Quinn snorted a laugh, but Felix cut him off before he could say anything. “There’s a shopping plaza nearby with suitable shops for formal wear. I’m sure Jack can select his own, but if Dee requires any assistance—or merely a second opinion—I can help. I have some experience shopping there for formal gowns.”

Quinn looked at Felix, brows raised.

“I find women’s wear an excellent disguise,” Felix said. “Particularly evening dresses.”

Quinn kept staring.

“I have had lady friends in Chicago, Quinn, and have escorted them to the symphony and such, occasions for which women often appreciate new evening wear.”

“Oh.”

Felix shook his head. “While poor Quinn works that out, may I suggest we move straight to shopping? That should give him time to recover, then retrieve the blueprints and security details.”

We finished our hot dogs, and left.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-THREE

Jack checked us into a motel on the outskirts of Chicago. Felix and Quinn would presumably find one elsewhere. I could tell Jack wasn’t comfortable with the prolonged time together, but there was little we could do under the circumstances except keep our guard up and remember that there was no reason for anyone to be tracking us. Had this been a job, that would be a concern, but here, attention was focused on our target, and no one was looking for us.

The opera curtain was ninety minutes away, and the doors would open in forty-five. I was ready to go, dress on and hair fixed in the best updo I could manage with bobby pins and a hand mirror. Jack had showered and shaved, but still had to throw on his tux, so I left him to do that and went outside to find Quinn.

It was dark already, and the motel poorly lit, but I located him on the other side of the lot, leaning against the fence, watching the highway traffic whiz past. He’d changed into black jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt—dark enough for recon work outside the theater, but common enough street wear not to attract attention. He’d also switched to dark hair, and from his profile I could see that he’d added a beard and mustache. Guess he wanted a little more of a disguise in case he bumped into someone from the FBI task force. Further proof that I was right about him being a Fed. FBI or DEA was my guess. A field agent—he didn’t strike me as a desk jockey—but he obviously still had enough clout to get all the info we needed without raising eyebrows. And the clout to get the time off.

As my heels clicked across the asphalt, Quinn turned. He stared. Then he stared some more.

I laughed. “Don’t tell me I look that different.”

“No, just…wow.”

I blushed.