He shook his head. “The ring is perfect. It’s the rest that has to change.”
Bullshit. “It’s too over-the-top. It attracts attention. Why don’t you remind me, Swain, what we learned in The Basics of Undercover about effective role identity?”
He propped his forearms along the sides of the doorframe and leaned in, seemingly unconcerned about the potential effects of gravity on the towel casually secured at his waist. “To be honest, choux, I don’t know what they covered. I didn’t give that course a lot of attention. But I’m guessing they said something like, ‘A good disguise allows the officer to blend in’?”
“Exactly. This ring sticks out like a whore in church.”
“And I’m telling you, it’s the church part of the picture that needs fixing.” He straightened and came fully into the room, his gaze carving her from the top of her head to the toes of her boots. “The only place what you’re wearing would blend in is at a Catholic youth group ice cream social. We’re headed to a local bar on a Friday night, so even if blending in was the goal—and I would argue it’s not—this”—he gestured at her outfit—“fails. Hell, forget the occasion, choux. It fails on the same grounds the Prius fails. It’s not the kind of thing my fiancée would wear.”
Temper burned her blood, nearly hot enough to vaporize the chill of panic beneath. Panic that he’d been right all along. Not about this. About her not being capable of holding up her end of the assignment. Turning fully toward him, keeping her chin high, and, please God, her voice level, she said, “If you take the church part away, that leaves the whore, Swain. That’s not what I signed up for.”
“Hey”—he lifted his hands, palms forward as if to placate—“those were your words, not mine. But you know what I’m getting at.”
She looked down at the shaggy tan carpet, then out the blind-slatted window above the bed…anywhere except at him. “Dressing like a honky-tonk pole dancer is not who I am.”
“Newsflash, Eden. I’m not a dumb, broke, day laborer.” He got in her face, but his voice held compassion despite his frustration. “I don’t like waking at the crack of dawn, dragging on work boots, and heading to a jobsite so I can sweat my ass off for eight hours. I sure as hell don’t like tearing up roof shingles. But I know how to do it. I can pull it off.” He took a long, calming breath. “Somewhere in The Basics of Undercover, they must have mentioned leveraging your strengths?”
She let out a weak laugh. “Looking trashy is my strength? My parents would be so proud.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face the mirror. “Being so fuck-hot it makes a man want to box up his balls and offer them to you as a plaything is your natural strength.”
She met his stare in the mirror. “Shut up. Seriously.”
“Listen, choux, I’m not trying to flatter you. Or insult you. I’m just stating simple truths. You are a tall, light-eyed, brown-skinned goddess. You’re always going to turn heads, no matter what you do to downplay your champagne-room body and the kind of face that fuels fantasies. But now is not the time to downplay shit, because statistically speaking, we’re looking for—”
“Cornbread Mafia.”
“Exactly.” The hands on her shoulders gave a squeeze. “On a less sophisticated scale, but still. A Caucasian male, or a small ring of Caucasian males, between the ages of twenty-five and fifty. Our job, in this particular case, is to draw them in, get them to like us. Make them buy what we’re selling, so to speak. While I may have gotten here first, I’m not the star of this show. That’s you. You’re the bait. But you gotta present yourself like bait to lure them to us.”
The tension headache behind her eye started to throb. She pressed the heel of her hand to her eyebrow and sighed. “Okay. I know I’m going to regret this, but what do you suggest I wear tonight?”
He gave her a nudge to get her to face him. Once she turned, his bare chest and body heat reminded her they were standing close and he wore a towel. Barely. His pupils expanded, darkening the blue of his irises to a hypnotic indigo. “Is that a makeup bag I saw on the bathroom counter?” His gaze slowly roamed her features, tactile as a touch.
“Um. Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know what it entails, but can you make your eyes big and dark, like you just woke up from a sexy dream? And your lips”—his eyes locked on her mouth, and she felt her lips tingle—“kind of naked and glossy?”
“Like I kissed a pork chop?” Humor. She needed humor to break this spell—or air. Maybe both.
It worked. He grinned and stepped back. “Wear your hair down. I’ll figure out the wardrobe and bring it to you.”
Five minutes of privacy in the bathroom leveled her out a bit. Her looks were a double-edged sword, in her experience. While proud to see her mother’s Nordic bone structure and her father’s full features, dark hair, and bronze skin staring back at her when she looked in the mirror, her parents always stressed that such genetic gifts were not to be relied on. Certainly not counted as a measure of her worth. Hard work counted. Character counted. Achievements counted. Presenting herself in a way that didn’t detract from her accomplishments counted.
She applied a smoky shadow trio, then added dark liner and enough mascara to give her lashes their own zip code. Leaning close to the mirror, she examined the results and deemed them acceptable. Even if she didn’t routinely choose to spend a great deal of time and energy playing up her appearance, she knew her way around a makeup bag. She’d been party to a seduction or two in her twenty-three years. After slicking ruby gloss on her lips, she pressed them together and let them pop open. Very successful seductions, if she did say so herself. Similar to Swain with his construction experience, she had some know-how in this particular area, even if her previous efforts had been mostly one-on-one, behind closed doors rather than paraded out in the open for anyone and everyone. There was a time and place for sexy, in her mind, but she could dial it up for a broader audience when needed. Like now, apparently. Retrieving her wide-toothed brush from the narrow drawer by the sink, she ran it through her hair until it flowed in smooth waves past her shoulders.
A knock startled her. Although still fully dressed, she opened it a crack. She didn’t want to submit to his inspection until she finished her transformation. Swain stuck an arm through, holding a jumble of clothes. She took the bundle and placed
it on the counter. “Hey.” Holding up the topmost item—a thin, white wifebeater—she frowned and passed it through the door. “This isn’t mine.”
“It’s mine.” He shoved it back to her. “It’s clean. I just took it out of the dryer. Nothing you brought shows off enough skin.”
“This is going to show off more than skin.”
“That’s kind of the idea.”
“Fine.” She tossed it on the counter and picked up the next item. At least this one she recognized—her black denim skirt. Except… “What did you do to my skirt?”
“Cut the hem off.”