Ultimate Weapon (McClouds & Friends #6)(53)

He gritted his teeth. “Do you need clothes for this event, or do you not?”

She gave him a thunderous glare, and then, out of nowhere, her face miraculously cleared. “Whatever I need, did you say?”

“Whatever,” he stubbornly repeated.

Too late, he registered the catlike satisfaction on her face as she tugged the keyboard closer and began to clickity-click with the deft ease of a seasoned online shopper. Oh, cazzo. He was in for it.

She was going to make him pay and pay and pay.



Thank God for cosmetics. Tam dabbed still another layer of coverup under her eyes with the makeup sponge. The bruise-colored shadows down there were gruesome to behold without foundation to camouflage them. She studied the effect, and put on the finishing touches: a final brush of mascara to make already thick lashes thicker, a slick of clear gloss to make the bronze-toned lipstick glisten, color on her cheeks to brighten her shocking pallor.

Not bad. Even on a day from hell.

Janos was in the other room, sunk in silence as he perused the details of her Internet order. Yes, she had been bad, very bad. But he deserved to be punished for his mischief-making. He deserved worse for what he’d done to Rosalia alone, let alone the passports, the adoption agency, the cops. She didn’t even want to total up how much money he’d cost her.

Therefore, she was authorized to fully enjoy the horrified look on his face when he saw the totals. Hah. Take that, testa di cazzo.

She went out into the hotel room and rummaged through the shopping bags, gathering the elements of her ensemble together. Janos watched her take the new shoes out of their box, and then glanced at the receipt for the reference.

“Manolos,” he said, his tone aggrieved. “Eight hundred dollars?”

“A bargain,” she purred. “Excellent value.”

“And the Tigger potty seat? The Cadillac of strollers? Five hundred and eighty seven dollars for cosmetics alone? One thousand, four hundred for a cocktail dress that looks smaller than a hand towel?”

“Looking good is an investment.” She unfolded the iridescent bronze-tinted silk stockings with the retro seams up the back and stroked them with an admiring hand. “You did say whatever we needed, didn’t you?” She slanted him a look of mock dismay. “Does it exceed your budget? Oh, no! I’ll write you a check! Oh, dear…whoops, afraid I can’t after all. I’m a murder suspect now, you see. My assets will be frozen any time now, if they aren’t already. So sorry!”

He made a disgusted sound and she left him to stew, gathering up stockings, shoes, jewelry case, and the dress before she went into the bathroom to pour herself into her outfit.

The stockings and garter belt were delicious, and the dress nicer even than it had looked in the online catalog. Crumpled, stretchy bronze fabric clung lovingly to every curve and hollow. It was almost off the shoulders with built-in support for her bosom that she barely needed. The skirt came down half the length of her thigh. Boldly short for a woman who scorned panties, but she liked living dangerously.

To a point, she mused, thinking of the morning’s events. To a point. She was backing way off on living dangerously.

She braided her hair up into a high, tight coronet and fastened it with a bristling array of Deadly Beauty ornaments, all of them fully armed just in case. Her pendant topaz earrings looked great with the dress, also serving in a pinch as a hypodermic loaded with a quick-acting knock-out drug. She pulled out the necklace, the pièce de resistance.

Her eyes looked back from the mirror, bleak and miserable. She had to be ruthless now. Quick, decisive. To act without hesitation.

She had to stop dawdling and procrastinating, goddamnit.

“Rachel, honey?” she called. “Come on in here. We’ve got to do one last potty stop for you.”

Rachel peered around the bathroom door, resplendent in her new red velvet dress trimmed with black ruffles. The flamenco three-year-old.

“No pee,” she said darkly.

Tam shoved the new Tigger potty seat on to the toilet, tugged down Rachel’s tights and swung the little girl up onto the toilet. “You just concentrate,” she said. “I want to hear that tinkling sound, OK?”

With Rachel cooperating, Tam took a deep breath, stuck out her tits, and sauntered out.

Janos glanced up. The receipt dropped to his lap, forgotten.

She struck a pose, and let him look. She turned, very slowly, showing off. “Do you like it?” she asked throatily.

Janos cleared his throat. “Sì,” he said. “You are magnificent.”

He stood up, and she walked toward him, standing close enough so that he could smell all the outrageously expensive perfumed body and face creams she had bought on his dime.

“Thank you for the dress,” she said softly. “I love it.”

“The investment was worth it,” he conceded.

She dropped her lashes demurely. “How sweet. Such a generous thing to say.” She held up the clasps of the heavy beaten gold necklace with the big, padlock-shaped, moonstone-studded pendant. “Clasp this for me?”

He took them in his fingertips and bent over her head, inhaling her scent. He leaned closer still, until she could feel the brush of his warm breath. He smelled good. His breath smelled good, too. He was so hot, still faintly smelling of patchouli oil, sweat, and man.

She clenched her teeth. Grabbed the pendant in one hand, slid her fingers down to the third bead of the necklace with the other. She found the textured cluster of moonstones, pressed the pendant against his bare shoulder—and pushed the button.