Unzipped?

“No! You cannot have my pants,”

Hal protested, determined to make his final stand. Shannon had already decimated his entire wardrobe, and he wouldn’t let her take these with her. “This is my favorite pair of jeans and you’re not getting them off my body.”

Shannon rubbed her hands together evilly. She raised an eyebrow. “What if I made it worth your while?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What would you like me to mean?”

Was she offering him sex if he took off his pants for her? He grew hard at the thought. “Well, a guy can always fantasize,” he said before he could stop himself.

“So can a girl,” she purred. “But the reality is so much more satisfying, don’t you think?” Then she whipped off her top.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever despaired over something that your boyfriend was wearing? And worse, you were unable to stop him from wearing it out of the house?

When you subtly tried to tell him that something else might look better, he just shrugged and said he didn’t care, right? Or when you told him flat out that his clothes would embarrass you, he got mad, and wore them just to spite you.

I have been in this situation many times! And of course it’s led to fantasies of smoking the offending clothing on the barbecue grill, or tossing the guy’s entire wardrobe into the garbage. While I’ve never actually done this, I decided that it was high time I wrote a character who did…and gave her justification for her actions by making them part of her job.

I hope you’ll enjoy Shannon making over Hal—and the sizzling results. Making a guy “cool” has never gotten Shannon so hot!

Be sure to look for Open Invitation?, the next book in THE MAN-HANDLERS series.

I love to hear from readers, so feel free to contact me at [e-mail] or write to me c/o Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd., 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

Happy reading,

Karen Kendall

Unzipped?

Karen Kendall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

1

SHANNON SHANE FIRED into her office like a bullet and ripped through her appointment book. “Oh, thank God it’s tomorrow, not today.” She fell into her bright yellow leather office chair, her long legs sprawled in front of her.

Jane O’Toole, her business partner, followed her in and said dryly, “Last time I checked, today really is today. Tomorrow never comes.”

Shannon turned, pulled aside the blond curtain of hair hanging over her face and rolled her eyes at Jane. “Funny. Not. I meant my appointment with Doris Rangel. I’ve misplaced my Palm Pilot somewhere, and I couldn’t remember. Whew. She’s the new junior senator from Norwich, and we’ve got several wardrobe and media-training sessions set up.”

Jane walked into the common area of Finesse, their business, opened the drawer of the reception desk—a somewhat useless accoutrement since they couldn’t yet afford to hire a receptionist—and pulled out the missing personal organizer.

“Shan, you are no longer allowed to put anything down while you set the office alarm. It never makes it out the door with you, whether it’s sunglasses, keys or a Palm Pilot.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shannon said ruefully. “Give me that, thanks. I need to chain it to my wrist.” She stuck the device on her desk and blew out a breath. “Do we have coffee?”

“Yes. Lilia made some. If you’re nice to her and say please, she might give you a cup.” Adorable, but excruciatingly proper Lilia London was their third business partner in Finesse, a training center for personal and career enhancement.

Jane, benign control freak that she was, excelled at the job of CEO. She also did counseling and employee management consulting. Lilia, their resident Miss Manners, handled business and social etiquette. And Shannon herself was their image consultant and media trainer.

“Hey, I’m always nice,” she said. “I’m your little ray of sunshine around here.”

“Well, you’re definitely a breath of fresh air…” Jane’s voice trailed off as she inspected Shannon’s ensemble for the day: hot-pink suede pants, black spike-heeled boots and a short, black leather jacket over a lacy camisole. “Hon, you live in Connecticut now. You have left Rodeo Drive. It rains here, it’s gray seventy percent of the time, and New Englanders don’t wear pink pants.”

“This one does,” Shannon said firmly. “It’s April, therefore it’s spring. Pink is perfect for the season. And you can wear all the gray and khaki you want, but I refuse. It’s boring.”

Jane adopted a resigned expression as she looked beyond the tasteful reception area, furnished with antique reproductions, an oriental rug and traditional paintings, and into Shannon’s office. She closed her eyes against the tangerine-colored walls, the movie posters, the strange contemporary art.

Shannon just laughed. “Image, honey. That’s what I do. My image is different from yours.”

“Thank you, God,” muttered Jane. “At least you’re no longer wearing that green nail polish.”

“That might be a little too much for the average preppy to swallow,” Shan agreed.

Lilia emerged from the kitchen with two cups of coffee and handed one to Shannon, having to look up as she did so. Five foot one herself, she complained, “I think you grew another inch last night. It’s not fair.”

“Thanks for the java,” Shannon said. “And I keep telling you, being six feet tall is not that wonderful. With a pair of heels, I dwarf most men.”

Lil raised an elegant, dark-winged eyebrow. “But I’d like to be worshipped. It must be nice.”

Shannon shook her head and drained a third of her coffee in one gulp. “Stop it. Nobody worships me.”

“Uh-huh.” Jane’s tone was sardonic. “I was out with you last weekend. I saw the men in person—at least four Worshippers From Afar, three Droolers, a couple of would-be Leg Humpers and one Pathetic Pick-up Liner.”

“Oh, him.” Shan shuddered. “The nice-girl-in-a-place-like-this guy. I didn’t think anybody still dredged that line up. Horrific.”

What nobody, including her closest friends, seemed to understand was that it wasn’t enjoyable to be the subject of all that male attention. It was more annoying—and the guys weren’t really interested in who she was, but what she looked like. Some glossy blond American ideal. However, Shannon didn’t say anything. She had learned long ago that most women considered hers high-class worries. Six-foot, one-hundred-twenty-five-pound blondes never inspired much pity. Hatred, yes. Envy, certainly. But sympathy? Out of the question.

She changed the subject, embarrassed. “So I handed out over twenty business cards at the University Women’s Club dinner last night.”

“Good work. Now let’s hope at least five percent of them call.” Jane picked up the ringing phone. “Finesse, Jane O’Toole speaking.”

Shannon and Lilia moved into the kitchen as she took the business call. “So how’s your grandma, Lil?”

Her friend sighed. “She’s…putting a brave face on things. Knee replacement surgery is just no fun, any way you look at it. It hurts her a lot. She loves the basket of teas and cookies you brought her, though.”

“Well, good. Hope she’s using it, not just admiring the arrangement. I’ll have to go see her again later this week. Poor thing.”

“She refuses to take the roses out of the china teapot, even though they’re quite wilted at this point. Once I manage to toss them—probably while she’s asleep—she might let me actually make tea in the pot.”

Shannon laughed. “Please forbid her to write me a thank-you note.”

Lil tucked her straight dark hair behind her ears. “Already done. Heavy, monogrammed, cream paper—engraved, no thermography. Written with an actual fountain pen. Wax seal. First class stamp. Most likely sitting in your mailbox this second.”

Groan. “At least we know you come by your manners honestly, Miz Vanderbilt.”

Lilia’s expression came as close to an actual eye roll as she would ever get.

“Give Nana a real hug from me—the boob-squashing, shoulder-to-shoulder affectionate kind, okay? Not one of those air-kiss-to-dry-cheek, flutter-fingers-on-back types.” Shannon mimicked a freeze-dried socialite.

“I’ll do that.”

“Hey, Lil? Do you know a Peggy Underwood? Small, high energy, shock of red hair?”

“Yes. Let’s see, I met her through…” She pursed her lips, thinking. “Oh, at the veterinarian’s. She had a cockatiel. I had Pierre, Nana’s poodle, there for his shots. Anyway, we got to talking and I gave her one of your cards. She mentioned a brother who needs help.”

“Yeah. A lot of help, from what she told me—she stopped by yesterday. Said I’d have to call him, since her nagging might not get good results.”

“That’s a little awkward, isn’t it?”

“Yup. Picture me calling. ‘Hello, Mr. Underwood? I hear you’re looking straight off the set of Planet of the Apes, honey. Come see me, would ya, dear?’”

Lil choked on her coffee. “Subtle. Very subtle.”

Shan took a mock bow. “My specialty.”

“You don’t even know how to spell subtle, darling.” Lil tipped the rest of her coffee into her mouth and moved toward the pot for a refill.

“I don’t want to spell it,” Shannon said. “My business is to teach people how to make a statement. A powerful statement. Subtle doesn’t cut it.”

“Subtle can be powerful,” Lil disagreed.

“No, it’s conformist.”

“It’s confident.”

“Color is confident. Subtle is meek.”

“Not meek, elegant.”

“Why, Lil! You’re arguing. That’s not polite.” Shannon laughed as her friend’s eyes snapped. “Okay, we’ll call it a draw. Anyway, so what would you say if you had to contact this Underwood guy?”

“I’d tell him that you met his sister and that she suggested you give him a call to set up an appointment. Straightforward, true, no awkwardness about it.”

Shannon nodded. “Okay. I can do that. I’ll wait a couple of days to see if he gets in touch first, though. I don’t want to be pushy.” She finished her own coffee and went for a second cup.

Jane, from the doorway, said, “Oh, please don’t do that! You on too much caffeine is scary.”

Shannon put a hand on her hip and grinned wickedly. “Hey, Jane. What happens when a psychologist and a hooker spend the night together?”

“No! Not more shrink jokes…”

“In the morning, each of them says, ‘One hundred and twenty dollars, please.’” She laughed at Jane’s pained expression.

“Hey, what’s the difference between—”

Jane clapped her hands over her ears.

“—a psychologist and a magician?” She spoke louder. “A psychologist pulls habits out of rats!”

Her friend backed out of the kitchen. “I have work to do now. Keep your terrible jokes to yourself.”

“Aw, c’mon. One more. Why is psychoanalysis so much cheaper for a man than a woman?”

“I’m not encouraging you.”

“Because when it’s time to go back to childhood, a man is already there.”

“That’s no joke,” Jane said, with a smirk.

“Ha. See, I have wisdom to impart. You should listen to me.”

“Lilia, we’ve gotta start making the coffee half-caf. She’s out of control again!”

Lil poked her head around the corner and narrowed her eyes. “You know…it’s almost as if she’s had sugar this morning.”

Shan gave them a Mona Lisa smile.

“Doughnuts!” they shrieked.

She dangled her keys and Jane made a grab for them. One benefit of being tall was that keep-away was so easy. “Krispy Kremes. I left them in the car,” she said. “Just to be mean.”

2

“PEGGY, LEAVE ME ALONE!” Hal Underwood said to his little sister. He brushed the hair out of his eyes again and pushed up his glasses. “This company’s going public in a month, and I have one or two things to take care of.” Not to mention some detective work to do…

Peggy Underwood, five foot two, red-headed and snub-nosed, stood her ground. Under any other circumstances, she’d be adorable. Today, she was a menace.

“I will not leave you alone. You’ve been a loner all your life, and it’s time for that to change. Whether you like it or not, Hal, it’s not healthy for a thirty-five-year-old man to date his computer!”

Hal devoted his right brain to her, while multitasking with his left. The criticism bounced right off him. A cow has four stomachs. If only I had four brains, I could keep up with everything.

“Hal! Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I heard you. I am not romantically involved with my computer.”

Peg narrowed her eyes. “Do you have dinner with it?”

Hal shrugged and nodded.

“Breakfast?”

He sighed.

“You even take it to bed, don’t you?”

I’m going to lose this battle.

“You. Are. Dating. Your. Computer.”

“Peggy, for chrissakes, did Mom put you up to this?” Hal cracked his neck, in hope of easing some tension. How the hell has my company sprung an information leak?

“No. Although yesterday, the last thing she said to me on the phone was, ‘Oy, veh—I’m a cliché!’” Peggy shook her head. “As a poet, that’s her worst nightmare, you know. To be a cliché. But there’s no denying she wants grandchildren.”

“So get on with it, Pegs.” Hal ignored her for his computer screen. Has someone hacked in?

“Oh, no. I’ve told you—it’s not my fate to procreate.”

“Is that what you said to Mom?” We’ve locked down the firewalls and secured all the servers. It can’t be the e-mail system. We monitor that 24-7.

Peggy nodded. “You know things have more impact with Mom if they rhyme.”

Hal rolled his eyes. “Oy veh—ridiculous. She’s not even Jewish.”

“The rhyme, Hal. Her version of reason.”

“Well, here’s my version of reason—go away. I’m trying to work.” He brushed the hair from his eyes a second time. It flopped back again immediately.

“Hal, have you looked into a mirror lately? You resemble a serial killer. When was the last time you got a haircut? And that shirt—has it been wadded up in a trash bag?”

“Dryer,” he mumbled, his fingers flying over the keyboard of his PC.

Peggy did her best to loom over him, but she didn’t cast much of a shadow. “Hal. Hal, if you don’t pay attention to me this minute, I will pull out all the cords from the back of this computer. I’ll count to three.”

Hal didn’t register the words until she got to “three” and actually laid hands on his Precious. “Step away from the computer, Peg.”

“Pay attention.”

“I’m warning you. Remember that time I stuffed you into the hideaway sofa? I promise you that’s nothing compared to what I’ll do if you pull one cord.”

“Good. You’re paying attention,” Peg said with satisfaction.

“What?”

“Mom and I have found the perfect place for you. And by the way, Ryan agrees.”

Ryan Cabela was his attorney and good friend. He sat on the board of Hal’s software company. “Ryan? What’s Ryan got to do with you and Mom?” Can Ryan be the leak? Hal pushed the thought away. No. He’s your best friend.

“Just that we’re all in agreement. You need a new image, Hal. When the company goes public, you’re going to have to deal with people. And you can’t look or act the way you do now.”

Hal stared at her. “What’s wrong with me? Jeez, I’ll get a haircut. There’s a barber down the street.”

“Hal, honey, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you need a bit more than a haircut. You need a whole new image and a handler. You need media training, too.”

“A handler? Oh, thanks very much, Peg!” Hal erupted from his chair and surged around the desk. He folded his arms across his chest and glared down at her. “I handle myself just fine. I’ll go see a barber, even shave off the face fuzz.” He fingered the itchy growth on his chin.

Peg shook her head. “Hal. Listen to me. You look only slightly better than Saddam when he came out of his hidey-hole—”

Hal’s jaw dropped. “That is not true.”

“Maybe a slight exaggeration, but not by much.”

“Would you like to check me for lice? Rat droppings?”

“Eeeuuww.” Peggy wrinkled her nose. “Calm down, Hal. I’m just trying to tell you that you need a major overhaul in the grooming, fashion and conversational departments. You’ve got to woo the media now. And we wouldn’t mind you wooing some women, either.”

“What’s wrong with my conversation?”

“You need to speak in sentences, in English, not C++. And normal people don’t call their computers ‘My Precious.’”

“It’s a joke,” Hal explained with heavy patience.

“It’s weird.”

Hal sighed. “Fine. Whatever. But I don’t see why you’re so concerned about the media.”

Ryan, his attorney and the neighboring office tenant, stuck his head through the door. “There is a definite need to be concerned, Hal. Sorry to eavesdrop, but it’s about time we had this talk. Peg and I are performing an image intervention here.” He took a bite of the ham sandwich in his right hand and pushed up his glasses with the left.

Hal folded his arms and glared at Ryan. “Begging your pardon, sir, I hadn’t realized you were chief counsel for GQ.”

“What I look like doesn’t matter,” Ryan said. “What you look like does. You are the CEO of Underwood Technologies. If you resemble a caveman, people will assume U.T. is run by an unstable loon. We want them to buy stock, not wonder about your mental health.”

Hal threw up his hands. “They’re buying part of the company, not part of me! And my mental health is just fine.”

“You are the face of the company, Hal. The face and the voice—and the future. It’s time for a new image, my man.”

IT’S TIME for a new image, my man. The words reverberated in Hal’s head as he glared at the business card in his hand. He’d finally chased off Peg and Ryan after promising to call the number on the card. What crap. Hadn’t he started his own company so that he could avoid such things as dress codes, brownnosing and Corporate Career Ken dolls?

Finesse, said the card. Shannon Shane, Image Consultant and Media Trainer. No doubt she’d try to dress him in khaki pants and a navy blazer, the Connecticut State Uniform. She’d try to dye his hair blond and cap his teeth. She’d chase him with a pair of penny loafers—but she’d never get him into them.

Hal wiggled his toes in his ancient running shoes with the frayed, grungy laces. No freakin’ penny loafers, by God. He glared at the card again before picking up the phone and dialing.

“Finesse, Shannon Shane speaking.”

Shannon. The only females he’d ever known named Shannon had been gorgeous and stuck-up. Like Heathers and Tiffanys.

“Hello?”

Hal cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. I’m, uh. Well, I wanted to make an appointment.”

“Okay, I’d be happy to do that. Will you tell me your name?”

God, the unknown Shannon’s voice was sexy. Throaty and a bit raw. “Uh, name. Right. I’m Hal. Underwood.”

“Great, Hal. I think I heard that you might get in touch. You were referred by…?”

“My—uh, sister.” Could I sound more lame? Yup. “And my mother.” Worse and worse. “Oh, and my attorney.” Perfect.

A faint tremor of laughter sifted through her voice. “Sounds like they ganged up on you.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“And you don’t appreciate it.”

“No. Not really.”

“What do they— What do you think the issue is?”

He remembered Peg’s comments, and they stung. “I’m taking my software company public in a month,” he said. “And apparently…” He paused. “Apparently I look worse than Saddam when they found him in the hole.”

There was no mistaking her amusement this time, though she tried to pass off the gurgle as a cough. “I—I see. Sounds urgent. Why don’t we make an appointment for tomorrow afternoon?”

“You work Saturdays?”

“We often do, to accommodate our clients’ schedules. Is one o’clock convenient for you?”

“Fabulous. Wonderful. Couldn’t be better. I will live,” Hal said through gritted teeth, “for one o’clock.”

“If it’s any comfort to you at all,” Shannon Shane told him, “Saddam cleans up very well. Of course, he could do with an eye lift.”

Hal stared disbelievingly at the receiver of his telephone before punching the off button. What had he just gotten himself into?

3

TODAY WAS A TYPICAL Saturday, but Shannon didn’t recognize her own body. Who is that, reflected in my glass office door? It’s an Unidentified Flying Blonde, aka me, moi, myself. The same self I was yesterday, but…not.

Adopted. She was adopted.

She hovered like an alien outside her reflection in the door of Finesse.

Her image looked back at her: a tall, rangy blonde in black leather pants, black spike-heeled boots and a cropped, orange leather jacket. But she could have been watching another person approach. Her mind, usually sharp and aware, floated above her shoulders: detached in a helium balloon and connected by only a ribbon.

And I’m not even on drugs. She felt insubstantial, as if she could simply fade through the door like a wraith. Who is that woman entering my place of business? Who is she?

Shannon pulled up short between the two plaster urns full of ivy that flanked the door and put out a hand to connect with the heavy steel handle. Pull to open. Step over threshold. Smile at Jane and Lilia, your friends and business partners.

Jane looked up from her desk and peered into the reception area. “Shannon? Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

Lilia came out of her office with her appointment book and cell phone. “You look tired. Did you sleep last night?”

“Not much,” Shannon admitted.

“Out partying late?”

Shannon shook her head. She thought about lying to Jane and Lil, telling them that she’d stayed up late watching a movie or reading a book. Instead she just bypassed them and went to the kitchen for coffee. Pull yourself together.

She had three different appointments today, and she couldn’t be in space like this. But she had a feeling that she’d never walk steadily on earth again.

Melodramatic tendencies, Shannon. You’re not auditioning for daytime soaps anymore. The voice in her head sounded just like Mrs. Koogle’s, their ninth-grade English teacher.

It was a shame she wasn’t reading for the soaps today. Because at least in the auditions, she’d had a script to follow, lines to memorize, the anchors of the character and a plot. Plus the adrenaline of the circumstances: will this be my lucky break? Will I get a callback?

Today she had no adrenaline. No script. No happy—or even cliff-hanger—ending. Nope, this was her life. And while there had been days when she felt it was stuck in an endless, quaint New England traffic roundabout, at least she’d been moving. Her mother’s revelation yesterday had brought her to a complete standstill.