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He held his phone out of reach, pushed his index finger to the soft spot under my chin and lifted my face. His hazel eyes were so warm they seemed molten. “It’s good to see you smile, pretty wolf. I’ve worried about you.”
I fumbled, torn between the drumbeat pang that rippled through me, and the sunlight glow that thawed everything. “Why do you like frilly underthings so much?”
“Why do you?”
“They’re pretty.”
“Exactly. A beautifully wrapped gift just for me.” His lips brushed mine.
“If you think my giftwrapping skills are going to progress on to teddies and such, you’re wrong.” All those straps and ruffles and buckles and strings and peek-a-boo cutouts that were like portholes on a weird submarine, or the pop-out timer on a turkey, or snaps in the crotch like a baby’s onesie.
Butt-floss thongs and tie-at-the-side panties had practical purposes that did not negate the overall point of having on a panty. A hole in the crotch—especially when paired with a thong—begged the question of why a panty at all?
Sterling’s smile smoldered. “No, that’s a little too obvious for me.”
“Ohhhh, so you prefer,” I feigned gasping innocence as best I could manage while trying not to throw myself onto his lap and strip off all my clothing like a proper feral in raging winter heat, “oh my! I just happen to be wearing a garter belt and thigh highs under my skirt!”
He clapped his hand over my thigh and slid his palm up my leg, his fingertips moving to the inside of my thigh. I shivered all over. His hand slid over my thigh, pushed my skirt up high until the air brushed my rump, and he didn’t hide his disappointment. “No, no garters. Pity.”
In the front seat our bodyguards pretended not to notice, but they’d noticed. Of course they had. They were paid very well to notice everything. They turned a blind eye and deaf ear very convincingly. Too convincingly. I hissed to Sterling, “Stop it. You’re so fresh.”
He whispered to me, lips brushing my ear, “Those unmatched underthings of yours must come off.”
In the middle of broad daylight in midtown with a couple of bodyguards a foot from us? “Wait.”
“For?”
“We aren’t alone.” A little discretion was a good idea.
Sterling whispered, “But then they won’t think anything was amiss about the meeting. Act normal.”
“Oh stop!” I burst out laughing. “You’ll say anything!”
He gave me an impish smile that just about melted me. “Twenty minutes, Winter. And,” he whispered, “if midtown traffic doesn’t cooperate, you will.”
Personality Matrix
I watched Cye inspect heads of lettuce.
It was hard to say exactly how I had ended up going grocery shopping with him. Somewhere between Sterling saying something about the grocery bill, my vague sense of obligation to understand said grocery bill, and then Cye saying I should come along all had colluded to make it seem perfectly normal I’d go with him at least once.
The end result was I had spent the better part of my morning tagging along behind Cye as he moved from shop to shop gathering up supplies. After a number of small specialty shops filled with mysterious powders, cuts of meat, and vials of liquids, we headed out to Long Island to visit an actual, vast supermarket. Now Cye contemplated heads of lettuce with the severity of a doctor looking at test results.
I kept an eye on Cye, and the other on my phone as I researched how to verify if a birth certificate was legitimate or not. Janice had given me a black and white copy of her daughter’s birth certificate. Technically, an official copy was required. The letter of application had been written in pencil on torn-out wide-ruled paper, so no points for presentation, but it’d contained all the important information, including the girl being illegitimate. Pawprints in order. Everything correct except for the birth certificate.
Oversight or forgery?
My new permanent bodyguard Hamid drifted along behind us. He was trying to be transparent and unobtrusive, but Hamid’s existence was kind of obtrusive. It was like having a large pet rock rolling behind you. I didn’t mind, the other guards had sort of annoyed me with how they just seemed to fade into the background like insubstantial shades.
He’d been in Case’s employ for two years as a “special operative” while awaiting a permanent protection assignment. Prior to that, he’d tried to join the Secret Service as a special agent and gotten to the final round before being cut. He was a decorated military veteran, spoke three languages, had combat qualifications that meant he could turn an orange peel into a deadly weapon, and also was an AEMT. So in a perverse twist he knew how to break a body and strap it back together.
His overly complete dossier even rated physical qualities like attractiveness, body type, and distinctiveness of appearance. Hamid had scored in the middle of the road for the first two, and quite high for the third (probably due to the scar that marred most of the right side of his face). It was that last one that was undesirable for the majority of clients. They wanted their protection details to blend in. I wanted mine to be very visible and looming deterrents.
The dossier also confirmed that Hamid had no sense of humor. Banter & Small Talk were part of the matrix, and based on his scores, a guppy probably had a better sense of humor. The notes described him as “taciturn, laconic, and pithy” and his hobbies were hybridizing orchids, collecting seashells, and extreme triathlons.
Case assured me that Hamid was a strong match and I’d find him an easy addition to my life. Talk about an indictment of my disposition.
“What did you end up doing with that thing that woman gave you?” Cye asked as he contemplated peppers.
