“This way,” Jonathan said as he passed through an open archway. I followed, stopping short just inside. I suppose it was a closet, as there were clothes in it—expensive-looking women’s clothes—but the room was huge. A rice-paper screen took up one corner with a vanity against the back of it. A small table with two chairs was tucked to the right of the door. To the left was a trifold mirror. All it needed was a wet bar. Damn. I was so in the wrong line of work.

“You can change here,” Jonathan said through his nose. “Try not to touch anything.”

Ticked, I dropped my coat on a chair and hung my garment bag on a convenient hook. Shoulders tight, I unzipped the bag and turned, knowing Jonathan was judging me. But my eyebrows rose at his surprised look while he took in the outfit Kisten had put together for me. Then his expression returned to its usual ice. “You aren’t wearing that,” he said flatly.

“Shove it up your ass, Jon,” I snapped.

Movements stilted, he strode to a set of sliding mirror doors, opening them to pull out a black dress as if he knew exactly where it was. “You will wear this,” he said, thrusting it at me.

“I’m not wearing that.” I tried to make my voice cold, but the dress was exquisite, made of a soft fabric cut low down the back and flatteringly high in the front and around the neck. It would fall to my ankles to make me look tall and elegant. Swallowing back my envy, I said, “It’s cut too low in back to hide my splat gun. And it’s too tight to run in. That’s a lousy dress.”

His extended arm dropped, and it was all I could do to keep from wincing when the beautiful fabric puddled on the carpet. “You pick one out, then.”

“Maybe I will.” I stepped hesitantly to the closet.

“The evening dresses are in that one,” Jonathan said, sounding patronizing.

“Duh…” I mocked, but my eyes widened and my hand went out to touch. God help me, they were all beautiful, each having an understated elegance. They were organized by color, and matching shoes and purses were carefully arranged underneath. Some had hats in the rack above them. My shoulders slumped when I touched a flaming red dress, but Jonathan’s whispered, “whore” encouraged me to keep moving. My eyes left it reluctantly.

“So, Jon,” I said as he watched me shuffle through the dresses. “Either Trent is a cross-dresser or he enjoys bringing size eight tall women to his house wearing evening gowns and sending them home in rags.” I eyed him. “Or does he just knock them up and knock them off?”

Jonathan’s jaw clenched and his face flushed. “These are for Miss Ellasbeth.”