Jack likes Charlize and Brian goes for dyslexic strippers—”
“That hurts,” Brian said.
“—but what about you?”
“You want my real answer?”
“Of course.”
“It’s going to sound like a line.”
“Try me.”
“I prefer redheads.”
Jack groaned. “So smooth.”
Wendy studied Dominic’s face for moment. “He’s telling the truth, I think.”
“He is,” Brian confirmed. “He’s still got a poster of Lucille Ball in his room.”
General laughter.
“Bullshit, bro.” To Wendy: “You meeting someone?”
“I was. A girlfriend. She texted me, said she couldn’t make it.”
The four of them ate dinner, shared more wine, and talked until nearly eleven, when Jack announced he was going home. Brian, having seen the same signs his cousin had, bowed out as well, and soon Dominic and Wendy were alone. They chatted for a few more minutes before she said, “So ...”
The opening was there, and Dominic took it. “You wanna get out of here?”
Wendy smiled at him. “My place is a couple blocks from here.”
They were kissing before the elevator doors closed, parted briefly when the car reached her floor, then moved together to her door, then inside, where the clothes started coming off. Once in the bedroom, Wendy wriggled the rest of the way out of her dress, revealing a lacy black bra and matching panties. She sat down on the bed before Dominic, grabbed the end of his belt, whipped it free, then lay back on the bed. “Your turn.” A lock of red hair had fallen over one of Wendy’s eyes.
“Wow,” Dominic breathed.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied with a giggle.
Dominic took off his pants and got onto the bed. They kissed for thirty seconds before Wendy pulled away. She rolled over and opened her nightstand drawer. “A little something to set the mood,” she said, looking back at him, then rolled over with a tiny rectangular mirror and a thumb-sized glass vial.
“What’s that?” Dominic asked.
“It’ll make it better,” Wendy said.
Ah, shit, Dominic thought. She saw his expression change and said, “What?”
“This isn’t going to work.”
“Why, what’s the matter? It’s just a little coke.”
Dominic got up, retrieved his pants, and slipped them on.
“You’re going?” Wendy said, sitting up.
“Yep.”
“You’re kidding me? Just because of—”
“Yep.”
“God, what’s your problem?”
Dominic didn’t answer. He grabbed his shirt from the floor and slipped it on. He headed for the door.
“You’re an asshole,” Wendy said.
Dominic stopped and turned around. He fished his wallet from his pants and flipped it open to reveal his FBI badge.
“Oh, shit,” Wendy whispered. “I didn’t ... Are you going to—”
“No. This is your lucky day.”
He walked out.
Tariq Himsi was contemplating the power of money. And the vagaries of choice. Finding the Emir a companion, even for a fleeting assignation, was a delicate proposition. His tastes were specific; his security paramount. Fortunately, the whores here were plentiful, easy to find on the street, and, as it turned out, quite accustomed to unusual requests, such as being driven to an undisclosed location in a vehicle with blacked-out windows. His earlier surveillance had shown that while morally corrupt, these women were far from stupid: They patrolled their corners in twos and threes, and whenever one of their cohorts got into a car, one of the others would take down the license plate number. A quick trip to one of the local airport’s off-property park-and-ride lots had solved this problem. License plates were easy to install and even easier to dispose of. Almost as easy as disguising his appearance with thick black glasses and a baseball cap.
Tariq had initially considered engaging an escort service, but that brought its own complications—not insurmountable, certainly, but complicated nonetheless. Through their network here he had obtained the name of a service known for zealously protecting its clients’ privacy, so much so that it was used by many celebrities and politicians, including several U.S. senators. The irony of using such a service was tempting, Tariq had to admit.
For now he would satisfy himself with engaging one of the street whores he’d been observing for the last week. Though she generally dressed as did all the others—in obnoxiously revealing outfits—her taste seemed slightly less appalling, her manner slightly less shameless. In the short term, she would do as a receptacle.
He waited until well after the sun had set, then waited down the block, watching for a lull in traffic before pulling out and driving down to where the woman and her two companions stood. He pulled to a halt beside the curb and rolled down the passenger window. One of the women, a redhead with impossibly large breasts, strode toward the