"Use the twos."

She sent him a scornful look. "These are trimmers. For your neck. I'm not using clippers on your hair."

She moved behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"What do you mean you're not using clippers?"

She buzzed over his skin with brisk downward strokes. "This isn't the mall. You're paying for a custom cut, and that's what you'll get."

When his neck was shaved smooth, she put the trimmers away.

"Where do you usually get your haircut?" she asked.

Supercuts.

"Wherever," he said. "What about you? You do your own hair?"

She smiled down at him. "Hairstylists have one cardinal rule: never cut the back of your own hair."

"Oh."

"I let Jordan do it, usually. And I do hers." She moved in front of him and adjusted his shoulders. "Put your feet flat on the floor. You're screwing up my reference points."

"Yes, ma'am." He flattened the soles of his work boots on the tile floor. She had reference points.

A pair of shiny silver scissors appeared in her hand and she moved around to the side. Her fingers combed through his hair again, and the scissors made a shh-shh sound.

"You ever thought about a new look? This is very Be All That You Can Be. I could update it for you."

Shh-shh. Shh-shh.

Maybe if he opened up some, he could get her talking. "I used to be in the army," he said.

"No kidding. Iraq?"

"Afghanistan."

She didn't say anything. Military service was a conversation stopper for some people.

"I've never been overseas," she said. "That must have been a trip. You should tell me about it sometime."

"Yeah." But he knew he wouldn't. He never talked about it with anyone, not even his brothers.

"You know, with a thick neck like yours, you might be better off with rounded lines."

"Rounded."

Her gaze met his in the mirror. "Instead of square."

He shifted in his seat. This wasn't going well. He wasn't here for a makeover; he was here on reconnaissance. "Just keep it the way it is."

"Aye-aye, sir."

"So how'd you get into this?" If he got her talking about her background, he could lead her around to Alvin and their history together.

She shrugged. "I've been at it since I was a teenager."

"What, cutting hair?"

"Hair, makeup, manicures. All of it. I had a couple friends in high school who let me try anything on them."

"And you like it?"

"Love it." She smiled at him in the mirror. "I think everyone deserves the chance to reinvent themselves."

Interesting philosophy.

She moved in front of him now and scrutinized his hair. He looked down at his boots.

"Anyway, I got my license in California, which has some of the strictest requirements. So it transferred down here pretty easily."

He remembered the case file. She'd had a Texas driver's license for nearly three years. Prior to that, she'd been in L.A. Devereaux had said she'd moved down with Fiona, and Will wondered now what had prompted them to leave.

Courtney's fingers glided through his hair. Shh-shh. Shh-shh. She was very efficient. And she seemed relaxed, too-the opposite of how she'd been at the police station.

"You get many men in here?" he asked.

"Sure, sometimes. Legislators mostly. Some lobbyists. A few lawyers."

"That how you met Alvin?"

Her hands paused, and she locked gazes with him in the mirror. She wasn't going to answer that.

"No," she said, surprising him. "We met on South Congress. You ever been to the Continental Club?"

"Nope."

"You must be new in town."

"Yep."

"I thought so. It's kind of a legendary live-music venue. David told me he was in Austin on business. He was working on a big case."

"He tell you what the case was?"

She pursed her lips and continued to clip his hair. He was definitely pissing her off now. He could tell by the set of her shoulders.

"Courtney?"

"Look down." She tilted his head forward, so his chin rested on his chest. The cool blade of the scissors scraped his neck. Then he felt her fingers rubbing the back of his head.

"You've got two cowlicks," she said. "I'll see if I can get them to lay flat."

"I haven't had a cowlick since I was ten."

She made little circles on his scalp, and he was grateful suddenly for this cape thing draped over him. She had to know the effect she had on guys sitting in this chair. Maybe that's why she'd agreed to this. He was on a mission to gain information, and she was on a mission to distract him.

"Cowlicks don't go away," she said. "And they're hereditary. Your dad probably has some, too. Right here."

She rubbed his head again, and he started to get annoyed. He looked up and watched her in the mirror.

"I believe you, you know."

Her gaze snapped to his in the glass.

"I know you lied about some of it, but I don't think you killed him."

She lifted an eyebrow. Then she moved around the chair and stood in front of him. She wouldn't look at his eyes as she reached out and combed her fingers through the sides of his hair.

He'd conducted hundreds of interviews, but this was a first. She had a beautiful body. She had to know that. She had to know what she was doing to him, standing so close and touching him and smelling the way she did. He kept his gaze on her face, but all he could think about was how much he wanted to pull her into his lap.

She moved around and started on his sideburns. "Straight across, right?"

"I want to help you," he said.

She scoffed.

"I mean it."

"Gee, you're such a nice guy. Let me guess, though. You want something in return."

"I want to know who did this. If your story's true-"

"You said you believed me."

"I do." Shit. "So that means there's someone out there right now who killed Alvin and tried to blame you."

"It was a setup." She moved behind him and worked on the part behind his ears.

"A setup?"

"I don't think David was the one who asked me to meet him."

CHAPTER 6.

What makes you say that?"

She stared down at his head. She didn't want to look him in the eye. God, what was she doing? Her lawyer was going to hit the roof.

"It was all text messages and e-mails recently," she said. "We never had a live conversation."

"But they were coming from him? The messages?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. I assumed so. But now I think they weren't. Maybe someone else got ahold of his phone. Someone who was trying to get me to meet him that day."

Courtney's pulse pounded. She was doing it. She was telling him the truth. And he was hanging on every word.

"When David got in my car," she continued, "he said something-I can't remember the exact words-but it was like, 'Stop harassing me,' or something like that. So maybe he was getting the messages, too."

"Mind if I have a look at your computer?"

She tucked the scissors into her apron. To cover her nervousness, she reached for a brush and concentrated on dusting off his shoulders and his neck.

She wanted to trust him. She wanted him to help her. He had all sorts of resources she didn't-maybe he could figure out what was going on. Courtney had been trying to make sense of it, but it didn't make any sense. She didn't have all the information. And the information the police had all pointed to her.

"Courtney?"

"My attorney would tell you to get a warrant," she said.

"I'm not asking your attorney."

She finished dusting him and peeled off the cape. Then she leaned back against the counter and looked down at him. He had warm brown eyes. Trustworthy eyes. But they looked old, much older than the rest of him. She wondered if that was from being a soldier.

"I'll think about it," she said.

This wasn't the answer he wanted.

"How many messages did he send you?"

"I don't know. Five or six? He'd started to get pretty intense. After I blew off the first meeting-"

"What first meeting?"

Damn it. She hadn't meant to say that.

But maybe it was for the best. Maybe she should tell him everything, let him use all those police resources for her instead of against her.

"What first meeting?"

Or maybe she should get a brain and consult her attorney.