saw the moment when the medication took effect. The harsh lines of his face relaxed, and his eyes lost their glazed brightness.

"This is the first actual haircut I've ever given you," I remarked. "Finally I can list you

on my resume.

He chuckled. "How long have you worked at Zenko's? Four years?"

"Almost five."

"What's he paying you?"

Mildly surprised by the question. I considered telling him it was none of his business. But there was hardly any reason to keep it a secret from him. "Twenty-four a year," I said, "not including tips."

"My assistant got fifty a year."

"That's a lot of money. I bet he had to work his tail off for it."

"Not really. He ran some errands, kept my schedule, made phone calls, typed on my book. That kind of stuff."

"You're writing another book?"

He nodded. "Mostly investment strategies. But part of it is autobiographical. I write some pages in longhand, others I dictate into a recorder. My assistant types it all into the computer."

"It would be a lot more efficient if you typed it yourself." I combed his hair back again, searching for the natural line of his part.

"Some things I'm too old to learn. Typing is one of them."

"So hire a temp."

"I don't want a temp. I want someone I know. Someone I trust."

Our gazes met in the mirror, and I realized what he was working up to. Good Lord, I thought. A frown of concentration wove across my forehead. I sank to my haunches, hunting for the right angles, my scissors making precise snips around his head. "I'm a hairstylist," I said without looking at him, "not a secretary. And once I leave Zenko, that door is closed for good. I can't go back."

"It's not a short-term offer," Churchill countered in a relaxed manner that gave me an inkling of what a smart business negotiator he must have been. "There's lots of work around here. Liberty. Most of it will challenge you a hell of a lot more than fooling with people's cuticles. Now, settle your feathers—there's nothing wrong with your job, and you do it well—"

"Gee, thanks."

"—but you could learn a lot from me. I'm still a ways out from retirement, and I've got a lot to get done. I need help from someone I can depend on."

I laughed incredulously and picked up the electric clippers. "What makes you think you can depend on me?"

"You're not a quitter," he said. "You stick with things. You meet life head-on. That counts a hell of a lot more than typing skills."

"You say that now. But you haven't seen my typing."

"You'll pick it up."

I shook my head slowly. "So you're too old to learn your way around a keyboard, but I'm not?"

"That's right."

I gave him an exasperated smile and turned on the clippers. Their insistent buzz forestalled further conversation.

It was obvious Churchill needed someone a lot more qualified than me. Minor errands I could do. But making calls on his behalf, helping with his book, interacting even in small ways with the people in his sphere.. .1 would be out of my depth.

At the same time I was surprised to discover a stirring of ambition. How many college graduates with their tasseled caps and crisp new diplomas would kill for a chance like this? It was an opportunity that wouldn't come again.

I worked on Churchill's hair, tilting his head down, shaping carefully. Eventually I turned the clippers off and began to brush the shorn hair from his neck. "What if it didn't work out?" I heard myself ask. "Would I get a couple weeks' notice?"

"Plenty of advance notice." he said, "and a good severance package. But it's going to work out."

"What about health insurance?"

"I'll put you and Carrington on the same policy as my own family."

Well, hell.

Except for the WIC vaccinations, I'd had to pay for every medical and health expense Carrington and I had ever had. We'd been lucky, healthwise. But every cough, cold, or ear infection, every minor problem that could turn into a major problem had nearly killed me with worry. I wanted a white plastic card with a group number in my wallet. I wanted it so badly my fists knotted.

"You write out a list of what you want," Churchill said. "I'm not going to peck over the details. You know me. You know I'll be fair. There's only one nonnegotiable."

"What's that?" I still found it difficult to believe we were even having this conversation.

"I want you and Carrington to live here."

There was not one thing I could say. I just stared at him.

"Gretchen and I both need someone at the house," he explained. "I'm in a wheelchair, and even after I'm out of it, I'll have a hitch in my get-along. And Gretchen's been having some problems lately, including memory loss. She claims she's going back to her own house someday, but the truth is she's here for good. I want someone to keep track of her appointments as well as mine. I don't want it to be some stranger." His eyes were shrewd, his voice easy. "You can come and go as you please. Have the run of the place. Treat it like your own home. Send Carrington to River Oaks Elementary. There's eight free guest rooms upstairs—you can each take your pick."