“Who or what is Pandafoot?” asked the man before her curiously.
“I hear a voice! Is that a guy? You okay, Jacyn? You want me to call the—”
“Gonna have to call you back, Sienna,” Jacyn said, and clicked off the phone. Then, she belatedly wondered if that had been the best choice. This man, after all, was large enough to snap her in two. Last night, he had been almost mad enough to do it.
He stood there on her threshold, looking at her quizzically, until she grudgingly invited him in. She had to swallow her irritation when he swooped in as if he already owned the entire complex, or as if he was planning to buy it. Damn rich people.
He swiveled on her so suddenly she almost lost her balance. “Are you auditioning for a role in a newGhostbusters,mademoiselle?”
“Huh?” Jacyn looked down at herself. “Oh, no, this is my personal protective equipment.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “What are you protecting yourself from?”
“Soap.”
“Soap?”
“Well, shampoo, actually. Similar process, but—”
He folded his arms. “Miss Philmore, I regret, but I don’t understand.”
Wondering why the hell she was doing this, she led him to her workspace, and began pointing at her equipment and ingredients. “I was making a batch of clarifying shampoo.”
“Makingit? Do they not sell shampoo in stores in your area?”
Jacyn paused at his condescending tone, not sure if he was mocking her. “I make handmade products, natural products, especially for black women with thicker, curlier hair. I’ve started my own brand. It’s called Napturally Beautyful, with a ‘y’ and two ls in beautiful.”
“I see,” he said, looking at her closely as if he was re-calibrating in his mind the image he’d made of her the night before. “This still doesn’t explain why you are dressed as if you intend to hunt and kill spiders.”
She chuckled a bit, surprising herself at how his sense of humor was making her relax. She peeled off her headset, mask, goggles and bandana, letting her scarlet braids cascade to her shoulders. There was a flicker of response in his eyes—then it was gone.
“Natural soaps, shampoos and similar products usually begin with a blend of wholesome organic oils, such as olive, hemp, coconut, you know. They bring the nourishment to your hair and skin. But you also need a base, such as potassium or sodium hydroxide—”
He looked seriously concerned now. “You putlyeon your skin? How can this be safe?”
“No! No!” She grabbed an already finished product, a thick emollient shampoo, and opened the cover, holding it out for him to smell. “The lye is part of theprocess,but I promise you, it is completely consumed and transformed. We soap makers have been using this recipe for thousands of years. And the end product is wholesome enough for use on a baby. There is never any lye left in any of my products.” She gave him a smile of pride. “Only goodness, and wonderful smells.”
“I see.”
Buoyed by her passion, she began pointing out items, giving him a flash lesson. “This is where I weigh and blend the oils. I only use natural spring water for mixing; never tap. Here is where I cook the batter, in a crock pot. It takes hours, and you have to keep stirring.”
As he arched a brow, Jacyn stopped suddenly, and felt her face go hot. The man wasn’t here to learn about artisan cosmetics. He was here because last night she’d lost her damn mind and destroyed something of value to him.
She sighed, brushed back a lock of hair, and turned to her desk drawer. Opening it, she rummaged around briefly until she found her checkbook and a pen, cringing when she saw her balance written there in her neat handwriting. She’d been saving for so long, and she was jobless to boot. With luck, she’d still have enough left to get by after she’d paid him off. It might set her product launch back a few months, but she knew she had nobody to blame but herself.
“I’m sorry if I got carried away, Mr.…” Jacyn drew a blank and stopped. Had he told her his name?
“Alexandre Dubois,” he informed her.
Wow, she thought. Even the name sounded aristocratic. She wondered humorlessly how many of his ancestors had lost their heads during the French Revolution. But she tried to stay cool, opened her cheque book to the next blank page, and asked, “How much do I owe you for the damage, Mr… uh… Dubois?”
To her chagrin, the man began to laugh.
***
Alex looked down at the woman, with her face tilted towards his, her brow furrowed, lips pursed, and wondered how this could be the same drowned rat he’d hauled off his car last night. Then, she’d been so crazy she was almost frothing at the mouth, railing on about her boyfriend and his Mustang. Now, even though she was clad in the ugliest, most asexual denim concoction he had ever seen disgrace a woman’s body, he could tell she was stunning. That hair, with its fiery twists—a brave choice. The honey-gold of her eyes, the elegant curve of her cheek, and those lips. Even as she gnawed at her bottom lip, he could enjoy their perfection: no makeup, no ghastly surgery or injections, but still perfect.
Alexandre dragged his mind back to the business at hand. He was here for a specific purpose, and it would be best if he just got to it. “Miss Philmore, my assistant has made some enquiries as to the cost for repairs to my vehicle. It appears that those would be upwards of $20,000.”