Page 25 of Rogue

Damn if that doesn’t rub me the wrong way. All the time I spent mourning him, missing him.

Well, no more.

Think supplies. Think preparation. Think strategy—something I learned early on, but what comes as second nature to Jaxson. If my suspicions are true, the next time I call Francis, Novák’s men will come back out to play. And I’ll be ready. Discovering Jaxson is alive changes nothing. I still intend on terminating Novák and finishing my assignment.Ourbotched assignment, which I’m more determined than ever to resolve.

Twenty minutes later, I exit my hotel, pulling my sweatshirt hood over my head. I blink, momentary blinded by the sunlight. Two days in bed will do that to a gal. I take the Metro to the Galeries Lafayette and find a hair salon. Nothing like a little beauty therapy mixed with a bit of thievery to put the spring back in my step.

The salon is upscale, and I’m greeted by light flirting across a white marble floor cast from the chandelier overhead. A three-quarter-length wall, featuring high-end impressionist painting reproductions—or so the sign says, in English too—separates the front of the salon from a second, less glamorous space in the back. An area where all the chemical magic happens. And just where I belong this morning.

In no time, I’m seated in the back and in the middle of an inquisition by my friendly stylist, Margot.

“You know, you’d betrès belleas a blond,” Margot says. “Mais rouge. . .” She makes that sound only Parisians seem to have mastered, as if they’re reluctantly letting the letterPpass in a huff from between their lips. AP-huff. So much for her liking my current freak-show red. “And thisnoiresuggestion will be too dark for your fair complexion.”

I bite my lip, fighting the urge to go back to my natural color. Make myself pretty for a man responsible for my two-day lapse in reasoning. Yeah, who am I kidding? What does hair color matter anymore? He’s going to find me, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I just need to hurry the hell up and terminate Novák before my hope for redemption dies along with me.

I pay close attention to the large containers stacked neatly on the shelves, from a darker,deartyblond—which becomes ten times dirtier with they way Margot says it—tole peroxyde d’hydrogènefor a bleached-blond look.

“Okay, Margot. You’ve convinced me. Bleach blond it is.”

The beautician claps her hand with glee. I resist the temptation to do the same—not until I follow through on the real reason I’m here inside this salon paradise.

Margot chats away as she applies the pasty mixture to my hair. “I’ve a new lover,” she tells me without censor. I let out a soft sigh. It seems I’ve found the one and only Parisian excited to practice English.

“A boyfriend?” I correct.

“Non, a lover. He’s older, experienced. I’ve never had sex like this before. The orgasms, oh-la-la.”

I laugh. Her joy is contagious but short-lived.

“And you? Do you have someone special?”

I feel the blood drain from my face, my cheeks becoming as pale as my pasty hair. Jesus, I’m beginning to detest the City of Love.

“Eh . . . why do you frown?Zut, I’m sorry if I upset you. Boy trouble?”

I stare into the mirror and am horrified to see tears.Zut, and doublezut. “Oui,” I whisper. “Beaucoup detrouble.” I give myself a mental eye roll on that one. How do you say “a shitload of trouble” in French?

“Do you still love him?” she softly murmurs.

“No,” I blurt out. “Not any longer.”

“Then why are you crying,chéri?”

“Damn Bordeaux,” I mutter. “Nasty hangover . . .”

“We have an expression here in France—”

“Je t’aime?” I interrupt, far too hostile. Far too mocking. Jesus, I’m turning into a real bundle of joy.

Fortunately, she laughs. “That too. But I’m referring to is this proverb:à cœur vaillant rien d’impossible.”

“Any proverb with the wordimpossiblein it must be considered carefully.” Really, can we turn this discussing to the weather?

She pauses and searches my face. Waiting for my signal to continue. I cave because, let’s face it, she’s so bleeding nice and I’m feeling slightly guilty about my real motive for being here. “What does the expression mean?”

“‘Nothing is impossible to a willing heart.’ Be brave,chéri. Especially in matters of the heart.”

Terrific. I came inside for a dye job and to pinch a few pints of hydrogen peroxide, not become a victim to some philosophizing Parisian hair whisperer. Lucky for me, my hair’s saturated enough for her to leave me alone while the chemicals change me from circus freak to Malibu chic.