Vin dropped his arm after giving him a warning squeeze.
“Because,” the chief said, raising his voice to be heard, “Tarpington is going in as a wife who used steroids in her teens to get ahead of the athletic competition. It gives you two a viable start and explanation into why he’ll be involved in drugs now. Vin is leading this shindig, doing the background work. But the whole operation hinges on Tarpington’s infiltration. He’s the front guy. Girl.”
“The details are in the file. Read them carefully. Memorize the cover story we’ve set up for you and the main players. Chances are they will test you. There’s no room for error,” the sector head warned.
“A housewife drug ring?” Chris considered tossing the file back across the table, but pissing off his boss didn’t sound like a genius plan for instant success.
“Yes. Sixty percent of all drug transactions and users are in dense city populations,” the chief said.
“So why not go there?” Chris asked.
Vin’s lips curled into a sneer. “Where did you think the other forty percent came from? Dairy farms?”
“The suburbs,” the chief answered for Chris, though he didn’t have to.
“This case deals with importing drugs of several varieties and their distribution. That’s why we think a steroid user will work for this cover. The visual proof will go a long way toward your credibility.” The sector head gave him a once over. “And you won’t be too ugly dressed in drag-passably masculine.”
Chris felt his lips twist unhappily. “And the beefcake? Why him?”
“He has a body builder’s strength with an immaculate case record. Not only is he great at his job, but pairing you with a leaner build would seem contrived. Vin is big enough not to find a masculine woman threatening,” the chief said.
“Glad to see the boys in blue haven’t given up stereotyping,” Chris muttered.
“Does the little guy ever shut up?” Vin asked his chief.
“I’m not fucking little, Gigantor. You’re just fucking super-sized.”
“Are you ready for me?” a chipper female called from the doorway.
Chris looked at the duffle-toting redhead. “And who the fuck are you, my daughter?”
“She’s your depilatory and image specialist.” The sector head’s chuckling amusement had Chris squinting at the girl.
“My what?” Chris asked.
“She’s your wax and buffer, moron.” Vin gave the girl a broad wink. “Give him a Brazilian. It’s critical to the case.”
“A what?” Chris repeated lamely.
“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling through an impressive blush.
“We should leave, Vin. Tarpington has some work to finish before you move in tomorrow.” The Chief circled the table and herded Vin out.
“You should wear pink. It’ll look great with your coloring,” Vin threw over his shoulder as he strode from the room.
Chris watched, transfixed at the swaggering, shoulder swinging harmony of Vin’s powerful body in motion. Agents and office staff cleared the way for him, unconsciously giving him a respectful berth.
“Yep,” the sector head said, coming up beside Chris. “Classy, Tarp. Less than ten minutes with your new partner and you let him take you up against a wall. Now you’re exchanging grooming advice. I’d say you lost that battle.”
“Fuck off,” Chris snarled.
The standard friendly razzing scraped a little too close to the truth. He’d never disclosed his sexual orientation-not the agency’s business-but being up against a wall with Vin didn’t sound like such a bad idea. His adrenaline was still pumping after their zinging exchange.
He laughed, clapping Chris on the back like they mutually shared the joke. “Make sure she gives you mace. Three weeks without rowdy sex and a guy like that might come looking for it under your skirt.”
Chris shot him a baleful look. “Three weeks without sex and I’ll be hitting up one of the druggy housewives for sex. Vin can fend for himself,” he said with a smirk, playing into the expected locker-room talk.
“Just remember that one’s a detective. If you put up a fight, he might use his cuffs on you.”
“Damn, boss, it’s an op, not prison. The wife isn’t putting out anymore?”
Jennings ’ smile faltered. “Yaste tell you that? Shit. Get the fuck outta my sight and do whatever she tells you,” he said, cocking his head toward the woman who had begun setting up tubes and lotions on the conference room table.
“Yeah, yeah,” Chris muttered.
The woman stepped around Chris and shut the door. She handed him a thin cotton dressing gown. “Here ya go,” she said, trying not to crack a smile. “They told me to tell you that the rest of your wardrobe will be on site when you arrive. But before you get there, we have some work to do on you.”
He stared at the gold and green, sixties inspired cloth with huge daisy print. He flicked a gaze to the woman who no longer tried to suppress her amusement. “You telling me you’d wear this thing?” he asked.
“Not even if it meant a week long paid cruise,” she said sweetly. She moved back around to her potions and assorted tubes, pulled out a bag and unrolled it. Clear plastic pouches with assorted paintbrushes, small and large powder containers, tubes of bright color, pencils, and beige creams stretched out before him.
Chris thought again about Vin, this time carrying a lady’s makeup case and sporting a pair of commando boots under a long flowing dress. The image didn’t compute and only made the reality that Chris was stuck with the role ever more apparent. “Fuck.”
“You don’t know how to put on makeup, do you?” Pity softened her voice. “First disguise?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Chris said. Sick coldness hit the pit of his stomach. The base of his skull throbbed at the four-foot display. God, he so didn’t want to do this.
“C’mon, I’ll show you. But first you have to strip and put that on, and then we gotta do something about those eyebrows.” She turned her back in a show of privacy and God help him, Chris stepped toward the dungeon of scented, color-coordinated hell.
Chapter Two
Fucking panties did bind, damn it. Or it could have been the hosiery trucking up his ass, and whichever sadist had fucking invented the bra was going to see a slow, painful death right after Chris had a chance to soak his cramped toes.
A couple of moving grunts wheezed by with the last few pieces of furniture. Chris tried not to reach between his ass cheeks and yank out the offending fabric. Being ladylike sucked. His ass would be chafed before the end of the day, and any prospect of sex would have to be avoided at the risk of additional irritation. Ass-burn wasn’t a pleasant prospect.
Which reminded him: He owed Vin for the fucking Brazilian bikini wax which still had him straddling ice packs whenever he had a chance to sit. That shit was just mean.
“I told ya you’d look good in pink,” Vin said.
Chris glared up at him. “Seriously? You’re going to start this now?”
“Pitch that a little higher, honey, you’re sounding hoarse.”
“Okay, let’s start it then,” Chris snarled. He shot a look around quickly taking stock of who’d get to see this next little stunt and how loudly he had to project his voice.
Vin’s eyes narrowed.
Swinging his cheap Gucci knock-off and smacking Vin in the chest, Chris screeched feminine outrage. “How dare you? We haven’t even moved in and you’re already calling your girlfriend on my cell phone! You are a piece of work, Vinny. How do you expect us to make a fresh start when you can’t leave the old life behind?”
Chris smacked him again and again until finally the baggie filled with oregano he’d been trying to dislodge flew out of the purse and landed on the sidewalk.
“Vinny?” Vin growled under his breath.
“You said I was special. You said I was the only one for you. But you think I’m fa-fa-faaaaaat!” Chris dropped his arms limply and began to wail dramatically.