Brave the Tempest (Cassandra Palmer #9) - Karen Chance Page 0,44

idea. And neither would something else.

“Give me a minute,” I told her, and ran back into the dressing room. “Augustine!” I whispered.

There was no answer.

“Augustine. I’m willing to make that deal!”

Still nothing.

Even more telling, the pile of rejected clothes in the corner hadn’t gotten any bigger. It looked like he’d gotten bored and decided not to wait for me. Which was weird, considering how urgent he’d been.

Geniuses, I thought.

And then I saw it, gleaming on the surface of my dressing table: a little silver key.

All right! I thought, and grabbed it. Now that was a score.

Chapter Ten

I finally got my pie, sitting in the sunshine out by the pool, where the little girls had abandoned their crayons to join the party in the water and the older ones were giving me a fashion show. Including Rhea and Saffy, who were trying to decide what to wear to impress the covens. Considering everything I’d seen this morning, I didn’t think that was too likely, no matter what they chose.

But if anybody could do it, it was Augustine.

“I’m thinking dom,” Saffy said, turning around in front of me. She had on a Vivienne Westwood–inspired number in dark purple, almost black—what Augustine probably called aubergine. But there were iridescent swirls of paler hues in the fabric when the sun hit it just right. It had a low-cut, skintight bustier; ruched leggings; thigh-high suede boots of the same color; and a fitted jacket with huge lapels that spread out over the shoulders and came up around the head, forming a hood.

She was right; she looked like a really well-dressed dominatrix sans the whip, although the handles of two wands were sticking up out of the high tops of the boots. I saw several of the guys eyeing her appreciatively, and Saffy obviously liked her choice. I wasn’t sure that was quite the message we wanted to be sending, but what did I know? Maybe glam dom was in with the covens.

I hadn’t noticed any shrinking violets in their number.

“If Rhea’s coming along, we can do good cop, bad cop, you know?” she added.

“And which are you going to be?” Rico asked, his dark eyes gleaming.

But not at her.

The bad boy among my bodyguards was a soft-spoken Italian who tended to let his weapons talk for him—unless, of course, he was sitting with Rhea. He’d guarded her fiercely while she’d been bedridden, barely even letting the healers get anywhere near her, and although he’d backed off a bit once she was on her feet again, I’d noticed the dark eyes following her around the suite more than once. And if I’d noticed, so had everyone else, although nobody but Marco had had the cojones to tease him about it.

My guys weren’t stupid.

“What?” Saffy said, before glancing behind her. And doing a double take along with the rest of us. Because it seemed that Rhea had chosen something from Augustine’s stash as well, although not what anyone could have expected.

Because my sweet-faced acolyte had found the black leather, and damned if it didn’t look good on her.

There was none of Saffy’s glamour here. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what Rhea’s getup had been doing among Augustine’s usual society butterfly chic, unless it was part of the new war line he’d mentioned. Because that’s what it looked like: something a ninja assassin might have worn, if she was a little better-heeled than average.

Make that a lot better, I thought, as Rhea slowly rotated. And the black, asymmetrical, ribbed leather tunic she was wearing over skintight leggings fell off her shoulders all at once, in a burst of Augustine’s signature origami, unfolding like a flower to become a gauzy ball gown with a poufy skirt and strapless bodice. The skirt was black tulle over a taupe underskirt and studded with what looked like black diamonds that glimmered darkly against the mesh-like fabric.

Her arms were covered with high black leather gloves, which the now missing sleeves had peeled away to reveal, and which gave even the dressier version of the outfit an edge. And the skirt wasn’t full-length, giving a clear view of the high-heeled black boots she wore, still covered in buckles and straps. I hadn’t noticed in the wonder of the transformation, but part of the tunic had become a cool, biker-type jacket, which she effortlessly slung over her shoulder but which would look equally good on.

“It folds back up again just as fast,” she told us eagerly. “Do you want to see?”

“I want to