“Sure,” the receptionist said in that cautious tone one uses when dealing with someone unpredictable. Not unlike the voice Claire had used that morning with Gideon. “Just one moment, please.”

She slid deeper into the buttery leather cushions, the smell far more pleasing than the overwhelming aroma of chemicals stinging her nose. No sign of a Jeep anywhere, even though she had sworn the vehicle followed her into the parking lot. Sighing, she swung around and took a moment to observe her surroundings. The salon looked expensive, from its marble receptionist’s counter, to the custom-framed artwork and leather couches. Maggie must live on credit to afford such a posh salon on a teacher’s salary with three kids. Another customer watched her warily, magazine forgotten in her hands.

“Claire?” A man stood by the receptionist’s desk, garbed in an oatmeal-colored man-gown. His lovely flaxen hair flowed to his shoulders in artful waves. “I’m Terry.”

This was Terry?

Maggie hadn’t mentioned her hairdresser was a man. And he was definitely male. Even if he wore a dress. Her gaze swept the broad shoulders stretching the fabric.

She followed him, lowering herself into the hydraulic chair he indicated with a wave, bouncing in her seat as he worked the chair higher. Tugging her ponytail free, he examined her closely before fluffing her hair off her shoulders and declaring, “Hmmm, no body. None at all.”

She smiled wryly. “I know.”

“Okay.” He clapped his hands with an air of efficiency. “What we need to do is give you layers for lift—” He fluffed her hair some more for illustration, frowning when it drifted back into place, flat as ever. “—and lighten up all this brown.”

“Lighten? As in bleach?”

“Highlights,” he admonished. “And with your shade of brown we can be generous with them. They’ll blend in nicely.”

Her shade of brown. He meant mouse brown. Not dark enough to be sable. Not light enough to be honey. She regarded herself in the mirror for one long moment, disliking what she saw. A plain woman with plain brown hair sliding prematurely into middle age.

Claire didn’t understand what compelled this desire to change, but it was long overdue. She didn’t understand why her appearance was no longer good enough, but it simply wasn’t.

She nodded decisively. “Do it.”

“Great!” Terry beamed, clearly not accustomed to winning such immediate and complete agreement from a client. At least not without more convincing. “You’ll be a beauty. Especially with those eyes to set off your new hair.”

“My eyes?” She frowned, focusing on the freakish silver orbs. Although she had tried, repeatedly, she couldn’t ignore them. She had let everyone at work assume she was wearing contacts. It was easier than explaining the truth—especially since she couldn’t provide that either.