In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

her face—unless it was Roarke. And he didn’t put goop all over her while he was doing it.
    “Wait till you see Mavis. Leonardo designed a killer outfit for her. I did them this afternoon, and got to play with Bella. She’s the baby girl of all baby girls. Almost makes me want one. Mavis is going to help Peabody with her ’do since I’m up here.”
    Eve let the words slide in and out of her brain while she tried not to think about what gunk and goo was going on her face and hair.
    The chair vibrated lightly under her, massaging muscles she hadn’t realized were so tight, so tired. She didn’t realize she’d dozed off until Trina brought the chair upright again.
    The snipping and tugging and combing, and gunking began. It didn’t seem to take long, but she couldn’t check because her wrist unit was under the cape, and she was afraid to move while Trina’s sharp tool clicked around her.
    Trina stepped back, took the last sip of champagne. “Okay. Totally ult, low on the flash, up on the class.” She put away her tools, then swirled the cape off. “Up, up. I’ve got to rock.”
    She set her cases on the seat of the chair Eve vacated. “See you there,” she said, and rolled the chair away.
    Cautious, Eve turned to the mirror.
    Her hair lay sleek against her head instead of tousled, and whatever Trina had plastered on it to get it sleek brought out the lighter shades so it looked just a little streaky. She ran a hand over it, relieved when it felt like her regular hair.
    Her eyes looked bigger—but that was all the crap Trina had smudged on. Her cheekbones looked a little sharper, her lips more defined.
    “Still you under there,” she murmured. “It’s just a kind of illusion. Or . . . a costume.”
    “I trust she didn’t knock you unconscious to . . .” Roarke paused in the doorway, then stepped in for a closer study. “She is very good at her work. It’s a different look for you, but lovely and a bit elegant. Very suitable for the occasion. Here, I thought you’d need this after your ordeal.”
    He handed her a glass of champagne.
    “I guess I’m now worthy of superior man-flesh.”
    “I feel so objectified,” he said as she took the first sip.
    “You ate it up with a spoon.” She took another sip, and a long look when he laughed. “But you do look pretty superior. And since you’re already dressed I’d better get my skinny ass moving.”
    “I adore your skinny ass.” He gestured toward the bed when they went out. “If you don’t care for the dress we’ll find another.”
    She would have called it yellow, but it wasn’t accurate. It was deeper, richer than yellow. Not brown, not that deep, but something that blended both into the tawny. It had light, she mused. Not sparkle or shine, just light. No fuss, no flounce—to her relief—just a column as sleek as her hair, and at a touch of her finger, as fluid as water.
    “I’d be stupid not to care for it. I’m not stupid. And I’m also smart enough to know I’m lucky you think about things like this so I don’t have to.”
    “I enjoy it; you don’t. Leonardo does exceptional work, and he knows your body, your style, and your preferences.”
    She couldn’t argue with that, especially after she’d put it on. The material simply slid down, light as air, leaving her shoulders bare and giving her breasts a bit more of a boost than she thought they deserved.
    But the hidden pockets in the side seams distracted and pleased her. She could easily tuck her clutch piece in one, her badge in the other.
    What else did a woman need?
    “You’ll want these.” Roarke handed her earrings—canary diamonds in long teardrops—and a cuff that married yellow diamonds with white. She added the necklace herself, the Giant’s Tear diamond he’d given her the day he’d told her he loved her.
    “You’re beautiful.”
    Sparkly, she thought, shimmery, and a little sleek. A costume, she thought again. Everyone wore them.
    “It’s hard not to look good with all this. What color is this thing?” She brushed a hand down the dress. “I can’t figure it.”
    “It should be easy for you, as you look at it every day.” He stepped behind her, laid his hands on her shoulders. “It’s your eyes.” He laid his cheek against hers for a moment while she frowned. “We’d better be off or we’ll be more than fashionably late.”
    “Why is late fashionable?”
    “I suppose because it gives the impression you have so many things to do you