Touch If You Dare (44 page)

The Godfather had vanished that night, and no one had seen him. The press was buzzing about the disappearance of the world’s most dangerous bachelor, and Jarvis had caught Natalie double locking the doors on more than one occasion.

Even anti-female Nigel had noticed her fear, and he’d left a sketch pad and new box of colored pencils by her door one morning with a note that said simply, “Try these.” Nigel had denied responsibility, but Jarvis recognized the brand and knew the truth. And from the way Natalie watched Nigel, he suspected she knew he’d done it as well. Not that it had changed anything. She was still giving off the cold vibrations of fear, and nothing was able to take that edge off.

Folks he didn’t know were also crowded into the store. Men, women, all of them grinning at him. He finally looked past all the people and saw there were mirrors on all sides, and barber chairs, sinks, shampoo bottles. He frowned. “Where are we?”

“Look up, you goofball.” Reina squeezed his hand and pointed to the wall.

In delicate gold script across a black and pink wall were the words,
Design by Jarvis
.

An enormous knot formed in his throat and he couldn’t talk. Couldn’t speak.

“It’s a hair salon,” she said, her face creased with a smile that illuminated the room. “Yours.”

His.
Holy crap. He fisted his hands and his throat ached, even as he forced himself to shake his head. “I’m not a stylist—”

“No, you’re not. You’re an artist whose venue is hair.” Reina gestured at the crowd. “Meet your staff. Poached from all the best salons in Boston. They’re horrifically expensive, but Damien donated some of the money for the botched assassination of the Sisterhood because you saved Rocco.”

“I’m a minority owner,” Death said. “I expect results.”

“So am I,” Natalie said. “You have to sell our chocolates in here.”

“And the
piece de la resistance
.” Blaine swept a black and pink checkered sheet off a stylist chair. A black leather seat. The letter
J
embroidered in pink sweeping font across the back. Arms designed to look like his sword, and a black serpent crawling up the supporting pole beneath. “Your chair, Lord Hate.”

His own chair? “It’s…” Shit. He didn’t even know what to say. “It’s magnificent.”

“I know. We had it specially designed for you.” Reina clapped her hands. “Try it!”

Stunned, unable to believe what she’d done for him, Jarvis walked across the floor and ran his hand over the leather. Soft. Of course. He traced the silken threads of the
J
. He braced his hands on the back of the chair and looked in the mirror. He imagined someone sitting there, entrusting themselves to him. He envisioned taking their hair in his hands. Creating a masterpiece in his mind. Turning it into reality. Designing. Creating. Art. Limitless potential.

Peace settled over him. This was where he belonged. This was his calling. He knew it. This was his salvation.

Reina peeked around his arm, a little frown knitting between her eyebrows. “You don’t like it?”

Jarvis turned and buried Reina in his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered, too overwhelmed to do anything but repeat the words. “Thank you.”

She squealed with glee and hugged him. “I know you can’t knit,” she said, “but I know how much cross-stitching helps Blaine and painting helps Nigel. Hair is your thing, sweetheart. And now you can do it.”

He kissed her then, and he made sure to show her exactly how far his creative talents went.

The catcalls as he hauled her against him?

Didn’t bother him one bit.

Nothing did.

Because he’d finally found his place.

He wasn’t only the Guardian of Hate.

He wasn’t only the Guardian of Love.

He was, quite simply, a man who had found his way to love.