“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.”

“Ellasbeth?” My hands fell from a purple dress that would cost me a month of runs. Trent had a girlfriend? “Oh, hell no! I’m not wearing another woman’s dress without asking.”

He snickered, his long face taking on a hint of annoyance. “They belong to Mr. Kalamack. If he says you can wear them, you can.”

Not fully reassured, I turned back to my search. But all my apprehensions vanished when my hands touched a soft filmy gray. “Oh, look at this,” I breathed, pulling the top and skirt from the closet and holding them triumphantly up, as if he gave a flying flip.

Jonathan looked from the cabinet of scarves, belts, and purses he had just opened. “I thought we threw that out,” he said, and I made a face, knowing he was trying to make me feel like it was ugly. It wasn’t. The tight bustier and matching skirt were elegant, the fabric soft to the touch and thick enough for winter without being binding. It was a shimmering black once I got it into the light. The skirt went to the floor, but was split in a multitude of narrow bands from the knees so it would flutter about my ankles. And with the slits that high, my splat gun in its thigh holster would be an easy reach. It was perfect.

“Is it suitable?” I asked as I took it to the hanger and hung it over my outfit. I looked up when he was silent, finding his face twisted.

“It will do.” He raised his watchband to his wrist, pushing a button and speaking into the spiffy-keen communicator I remembered was there. “Make the corsage black and gold,” he muttered. Glancing at the door, he added to me, “I’ll get the matching jewelry from the safe.”

“I have my own jewelry,” I said, then hesitated, not wanting to see what my imitation stuff would look like against fabric such as this. “But okay,” I amended, unable to meet his eyes.

Jonathan harrumphed. “I’ll send someone to do your makeup,” he added as he walked out.

That was downright insulting. “I can touch up my own makeup, thank you,” I said loudly after him. I was wearing mundane makeup atop the complexion spell that hid the remnants of my still healing black eye, and I didn’t want anyone to touch it.

“Then I only have to get the stylist to do something with your hair,” came echoing back.

“My hair is fine!” I shouted. I looked in one of the mirrors, touching the loose curls starting to frizz. “It’s fine,” I added, softer. “I just had it done.” But all that I heard was Jonathan’s sniggering laughter and the sound of a door opening.