I scratch at my scalp, and remember what she said about needing to take my hair down.
“Oh, right,” I grumble.
Releasing my hair from its tight braid, it lays heavily across my shoulders and trickles down my back in thick waves.
I glance over at the nearby vanity, finding a bristle brush. Not wanting to waste any time on my own pride, I pull it hastily but smoothly through my mane. Hopefully it won’t poof up too much being so close to the sea, though I have very little control over it.
Brushing the entire mob of hair over my right shoulder, I then grab the Bandoline bottle. It won’t help much, but it can’t hurt. The scent of rose water and jasmine prick my nose as I remove the stopper and apply it liberally to the sections of hair I’m endeavoring to shape. When it proves to be fairly useless, I reach for the tin of metal pins, positioning them strategically.I wish Francesca had stayed for this part, at least.
Now, for a little makeup. Luckily, she left out a mascara tin with a small glass of water beside it. Opening the tin, I dip the brush in the water before rubbing it back and forth on the cake mascara, then apply it to my lashes.
Lastly, I pick up the lipstick tube she left behind, which I’m hoping will pair well with the color of the jumpsuit. I don’t normally wear lipstick, but I will tonight if I want to fit in. Parting my lips, I apply it, touching it up with a cloth. I actively ignore the sensation of an extra layer suffocating the sensitive skin on my lips, knowing it’s for the best.
Once I’m finished, I turn in the direction of the closest mirror, tall and thin beside the door to the back room.
I look, well, gorgeous, if I’m being honest. I don’t often think so, because I never care to dress up enough to warrant it. If I can get an outfit like this shipped to the States, though, I might actually wear it.
I turn slightly to the side, my waist smaller than I remember, even without the sink ties pulled back yet. The top half of the jumpsuit shows enough skin so I won’t be turning too many heads but won’t go completely unnoticed either. The bottom half flares out along my slightly wider hips, flowing down like a waterfall gently split down the middle.
I just need one of the men to tighten the sink ties.
“You can come out now,” I call out through the door to the back room.
Immediately, it swings open with a rusty squawk.
Bes steps out first, his attention focused on the cufflinks of a tuxedo that fits his frame too well. He’s tamed his hair somehow, his ebony locks tucked safely behind his ears. The way his skin glows in the lamplight, his full lips pressed together in concentration, tightens my chest.
The bowtie around his neck and perfectly-folded pocket square are the same mauve color as my jumpsuit. Like me, his shoes are the ones he came in with, though I guarantee no one will be looking at his feet.
A headiness consumes me as I watch him.Goddamn, he cleans up well.
His gaze has yet to leave his cuffs. “Finally. We need to get go—”
Picking up his head, Bes finally notices me. He pauses mid-step, mouth dropping open slightly.
Despite the pressing silence, he takes a moment to look me over as I did him. Except he knows I’m watching and he doesn’tcare. His gaze lingers on my face, my chest, my exposed arms, my pinned-back hair. A heat I can’t help reciprocating ignites behind his dark eyes. For a moment, I imagine there’s something akin to appreciation there.
Chest heaving slightly, he appears to have forgotten he was in the middle of speaking.
Cec exits the office and pauses. “Why is it so bloody quiet?”
I drop my gaze, thankful he’s once again broken Bes’s hold over me. Like his cousin, Cec is dressed in a tuxedo, with the same complimentary colors, that fits him just as well.
Finding Bes again, I say, “Well don’t stand there with your mouth open like a dead fish, Bes. Will it do?”
Cheeks ruddy, I turn from one side to the other to show him how the jumpsuit looks. I shouldn’t care about his opinion, but, after everything that’s happened, I find more and more that Idocare very much what Bes thinks of me.
Straightening his shoulders, he says simply, “You look beautiful.”
Which doesn’t exactly answer my question, but causes my heart to leap traitorously in my chest all the same.
He shakes his head. “But it’s not you.”
A different sort of heat splashes onto my cheeks. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m flattered, put off, or a little of both.
“Isn’t that the point? To be whatever I need in order to help you get the information we came to Civitavecchia for?”
Bes raises an eyebrow. “I suppose you’re right. In that case, yes, it’s perfect.”
