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.

Our gazes caught. He went still, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me intently. And then I had the curious feeling, nearly impossible to describe... a sort of pleasant catch deep in my chest, in a place words couldn't reach. I felt soothed and relaxed and expectant. I could actually feel the tiny muscles in my forehead and jaw softening. I wanted to smile at him but before I could he had gone into the room with Zenko.

"Who was that?" I asked Angie, who was standing with me.

"Advanced-level sugar daddy," she replied in an awed tone. "Don't tell me you've never heard of Churchill Travis."

"I've heard of the Travises," I replied. "They're like the Basses in Fort Worth, right? Money people?"

"Honey, in the investment world Churchill Travis is Elvis. He's on CNN all the time. He's written books. He owns half of Houston, and he has yachts, jets, mansions..."

Even knowing Angie's tendency toward hyperbole, I was impressed.

"...and the best part of all is, he's a widower," Angie finished. "His wife died not too long ago. Oh, I'm going to find a way to get in that room with him and Zenko. I've got to meet him! Did you see the way he just looked at me?"

That provoked a self-conscious laugh. I'd thought he was looking at me. but it had been Angie. it must have been, because she was blond and sexy and men adored her.

"Yes," I said. "But would you really go after him? I thought you were happy with George." George was Angie's current sugar daddy, who had just given her a Cadillac Escalade. It was a loaner, but he'd said she could drive it as long as she wanted.

"Liberty, a smart sugar baby never misses an opportunity to trade up." Angie sped to the makeup station to reapply eyeliner and lipstick, freshening her face in preparation to meet Churchill Travis.

I went to the cleaning closet and got out a broom to sweep up some hair clippings from the floor. Just as I got started, a stylist named Alan hurried over to me. He was trying to look calm, but his eyes were as big as silver dollars.

"Liberty," he said in an urgent undertone, "Zenko wants you to bring a glass of iced tea for Mr. Travis. Strong tea, lots of ice, no lemon, two packets of sweetener. The blue packets. Bring it on a tray. Don't flick it up, or Zenko will kill us all."

I was instantly alarmed. "Why me? Angie should bring it to him. He was looking at her. I'm sure she wants to do it. She—"

"He asked for you. 'The dark-haired little girl.' he said. Hurry, Liberty. Blue packets. blue"

I went to prepare the tea as directed, stirring carefully to make certain every grain of sweetener was dissolved. I had filled the glass to the top with the most symmetrical ice cubes available. When I approached the VIP room. I had to balance the tray on one hand while I opened the door with the other. The ice jiggled dangerously in the glass. I wondered in desperation if a few drops had spilled.

Assuming an implacable smile, I entered the VIP room. Mr. Travis was seated in the chair, facing a huge gold-framed mirror. Zenko was describing possible variations on Mr. Travis's current hairstyle, which was the standard businessman's cut. I gathered Zenko was gently hinting that Mr. Travis should try something a little different, maybe allow him to texture and gel it at the top to update his look to something edgier.

I tried to deliver the tea as unobtrusively as possible, but those shrewd dark eyes locked onto me, and Travis turned in his chair to face me as he took the glass from the tray. "What's your opinion?" he demanded. "Do you think I need updating?"

Considering my reply, I noticed that his teeth were slightly snaggled on the bottom row. As he smiled, it gave him the appearance of a fierce old lion inviting a cub to play. His eyes were warm in his craggy face, an umber glaze permanently seared into the top few layers of skin. Holding his gaze, I felt a small knot of delight form in my throat, and I swallowed it back.

I told him the truth. I couldn't help it. "I think you're edgy enough as it is," I said. "Any more and you'd scare people."