Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(59)

No. Louis-Cesare wasn’t going to take a chance like that. Not when he could walk upstairs and end this right now.

Get away, keep Ray alive and willing to talk. That was the plan. I glanced down at the deserted alley. The fire escape made getting out of here easy, except for one small problem. The rest of Ray was in a guest room somewhere, and I didn’t even know which one.

“If you’re lying to me to save your skin, I’ll find out,” I told him, dragging us back through the window. “And I’ll be ten times worse to you than Elyas.”

“Yeah. Like I could make this shit—”

Ray cut off midsentence because someone rapped on the bathroom door. I paused half in, half out of the window. “Dorina, it has been half an hour,” Louis-Cesare said. “Are you ready?”





Chapter Seventeen


Ray and I stared at each other. “Almost,” I said quickly. “Let me just . . . uh . . .”

I slithered the rest of the way through, set the duffel on the counter and started pawing through it. I had things in there that could kill a person fifty different ways, but my less lethal alternatives were few and far between. I’d been going into a vampire club, and not a lot works on them.

And that’s especially true for first-level masters. I rejected magical cuffs—he’d be out of them in five seconds—a stun spray—he probably wouldn’t even feel it—and a disorienting sphere, which I already knew was a waste of resources. I finally had to admit that I had nothing that could trap Louis-Cesare long enough to do any good.

“Dorina?”

“Coming!”

I started pulling on the dress, or trying to. But that top would have defeated a puzzle master. “Where are you?” I mouthed at Ray, who was watching me anxiously.

“You mean my body?” he mouthed back.

“Of course! Where is it?”

“In the tub.”

“What?”

“That old guy left me and never came back.”

Typical. Horatiu had probably forgotten he was there. “Get out the front door, fast.”

Small eyes popped. “By myself?”

“Yes! Go to the car.”

“What?”

“To. The. Car. I’ll stall him.”

I ran a comb through my hair, which was still wet, forming a sleek cap around my head. I tried again to sort out the straps, but it was hopeless. They were a twisted mess that made no logical sense.

“Dorina. Is there a problem?”

I threw open the door. “I can’t get the straps right,” I said.

Louis-Cesare stood there, his hand raised for another knock. His face was wearing that expression men get when a woman takes three times longer to get ready than she’d promised. It didn’t last long. Okay, I thought, watching blue eyes dilate black. Maybe the dress looked better than I thought.

“A little help?” I prompted.

He hesitated for a moment, but he finally stepped behind me. He made a few minor adjustments, the calluses on his fingertips catching slightly on the soft material. Miraculously, the dress fell into place, every shining strap lying perfectly flat against my skin.

I twisted in front of the mirror. I decided that it wasn’t too bad. It was sleek and simple, and it let the cut do the work instead of requiring embellishments. And it fit perfectly, except for being maybe an inch or two too long. But the plain black satin heels should take care of that.

A hand smoothed down my side in a totally unnecessary movement. It lingered in the indentation where waist flared into hip, burning through the thin silk, sending a jolt to the pit of my stomach. “Elyas is waiting.” His voice was rough.

“Let him wait.” I sat down on the bench at the foot of the bed and pulled on the thigh highs. They were gossamer soft, like spiderwebs in my hands. Utterly impractical, they’d probably run within minutes. But they felt like a dream.

I pointed my toe and pulled one on. It felt utterly decadent, a silky, sensual glide all the way up to the wide band of lace around the top. I pulled on the other and then pushed the skirt out of the way to admire my pretty new hosiery.

It was rare to find pure silk hose these days, but that was what they felt like—light as a feather with a pearlescent quality that caught the light. It subtly drew attention in all the right places, making my legs look unusually long and better-shaped than they actually were. I flexed a leg, enjoying the feel of the silky stuff sliding against my skin.

I looked up to find Louis-Cesare watching me. I couldn’t complain about lack of expression now. He looked like a starving man faced with a banquet he couldn’t have. It made me furious all over again.

He looked away. “The dress suits you.”

“You have good taste,” I said acerbically. In some things.

I picked up the delicate black satin strappy things pretending to be shoes. Trust a man, I thought darkly. They had to be six inches, with heels so high and so thin, they looked like they would snap at the slightest pressure. I slipped them on and then just stared. Whoever designed them had to be a sadist. They were a broken ankle waiting to happen.

“You did this on purpose,” I accused.

“I can have something else sent, if you prefer,” he told me, challenge sparkling in those blue eyes.

My own narrowed. “These will be fine.”