“Especially men?”
“Sure. Except, the bad guy can be a man or woman. Women will look at the outfit if it fits their style. Or wish they could wear what you’re wearing. They’ll wonder where they could buy the skirt. What would they wear with the top? Something like that. See what I mean?”
Liz nodded, understanding fully the reason for the different outfits. Her style was simple. Unprovocative. All business. She’d worked on perfecting that look ever since she lost an internship at college because a professor said she looked too cute. The next day, she’d walked into class wearing the all-business style and showed him what she thought of his chauvinist attitude. With the help of the local newspaper, she’d received an even better internship, earning an A in the course.
She’d kept that same style ever since. “So, we’re only changing my clothes?”
“That’s it.”
“What if I were an OPAQUE client?”
“You’d be prime-time danger.” Cat opened a drawer, motioning for Liz to look inside. “One that requires a lot more change. Tinted contacts. Tanning agents. Hair color. Extensions.” She picked up a pair of scissors. “Chop the hair short. Maybe a mole or a fake tattoo. Whatever it takes to make the person look completely different.”
“No way would I let you, or anyone else, ever cut my hair.” Liz pressed her already smooth style in place then glanced in the mirror above the counter. “I’m known in the publishing world for my neat makeup and hair. Makes me appear more serious. Makes the reader take me more seriously. Makes the publisher know I’m serious when I ask for more pay.”
“You can always grow your hair long again.” Cat laid the scissors back in their place and closed the drawer with a little more force than needed. “Dead is dead.”
Liz fought to intensify her pragmatic image of being a grown-up about this whole mess. Of being in complete control. Of being able to confront anything life threw at her. Of not being worried about her father. After all, none of this was her fault.
During the past ten years, she’d worked hard to never doubt herself. Now, this whole scenario was affecting the rope of confidence she’d built string by string, thread by thread, braid by braid. If she wasn’t careful, her life might—had already begun to—unravel.
Putting her doubt defenses back in place, she reassumed her mask of competence. “You and Mitch sure like to scare a person with your warnings.”
“I hope you never have to find out how true they are. Now, go try on those clothes.” Cat’s tone held no space for noncompliance. “I saw the can of mace on your key chain last night. Do you carry other protection when you’re on magazine assignments?”
“I know how to put someone on the ground. And I know how to shoot a gun.”
“Good. Do you own a gun?”
“No.” Liz nabbed the bright green bikini from the stack of clothes sitting on the chair. She convinced herself she was trying on that specific one because the color made her feel happy, made her feel strong, made her feel like she could handle anything that came her way. Not because Mitch had continued to hold the top in his hands after rummaging through the clothes on the bed.
Heading to the bathroom, she added a pair of shorts and fun-in-the-sun T-shirts from the bed. If she were in as much danger as Mitch implied, trying on clothes seemed trivial to squabble over. At least this was keeping her focus off worrying about her father. “This should be enough.”
Cat smiled. “Let me see how that swimsuit turns out.”
Ten minutes later, Liz exited the bathroom and dropped the clothes on the bed. “These clothes all fit. You did well, Cat.” Liz eyed herself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. “What do you think about this bikini?”
Cat glanced out the open doorway, then motioned Liz to stand behind her. “Stay quiet.”
Shouts and running footsteps sounded from down the hallway, then Mitch burst into the room. Gun drawn. Expression fierce. What had been all-business blue eyes were now steeled with determination and gray as battleship metal.
He’d changed clothes and added equipment, too. A black, formfitting, compression shirt hugged the outline of his muscular chest, his trim waist, and hardened biceps, while black Neoprene shorts stretched tight on his thighs. A sheathed knife was strapped against his leg, and a gun holster hung empty on his shoulder. Dark athletic shoes completed the look.
For a split second, he stopped, his gaze drawn to hers. He scanned her body in a once-over before he blinked. “Drake upgraded you to OPAQUE protection. You’ve got thirty seconds to get dressed.”
As if they’d done this drill a million times, Cat drew her gun and took up a position by the window. “Are they here?”
“Closing fast. Drake’s got a crew coming in from offshore to help.”
The words upgraded and OPAQUE triggered stone-still panic inside Liz. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t understand what was happening. “Is who here?”
“Coercion Ten,” Cat calmly said, inching her gun behind the drapery as she peered outside.
“Who are they?” Liz asked.
Her peripheral vision caught sight of the man from the Mariner’s parking lot standing guard outside her open bedroom door. Mitch had said his name was Keith. He’d been the backup, the one who’d followed them to the house in his own vehicle.
“I said get dressed.” Mitched focused his gun on the door to the master bath. “You’ve got fifteen seconds before some mighty bad men burst through the front door.”
