Mark Del Franco: Skin Deep

“What?”

Saffin smiled pertly. “Mariel Tate wore the same pair with the same scuffs.”

Laura leaned back. “That’s it? You concluded I was wearing a glamour because of a pair of shoes?”

Saffin rocked her head back and forth. “Well, that was the first clue. Then I noticed Audra Henley had the same loose stitch on a jacket, Sylva Wentworth had the same ink stain on her Prada jeans, and whenever you sent me to Candace Burke, I found Terryn macCullen’s number on the caller ID, then you would disappear.”

“I have an ink stain on my Prada jeans?”

Saffin held her index finger and thumb about a quarter inch apart. “Just a little one outside the right knee.”

Laura covered her face with her hands and laughed. “I can’t believe I was that sloppy.”

Saffin shook her head. “Well, unless you have other assistants like me, I doubt it. I love your wardrobe.”

Laura regained control of herself. “Who have you told?”

Saffin’s eyes went wide. “No one! I figured if you didn’t tell me, it had to be heavy-duty undercover work.”

Laura shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”

Saffin nervously rubbed at her bandaged hand. “Am I in trouble?”

Laura considered the ramifications. Saffin had known for years and never said a word. “Of course not. In fact, it’s a relief. Tell you what: Let’s keep this between us. No one has to know.”

Relief swept over Saffin’s face. “That sounds easy.”

“Good. Now, I have a ton of stuff to get off my desk before my flight tonight. Don’t put any more calls through,” said Laura.

Saffin opened the door. “That reminds me, I got you upgraded on the final leg to St. Barts.”

“Thanks, Saf. I can never thank you enough for everything.”

Laura shook her head in disbelief. Shoes. Outside the door, she heard Saffin gasp. A moment later, she scurried in carrying a vase of long-stemmed red roses. “I bet I know who these are from!” she said.

Laura opened the note card. The message was a phone number with “Jono” written under it.

“The big guy from the Archives?” Saffin asked.

“The big guy from the Archives,” Laura said. Saffin strutted out with a smug look.

Laura called the number.

“Hey, I haven’t heard from you in a few days,” Sinclair said.

“It’s been crazy,” she said.

“I thought since you still have the key to my apartment, you should probably have my new cell number.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll return the key,” she said.

“You don’t have to. I trust you. Are you free for dinner tonight?” he asked.

She rubbed the card between her fingers. “I told you, Jono. I don’t date colleagues.”

“What colleague? I met this woman at an exhibit the other night. It was like fireworks. I don’t work with anyone like that,” he said.

Laura allowed herself a grudging smile. He wasn’t going to stop. “What do you think of Caribbean food?”