One Wrong Move (28 page)

He shoved the pistol into his jeans, and eased the door open.

It was Roxanne. Chubby, bleached hair, bad perm. Not the best candidate for this errand, but if she ever got questioned, it would be long after the fact. He opened the door wider. “What have you got?”

She hoisted up a bunch of shopping bags. “What you asked for,” she said. “I spent until the money was gone, like you said.

You said go sexy. I did my best.” She held up a smaller bag, pink and green stripes. “This is the underwear. Thirty-four D, you said.” She ran an assessing eye over him. “You said size eight, right? I hope they’re not for you, buddy, ’cause if they are, they’re gonna be way too small.”

A startled laugh snorted out before he could stop it. He took the shopping bags she held out. “Not for me,” he assured her.

Roxanne scoped his bare torso for a moment, and peered into the room. He shifted to block her view. “Want me to wait while she tries ’em on?” she asked hopefully. “I could take ’em back, if they don’t fit.”

He just bet she would, for another two hundred dollars.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Did you get makeup and scissors?”

She passed him a bag. “Receipts in the bag. Your change, too.”

He peered inside. It looked in order. He eyeballed the clothing.

The underwear one was packed with lacy, silky stuff, in bright colors. The clothing likewise. On first glance, he saw spangly denim and a froth of pink gilded ruffles. Loud, he’d told the girl.

Sparkles, sequins, color. He wanted Nina to look the opposite of how she usually looked. Bright and tight, red lipstick, cat eye-liner. Tarry mascara. Big hair. Tops of her tits poking out. All dusted up with glitter powder. He could hardly wait.

He passed the money to Roxanne. “Thanks for your help.”

She fingered the bills, ogled his pecs. “Anytime,” she assured him. “Call me for anything. Happy to help.”

He closed the door. Now came the fun part.

Nina waited until the hotel door closed. No shootouts. Not even any harsh words. She came out to investigate. Pink shopping bags?

“What is that stuff?” she demanded.

“Your new look.” Aaro sounded pleased with himself.

He dumped clothes out onto the bed. Fluffy, glittery, shiny, clingy costume pieces. She stared at them, aghast.

“Ah, Aaro?” She gestured toward the garish tangle on the bed.

“I can’t wear that stuff.” She lifted the skinny jeans, artistically ripped at the knees and spangled with sequins. “These are a size eight! I can’t wear eight! I won’t be able to breathe!”

“Sure you will. They’re super low-rise. They won’t be anywhere near your lungs,” he informed her. “Can’t wait to see them on you.”

“But . . . but . . .” She stammered for a moment, and finally wailed the words. “They’re not my style!”

“That’s the idea.” He dumped the drugstore bag, popped the haircutting scissors out of their molded plastic, and struck terror into her heart with his next words. “We’ll start with the hair.”

She backed up. “Get away from me.”

He came on. “Into the bathroom,” he said. “Less mess.”

“No!” she yelled. “What part of no is so hard to understand?”

Aaro gave her the look he usually reserved for facing down armed assassins. “The part about the people trying to kill you?

Those people got a long look at you! You can’t walk out in that baggy frock with your hair down to your ass!”

“They won’t remember me! Nobody ever remembers me!

You saw that! At the hospice, remember? The taxis, on the street?”

“Yeah, and we’re changing that, one hundred and eighty degrees. Because the guys trying to kill you? They saw you, Nina.

Your image is firmly fixed in their long-term memory, trick or no trick. I guarantee it.”

Nina’s head just kept on shaking. “You are not a hair stylist!

No matter what other talents you may have. You’ll butcher it!”

“I didn’t want to have to say this, Nina, but you leave me no choice. Am I going to have to perform cunnilingus on you again?”

She exploded in helpless giggles. Aaro wound his hand through her heavy, wet hair and lifted it, hefting its weight. “Usually, in a situation like this, I would make a woman plainer, less noticeable,” he said, his voice more gentle. “This is the exception.

They’re already looking for someone unnoticeable. It’s safer to go the other way, at least for today. I won’t butcher your hair. I want you to look good.”

“So I really look that bad?” she retorted crabbily.

“We’re not having that conversation.” He cupped her ass.

“You know what I think of your looks. You can barely walk this morning. Feel this.” He pressed her against the omnipresent bulge of his erection. “Do you need me to show you the depths of my appreciation again?” he whispered. “I stand ready to serve.”

“No,” she murmured, abashed. “Not now.”

“Into the bathroom, then.”

He situated her in front of the mirror. She stared at herself, her mouth flat and colorless. This was awful. She liked keeping the hair a no-brainer. A braid, a bun, a ponytail. A bad haircut could irritate her for years. Sameness and severity suited her.

But this wasn’t about her looks. This was about survival. The thought was depressing. The end of her fantasy idyll was at hand, and all she had to look forward to when it was over was the ugly reality.

The danger she was in. The mystery drug in her body, Helga’s unsolvable riddle. The fear, the dread, the helplessness.

Aaro used the comb he found in the bathroom toiletries bas-ket, and worked through her tangles with more patience than she had herself. “You’ve done this before?” she asked.

“I had a little sister, once,” he said. “I used to help her.”

A sister? She was curious, but his tone of voice didn’t invite any more questions. She closed her eyes, let him have his way, and by the time he was done, it was drying, springing up into corkscrewing ringlets. He smoothed it over her shoulders, his warm fingers sending tingling sparkles over her skin before he started to cut.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wincing with each muted
snick.

He took it slow, careful and deliberate. Finally, he fluffed her hair up with his fingers. “Open your eyes.”

She did so, and blinked, startled. It looked good. On top, it was shorter, different lengths that all sprang up into a playful halo. In the back it was longer, bouncing, tickling her. The longest curls brushed her shoulder blades. She switched her locks from side to side, watching them swirl and flop. Wow. It looked cute.

Jaunty. And memorable.

Aaro’s face was impassive, but smugness emanated from him.

“You missed your calling, Aaro,” she said. “You should have been a ladies’ hairdresser. Complete with the earring and the lisp.”

“So if I run through all my other identities, I have another career option,” was his reply. “Get dressed.”

The clothes were a whole new challenge to her sensibilities.

The outfit Aaro chose was a tiny microfiber pink tank, the sparkly jeans she’d objected to, and a terrifyingly brief, sheer blouse that fastened in one point over her bosom, showing loads of cleavage and an inverted vee of pale belly, framed by fluttering swags of gilded pink-and-gold ruffles. The print on the blouse was a loud swirl of butterflies, and it floated in a long, frilly tail over her ass. The skin-tight jeans actually fit—sort of.

They clung to her hips, showing a terrifying expanse of hip as pale as milk, having never seen the light of day.

And the underwear, oh, God. A lacy fuchsia push-up bra, a matching thong. And the makeup. His directive was to put on ten times as much as she was comfortable with. The threat being, if he wasn’t satisfied, he’d make up the difference himself. She had to go back three times to trowel on some more before he was satisfied.

He took care of the glitter spray himself, spritzing her until she coughed and choked and waved the toxic cloud away. He dusted her hair, her face, her shoulders, her boobs, and after a brief pause, her belly, too. Like she had any damn business drawing attention to it.

Aaro dragged her to the mirror and loomed over her shoulder, clutching her waist, his fingers dark against the her belly.
“Mmmm.”

Nina stared at her crimson lips, her mascara-gummed lashes.

“I look grotesque,” she said tartly. “I look like a drag queen.”

He shook his head and brought his hands up to cup her breasts, petting them in their scratchy push-up lace until her nipples tightened.

“No,” he said. “Drag queens don’t have this effect on me.”

“You’ll get glitter on your lips. And don’t use your perpetual hard-on as an indicator of how good I look, you oversexed freak.”

“Freak?” He peeked up from his nuzzling, aggrieved. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She gazed at herself in the mirror. Unhappily. She hated the way the clothes made her feel. For any other woman, this would be fun. Dressing up, being someone else. What was the harm?

It made her so tense, she could hardly breathe.

“I can’t stand the way men will look at me,” she blurted.

Aaro looked up from the nuzzling. “I know,” he said. “I get that. But you’re forgetting something.”

“What is that?” she demanded.

“Me,” he said.

She was still blank. “What do you have to do with anything?”

“It goes like this. The guys catch sight of you. They start to sweat. They look again.” His predatory smile sent her hormones zinging. “Then they look at me.” He nipped her shoulder, and soothed the fleeting sting with a swipe of his tongue. “And then they look away.”

The focused sensuality of his mouth moving at her neck overwhelmed her, a sweet, rippling rush, oh dear God, how did he do that? Heating her up, from the inside, like a shot of magical liquor.

Fantasy bullshit. She locked her knees. “You won’t be there when guys are ogling me,” she said.

His hands dropped, and he stepped back. “Whatever. Put the bag back over your head when I’m gone. No one will stop you.”

She made a final, desperate attempt to act like a grown-up.

“Look, I’m grateful to you,” she said. “You’ve done so much for me already. It’s time for you to go concentrate on your aunt. So thanks. Really.”

“I told you already,” he cut in. “I don’t want thanks.”

“Shut up. I know you hate being thanked, and I know about the thing with Bruno, and I don’t care! I’m thanking you anyway!

You, yourself, Aaro! Not a middleman, got that? It’s just Nina and Aaro, in the room! Me, thanking you for keeping me alive! Can you handle that?”

“What the fuck?” he asked, plaintive. “Are you mad at me again?”

She sighed and looked up, praying for patience.

Aaro’s first impulse was to blurt out something dangerous and stupid. Once that impulse was squashed, nothing else bobbed up into its place. Leaving him stupid and sputtering.

He played it safe and bland. “You’re welcome,” he said.

She waited for a moment. “That’s all?”

“What do you want from me? You want me to thank you back?”

She winced. “God, no. For what? I don’t need to be thanked for having sex with you. I did that for me, and I’m glad I did. I’ll never forget it, as long as I live.” She hesitated. “Even if that’s just for three days.”

“Don’t say that,” he said sharply. “Don’t even think that.”

They stared at each other. He breathed hard, heart kicking up.

She groped on the table for her glasses, and his hand flashed out, blocking her. “Uh uh. No way,” he said. “Those stay off.”

She looked horrified. “Aaro, I’m blind without them!”

“Blind, maybe, but different. More likely to stay alive.”

She muttered a protest, but complied, tucking them into her big black purse. “Should we, um, go on down?”

“Wait ’til the guy calls,” he said abruptly. “It’s safer in here.”

“OK,” she whispered. “I’d rather say good-bye in private anyway.”

He nodded. He didn’t want to say good-bye at all. His throat was tight. The silence felt taut with a strange pleading pressure, as if the words themselves were longing to be said, held brutally back. She bit her lip, but released it when she tasted the lipstick.

He cleared his throat. “One last thing.”

“And what’s that?” Her chin went up.

One long step brought him to her. He ran his hands over her shoulders. The sheer fabric of the filmy blouse snagged and caught on the rough spots on his fingers. So soft. He fluffed a handful of her hair, let the springy curls bounce. That was her true nature, he thought. Now that he’d sheared off the weight of that massive, heavy braid, it sprang up,
ka-boing.
Defiant, sassy, and wild.

“Aaro,” she said warily. “I hope you, ah, aren’t thinking—”

“Shhhh.” He sank to his knees. “I haven’t kissed this part yet.”

Nina jerked away, but too late, he’d grabbed her ass and yanked her close. She batted at his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just this.” He pressed his face against her belly, rubbing his cheek against that strip of pale, fragrant, soft skin.

She dug her shaking fingers into his hair while he worshipped the soft swell of rounded belly. It made his palms sweat. It ripped the lid right off all the things they’d been trying not to say or feel, and now it was all clawing to get free. Now he wanted to tear off those jeans, whip the pink, lacy fuck-me thong down, and bend her over and squeeze himself into that tight, hot hole again, ’til his cock was bathed with her slick juice, gleaming as he pumped and plunged. He wanted her to make those sounds for him, the whimpering, the moaning. Those sweet, frantic kisses, clinging, yielding. He could not get enough of it.

Nina felt the point of no return bearing down on them like an eighteen-wheeler, and pushed at him. “Aaro. Stop. You have to stop.”

“I know.” He staggered to his feet, wiping his mouth.

Nina’s face was stern, but her crimson lips twitched when she looked at him. “Um, your face is covered with glitter now.”

“Kiss it off,” he invited her rashly.

Her eyes went big. “Well . . . then there’s this lipstick, and I—”

“I do not fucking care.” He grabbed her.

The kiss jerked him around to where it wanted him, a force of nature that had to have its own desperate, twining way. They ended up horizontal on the messed-up bed, he had no idea how, fingers wound into each other’s hair. He pressed the bulge of his cock against her groin, pulsing it, tenderly. The ache was killing him.