Ким Харрисон - Every Witch Way But Dead

"This way," Jonathan said as he passed through an open archway. I followed, stopping short just inside. I suppose it was a closet, as there were clothes in it—expensive-looking women's clothes—but the room was huge. A rice-paper screen took up one corner with a vanity against the back of it. A small table with two chairs was tucked to the right of the door. To the left was a trifold mirror. All it needed was a wet bar. Damn. I was so in the wrong line of work.

"You can change here," Jonathan said through his nose. "Try not to touch anything."

Ticked, I dropped my coat on a chair and hung my garment bag on a convenient hook. Shoulders tight, I unzipped the bag and turned, knowing Jonathan was judging me. But my eyebrows rose at his surprised look while he took in the outfit Kisten had put together for me. Then his expression returned to its usual ice. "You aren't wearing that," he said flatly.

"Shove it up your ass, Jon," I snapped.

Movements stilted, he strode to a set of sliding mirror doors, opening them to pull out a black dress as if he knew exactly where it was. "You will wear this," he said, thrusting it at me.

"I'm not wearing that." I tried to make my voice cold, but the dress was exquisite, made of a soft fabric cut low down the back and flatteringly high in the front and around the neck. It would fall to my ankles to make me look tall and elegant. Swallowing back my envy, I said, "It's cut too low in back to hide my splat gun. And it's too tight to run in. That's a lousy dress."

His extended arm dropped, and it was all I could do to keep from wincing when the beautiful fabric puddled on the carpet. "You pick one out, then."

"Maybe I will." I stepped hesitantly to the closet.

"The evening dresses are in that one," Jonathan said, sounding patronizing.

"Duh…" I mocked, but my eyes widened and my hand went out to touch. God help me, they were all beautiful, each having an understated elegance. They were organized by color, and matching shoes and purses were carefully arranged underneath. Some had hats in the rack above them. My shoulders slumped when I touched a flaming red dress, but Jonathan's whispered, "whore" encouraged me to keep moving. My eyes left it reluctantly.

"So, Jon," I said as he watched me shuffle through the dresses. "Either Trent is a cross-dresser or he enjoys bringing size eight tall women to his house wearing evening gowns and sending them home in rags." I eyed him. "Or does he just knock them up and knock them off?"

Jonathan's jaw clenched and his face flushed. "These are for Miss Ellasbeth."

"Ellasbeth?" My hands fell from a purple dress that would cost me a month of runs. Trent had a girlfriend? "Oh, hell no! I'm not wearing another woman's dress without asking."

He snickered, his long face taking on a hint of annoyance. "They belong to Mr. Kalamack. If he says you can wear them, you can."

Not fully reassured, I turned back to my search. But all my apprehensions vanished when my hands touched a soft filmy gray. "Oh, look at this," I breathed, pulling the top and skirt from the closet and holding them triumphantly up, as if he gave a flying flip.

Jonathan looked from the cabinet of scarves, belts, and purses he had just opened. "I thought we threw that out," he said, and I made a face, knowing he was trying to make me feel like it was ugly. It wasn't. The tight bustier and matching skirt were elegant, the fabric soft to the touch and thick enough for winter without being binding. It was a shimmering black once I got it into the light. The skirt went to the floor, but was split in a multitude of narrow bands from the knees so it would flutter about my ankles. And with the slits that high, my splat gun in its thigh holster would be an easy reach. It was perfect.

"Is it suitable?" I asked as I took it to the hanger and hung it over my outfit. I looked up when he was silent, finding his face twisted.

"It will do." He raised his watchband to his wrist, pushing a button and speaking into the spiffy-keen communicator I remembered was there. "Make the corsage black and gold," he muttered. Glancing at the door, he added to me, "I'll get the matching jewelry from the safe."

"I have my own jewelry," I said, then hesitated, not wanting to see what my imitation stuff would look like against fabric such as this. "But okay," I amended, unable to meet his eyes.

Jonathan harrumphed. "I'll send someone to do your makeup," he added as he walked out.

That was downright insulting. "I can touch up my own makeup, thank you," I said loudly after him. I was wearing mundane makeup atop the complexion spell that hid the remnants of my still healing black eye, and I didn't want anyone to touch it.

"Then I only have to get the stylist to do something with your hair," came echoing back.

"My hair is fine!" I shouted. I looked in one of the mirrors, touching the loose curls starting to frizz. "It's fine," I added, softer. "I just had it done." But all that I heard was Jonathan's sniggering laughter and the sound of a door opening.

"I'm not going to leave her alone in Ellasbeth's room," came Quen's gravely voice in answer to Jonathan's mutter. "She'd kill her."

My eyebrows rose. Did he mean I would kill Ellasbeth, or Ellasbeth would kill me? That kind of detail was important.

I turned when Quen's silhouette took up the doorway to the bathroom. "You baby-sitting me?" I said as I grabbed my slip and nylons and took the black dress behind the screen.

"Miss Ellasbeth isn't aware you're on the grounds," he said. "I didn't think it necessary to tell her, as she's returning home, but she's been known to change her plans without notice."

I eyed the rice paper between Quen and me, then kicked off my sneakers. Feeling vulnerable and short, I shimmied out of my clothes, folding them instead of letting them sit in a crumpled heap as I usually did. "You're really big on that need-to-know kick, aren't you?" I said, and I heard him speak softly to someone who had just come in. "What is it you aren't telling me?"

The second, unseen person left. "Nothing," Quen said shortly.

Yeah, right.

The dress was lined in silk, and I stifled a moan as it eased over me. I looked down at the hem, deciding that it would fall right when I put my boots on. Brow pinching, I hesitated. My boots weren't going to work. I'd have to hope Ellasbeth was a size eight shoe and that tonight's butt kicking could be accomplished in heels. The bustier gave me a smidgen of trouble, and I finally gave up trying to zip it the last inch.

I gave myself one last look, tucking my complexion amulet between me and my waistband. Splat gun in my thigh holster, I came round the screen. "Zip me up, honey?" I said lightly, earning what I thought was a seldom-given smile from Quen. He nodded, and I showed him my back. "Thanks," I said when he finished.

He turned to the table and chairs, stooping to pick up a corsage that hadn't been there when I went behind the screen. It was a black orchid bound with a gold and green ribbon. Straightening, he took the pin from it, hesitating as he looked at the narrow strap. Right off I knew his dilemma, and I wasn't going to help him a bit.

Quen's scarred face pinched. Eyes on my dress, his lips pressed together. "Excuse me," he said, reaching forward. I froze, knowing he wouldn't touch me unless he had to. There was enough fabric to attach it, but he would have to put his fingers between that pin and me. I exhaled, collapsing my lungs to give him a smidgen more room.

"Thank you," he said softly.

The back of his hand was cold, and I stifled a shiver. Trying not to fidget, I sent my attention to the ceiling. A faint smile crossed me, growing as he got the orchid fastened and stepped away with an exhalation of relief.

"Something funny, Morgan?" he said sourly.