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stood at the door, barring the way until I wanted to act like a big girl and put my proper spy clothes on. It always meant I ended up looking like a hooker. It was my most believable act, which I felt said very bad things about my personality. Luce, my female partner, was never asked to dress like a whore.
    I slipped into the back room, staring at the bed for a moment. Bits of feathers, foam, and mattress springs covered the room. He’d raged, tearing it all to hell like a child. Had Servario lost a battle of controlling me and himself?
    Interesting.
    I made a mental note to add this to the reasons why we would never work. I had children enough to raise; I didn't need another who was wanted by every agency in the world for one heinous act or another.
    Fortunately, the closet was still pristine, apart from a few feathers from the pillows. I ran my fingers along the pieces, separated by color. The various fabrics tickled my fingertips, each one holding promise of a fun time. Pantsuits, dresses, skirts, blouses, tanks, and even a few pieces of lingerie. Every one of them designer and costing more than my monthly mortgage payment. To him it was nothing, akin to dropping a dollar in a bucket for a homeless man. No, for him spending all this money on clothing for a woman he couldn't ever have was just a regular Tuesday. He was bizarre in the most extreme ways.
    I glanced at the red dress, knowing I looked slutty, but I could do better. Servario wasn't a regular criminal mastermind. He was a savant of the underworld, and for that reason I could get away with a much nicer outfit. I lifted a black bustier-styled midriff tank top by Diane von Furstenberg. It made my boobs look like they were seventeen instead of thirty-six so that was obviously a better choice than the tube dress which had no support and whispered I had breastfed a lot.
    The bustier tied up in the front with laces from the bottom to the top, revealing my pale skin through them. It was a classy attempt at slutty. I peeled the red dress down my legs, pulling on the low-slung white skirt, also by Diane von Furstenberg. I contemplated wearing some cute wedges, but I knew he would need my legs to look their best. And secretly I really wanted to wear the Jimmy Choo red lace pumps. They had a golden heel, and I imagined if I were ever to get married again they would be the secret hiding beneath my wedding gown.
    My life made that dream laughable but a girl could dream.
    I used the makeup he had set up in the drawers, including of course, the MAC Russian Red lipstick we had both become so fond of. I teased my dark hair and gave myself a once over. The heavy black makeup made my eyes pop. The falsies and Younique 3D Lash Kit made me look like I was related to the Gabor family, only a brunette.
    I stepped back, excited by the fact that I looked classy and sexy, and there was no way his eyes would be able to stray from the incredible amount of cleavage shown through the laces of the bustier.
    Satisfied and praying I could torment him a little more, I walked out, leaving my green bag on board. Lord knew we were coming back this way. I just hoped and prayed Luce, Jack, and Coop would be with us.
    I walked out to the front of the plane, conscious of the effort it took to not twist an ankle or slip in any way. He glanced back, scowling at me. “You look too nice for where we’re going.”
    When I walked past him, I lifted one corner of my skirt, flashing a cheek of my bare ass at him. “I kept it just trashy enough for you.”
    He made a noise—of course he did—but I didn't pause. I hurried from the plane to the dark Rolls Royce waiting for us on the small runway, as per the usual. Even in a country in the Middle East, he was able to fly in under the cover of his badass umbrella.
    When he climbed in the car he sat too close, smothering me with heat and all the leftover things we hadn’t said to each other and all the damage caused by the things we had done.
    He reached over,