“I just can’t get over your new ’do. Such a bold and fun choice. I really like the new look.”
She didn’t, not a bit—the curls struck her as too tight and mannish. But she wanted to be kind.
“I do wish you’d look through those clothes Marlene and I culled out of my collection. I know they’d look wonderful on you.”
And considerably better, Felicity thought, than the mannish trousers and jacket.
“We’ll have a look after you’ve finished,” she insisted. “We’ll have some fun with it, and …”
When Felicity saw the tall woman in the long black coat step into the dressing room doorway with a—was that a stunner?—in her hand, she squeaked much like her devoted housekeeper.
Ann, busy pinning, saw the reflection, too. She pulled the sheers out of her belt, dragged Felicity back against her with the keen points pressed to Felicity’s throat.
“I’ll slice her throat!” Her voice hit a masculine growl, suiting the trousers, the white dress shirt. “Drop that weapon, or the bitch dies.”
“That’s bad dialogue, Ann. Clichéd.”
“My name’s Calvin Underwood, and my penny-pinching mother’s going to get what’s coming to her. Back off!”
“If you’re Calvin, let’s see your dick. Otherwise, Ann Elizabeth Smith, drop those sharps. If you jab her, I take you out. If you don’t jab her, I take you out. Either way, you’re going down.”
“Fuck you!”
“On the contrary.” Felicity rammed back with her elbow, followed through with a vicious back fist.
The sheers clattered to the floor as Smith fell back from the double blow, smacked into the triple mirror. She went down with a crash of shattering glass.
“Twenty-one years’ bad luck,” Felicity said and kicked the sheers away. “Damn it, I really liked that mirror.”
“Excellent moves, Ms. Lomare. Peabody, secure the suspect.”
“Suspect, my ass. She was going to kill me.” Wincing a little, she reached up, dabbed at the shallow cut on her throat. “Nicked me a little, didn’t she?”
“Just a little.” Roarke stepped forward with a handkerchief, dabbed at the blood.
“I know you, handsome. Roarke. I met you with my friend Natalia a few times.”
“I remember well. Let me see that very pretty hand. Yes, indeed, you’ll have some bruising. You’ll want an ice patch and a healing wand.”
“It’s nothing. Takes me back. I was counterintelligence during the Urbans.”
Eve studied her—pretty in almost a candy-coated way. Small and slim and likely, like her best friend, pushing seventy.
“You haven’t lost those moves.”
“You never do. Now who the hell is Calvin, and why does this very rude young woman think I’m her mother?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Good. I dropped my wine, and I definitely want another. You can tell me that long story.”
“Where is your ’link, ma’am?”
“My ’link?” She looked distracted—and once again harmless—as she glanced blankly around the room. “I’m always leaving it somewhere. Maybe by the bed. No! The bathroom. No, the sitting room. I think.”
“Peabody, contact Ms. Berkle and let her know her friend is safe and well.”
“Natalia? What does she have to do with this?”