Page 32 of Velvet Vaughn

She thumbed her phone open, tapped through to her contacts, then changed her mind and pulled up the secure messaging app instead. Anja was going to owe BeBe Hale at least one bottle of something good for the restraint. BeBe was the office manager, but everyone knew she practically ran the entire agency.

Sorry to send this so early. I need a favor off-paper. Black-tie gown in St. Louis, by six o’clock tonight. Cover is a plus-one for a sports-agent boyfriend at a charity gala. Read my line of work out of it entirely. Shoes I can run in but not look like I can. Need a stylist who will not ask questions or remember my face on Monday.

The dots appeared within two seconds.

You’re going to a black-tie gala.

Yes.

With Leonardo De Luca.

Okay, the woman was scarily competent, but how did she know about Leo? Did everyone? Was Anja kidding herself, thinking her bosses didn’t know? She shook her head. No, because if Kayne knew, he’d have called her immediately, or, more likely, shown up at Leo’s place with guns blazing.

Yes, Anja replied.

On his arm?

She sighed and replied, BeBe . . .

Just confirming I have the picture in focus. I’m calling Larisa at the boutique we used for a senator’s wife last fall. She owes me a favor. You’ll be in and out in ninety minutes. I’m texting you the address now. Don’t argue with her about the shoes.

Understood.

Anja?

Yes?

I want a picture.

Anja shook her head at the request and typed, No.

One. From the elevator. You don’t have to be in it.

Goodbye, BeBe.

She set the phone down, lifted her gaze, and found Leo watching her over the rim of his water bottle with an expression she couldn’t entirely identify. It might be amusement.

“Problem solved,” she informed him.

“Was that your office?”

“Yes. BeBe Hale. She has a stylist.”

“Of course she does. That woman is incredible, and I’ve only met her briefly a couple of times.”

BeBe had been paralyzed from the waist down when her bicycle was hit by a car while training for the Olympics. Her nickname around the compound was “Hell on Wheels.”

“COBRA Securities agents attend a lot of black-tie events for senators, foreign dignitaries, and the occasional billionaire wedding.” She picked up her toast. “We dress for the room we walk into.”

“Makes sense.”

“I’ll need ninety minutes off-site this afternoon. You’re coming with me.”

“Okay.”

She finished the toast, reached for her water, and ran the rest of the day in her head while she drank it. Two hours to finish the drive imaging with Tyler. Ninety minutes for the dress. An hour back here to clean up and brief Leo on the questions. Forty minutes to the Chase Park Plaza, factoring in the Saturday evening traffic. They’d be walking through the ballroom doors at 6:15, which gave her time during cocktail hour to read the room before anyone sat down.

It was tight, but it was workable.