A short squat-looking man with graying hair and heavy jowls greeted them at the door. His topcoat and tails suggested a formal evening. He didn’t shake Uranium’s hand, and he curled his upper lip as he shook his head. Though he didn’t seem to approve of Uranium’s choice of dress—a dark blue T-shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots—the look he gave her was full of possibilities.
When she extended her hand, he accepted, graciously lifting it to his lips where he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. The affectation wasn’t lost on her, nor was his obvious discomfort at performing it. “Enchanté, Miss—?”
Goodness, his French is atrocious.“You can call me Arsenic.”So much for stripping me. Uranium lied. What a shock.
“Can I be your old lace?” He laughed at his less than amusing joke.
What a ridiculous line. “Only if you want one of us to die before the weekend is over.”
His hawkish gaze sharpened, but he smiled. “You were right, Santos. I do like her. Are you going to work well with us, Miss Arsenic?” He studied her, his sycophantic expression at odds with his harsh eyes.
“Anything is possible, Mr…?”
“All in good time, lovely lady.” He extended a hand to touch her cheek. Being pawed seemed to go hand-in-hand with this assignment. “For now, you will call me Ricky. I think I may call you Lucy—I haven’t decided yet. We have all weekend to get to learn each other’s quirks. I can’t wait to get to know you better, beautiful.”
“Fantastic.”All weekend.She could hardly stand the excitement.
“Elsie,” he called in an imperious, American voice. Ricky had a northeastern accent—Massachusetts, if she had to guess. A nubile young woman, dressed in what might conservatively be referred to as a Halloween costume of a maid’s outfit, approached. Everything about her outfit had been designed to show off her assets, from her long legs to her heavily endowed chest.
“Take our lovely guests upstairs. They’re in the Green Room. Santos, you need to change. Our other guests don’t need to see you like that. As for you, my dear…” Their host focused on her again, and he was still holding her hand. “You look stunning, but I’m sure you would like to freshen up after your flight.”
He didn’t wait for their responses before releasing her and vanishing back into the crowd. The last place Arsenic wanted to go was upstairs. She’d much rather join the party, see who was present. Not to mention, a crowded gathering seemed unusual for a private meeting focused on criminal activity.
The thunderous expression on Uranium’s face, however, told her she needed to go with him. He hadn’t been expecting this party either. Elsie curtsied to her, an utterly inappropriate greeting for someone not of the peerage, but Arsenic let it go. Apparently, their host played at a proper British dinner party, and she was going to be one of the main attractions.Lovely.
Once they arrived at the Green Room, Uranium slammed the door open, cutting off their escort. Elsie fidgeted nervously in the doorway until Arsenic waved her out. No sense leaving an innocent in the crossfire.
Walking to the mirror, she examined the damage to her hair from the earlier motorcycle ride, not to mention a couple of hours on the plane.
“Is something wrong?” she asked
“This was supposed to be a private introductory meeting. What the hell is going on down there?” The scarred half of his face, twisted permanently into a grimace, matched the fury on the other half of his face when his mouth turned downward.
“A party, from the looks of it—though where they all came from, who knows,” she said. She misunderstood his meaning deliberately. When he turned his dark gaze on her, she relented. “Social occasions, which allow all the guests to mingle and for business to take place under the guise of small talk. If you know how to behave, you can get a great deal accomplished over a glass of champagne.”
At least, it could get accomplished in some circles of society, although it seemed highly doubtful that this was one of those occasions. Playing along for now might net her more information.
“I hate this bullshit. I hate getting dressed up. I’ve never been very good at tying a fucking tie.” Despite the growl in his voice, his complaint came across more childish than as a real objection. “And he brings them in the same way we did—one plane, his vehicles—either boat or car. No one else gets to the island.”
Interesting.“Just get dressed. I’ll make sure you look proper.” She took up a brush and began to smooth out her hair’s disarray. Over the course of the last several months, she’d allowed her hair to grow until it fell to the middle of her back.
One genetic blessing she’d always enjoyed was swift growing hair. She could cut it completely off, then have the length back to where it currently was within months. She knew women who would kill for that ability. As far as she was concerned, it was merely a problem to be dealt with on long assignments. Behind her, Uranium stripped out of his clothes, revealing his heavily scarred and tattooed body. He had taken a lot of damage when Operation Phoenix went sour in Russia. An explosion had embedded shrapnel in over 32% of his body mass, the majority of which was along his back and left side, all the way down to his knee. But he’d survived it. At the time, they’d all celebrated only losing one of the Marines to the vicious attack.
As it turned out, they probably should’ve lost more.
“Socks, then shirt, and finally slacks. Make sure everything is tucked in neat and all buttoned up. Add the cummerbund last, then I’ll take care of your tie, and you can add the coat.”
Considering it appeared to be a dinner party, she went ahead and styled her hair by twisting it up and rolling it into a neat chignon.
“You never told me how you know all this crap. You know what to say, and when to say it. And you don’t look like you just took a ride on a motorcycle or a flight, not even in that dress.”
“Thank you for noticing.” She accepted the compliment without giving him the explanation he craved. One of the reasons he was attracted to her was because she didn’t give him answers. Occasionally, he believed she dispensed a great secret when she gave him a drip or a drab. For the most part, his attraction to her seemed based almost wholly on her accent. What was it with Americans and a British accent?
“We can’t keep our host waiting.” She turned away from the mirror. She wore very little in the way of cosmetics, fortunately for her. Although she had scars of her own, the dress had been cut and designed specifically to cover them. It was revealing without being obscene, and just wealthy enough to get away with an appearance at an event like this.
Her hemline might be a little high, but considering the state of his maids, she doubted very much their host was going to object.
The git in front of her, however, looked absolutely ridiculous in his outfit. Joining him, she fixed his tie but had to resist the urge to apply enough pressure to strangle him. The old adage that all men look good in a tuxedo was wasted on this one. It hadn’t been tailored to him, though it did fit his large frame. Frankly, the ill-fit wasn’t due to his size, or even his scars. It was the way he carried himself. Uranium had never gotten past the bull in a china shop mannerisms of his low-class upbringing. The Marines might’ve made him a more efficient killer, but they certainly hadn’t polished away the rough edges.