Their wardrobe problem would soon be a thing of the past.
Rather than a standard elevator, the driver guided their car into a vehicle elevator.
Visitors to residents of the tower drove right into the elevator with an access code and were lifted, in situ, to the private floors of the individual they were calling on. The majority of residents had selected the floor plan that included the facade of indoor/outdoor living, which allowed their visitors to exit the elevator into the facade of a residential street front.
Jag’s chauffeur parked faux-street side and came around to open the doors for both Jag and Rita.
Stepping out, Rita was agog. “We’re inside a building still, right?” she asked, looking around at the shockingly realistic outdoor residential street scene.
The “sky” above them was intelligent, programmable according to the owner’s weather and daylight preferences. Currently, a balmy blue sky shone above while an artificial warm breeze swirled a floral scent around them.
Jag nodded, smiling at the note of awe in her voice. “We are.”
Rita’s eyes sparkled as she took it all in, the glowing wonder in them stopping here and there to peruse the hidden joints that held up the mirage.
She examined the one-way windows, which let light stream in for the “outdoor” plants without interfering with the artificial climate.
“How extraordinary,” she breathed, sounding more like a scientist at the moment of eureka than a garage denizen.
As NECTAR, perhaps the mad scientist label was more accurate.
She should not have looked the part in the least, this woman dressed like an American teenager, but she did.
She had the kind of wild genius that had a hard time hiding itself.
Despite clothing being the reason they had entered the luxury building, Jag could not help but note that, more so for her than anyone else he’d ever met, clothes did not make Rita.
Nothing she wore, it seemed, had the capacity to hide her bright intelligence, nor her beauty, nor the way her eyes constantly darted around and analyzed—not a lime-green jumpsuit, and not a sweatshirt and old trainers.
In every setting and costume, the woman was stunning.
But just because form could not hide her function, it did not mean that her form could not be enhanced.
And as if the conclusion conjured him, Jag’s tailor chose that moment to open his front door.
“Prince Jahangir, your visit is as welcome as it is unexpected.” The man’s voice was loud and warm and, as always, modulated to convey friendship.
Jag was willing to tolerate a certain level of theatrics in the pursuit of a perfect suit.
“Jameel, you are a paragon of style, as ever,” Jag said, smiling.
Jameel waved off the compliment. “I wear the same thing every day.”
“There is no need to change when you are leagues ahead of the rest.”
“Flattery, Prince? You must have a dire need.”
Jag laughed before indicating Rita’s presence with a nod of his head. “Not I. I bring you a challenge from America.”
Jameel’s gaze traveled from the Prince to Rita, who had returned to Jag’s side from examining the mirage walls that were in truth one-way windows.
“Oh, dear,” Jameel said, shoulders slumping as he took in the whole of Rita’s person. “How much time do I have?” he asked, a slight wobble in the shield of confidence he typically exuded.
“For a complete wardrobe? A week. For something more appropriate for daywear in Hayat City? None. She cannot leave the premises like this.”
Taking in a shuddering breath that concluded with an expression of resolution, Jameel nodded. “I don’t have much here right now, but your timing is impeccable, as always, Prince. Your father’s youngest wife recently commissioned a new set. I’ve a few pieces completed that I can make adjustments to.” Eyeing Rita, Jameel began taking mental notes. “Let out the bust, bring in the waist, lengthen the pant, and we’ll be set.”
Bemused, Rita laughed. “Just all that?” Her voice was charming and melodic, bolstered by her curiosity and engaged mind, and even the jaded tailor looked momentarily mesmerized.