Read Online Vision Impossible by Victoria Laurie - Free Book Online Page B

silver tie.
    I was dressed in my new “uniform”: a low-cut cashmere cream sweater that fit like a second skin, black leggings, and thigh-high boots. Also, “the ladies” had been pushed up, pushed out, and crowded with foam to enhance their voluptuousness. They were now protesting mightily. I couldn’t wait to get to the condo and take off my bra. I also couldn’t wait to take off my blond wig, which kept getting in my eyes and itched something fierce.
    My engagement ring had been stuffed into the bottom of my purse, and my left ring finger felt naked without it.
    I stuck close to Dutch as we deplaned and went through customs. I flashed my new passport and a smile, but the agent was far more interested in my chest. He sent me through with barely a look at my face to confirm the photo in the passport.
    I waited for Dutch, but he’d been pulled to the side. I knew he was using his fake Dutch passport, and I could see him talking calmly to the customs agents as they asked him a variety of questions. Finally, one of them made a phone call and without further delay he was allowed through.
    When we were out of the customs agents’ hearing range, I asked him, “What was that about?”
    “The CIA warned me that Des Vries’s name might cause some issues, but they also assured me that the Canadian government is cooperating with our investigation, as long as we keep a very low profile, that is.”
    “Hence the quick release once they made the phone call.”
    “Exactly.”
    After getting our luggage and finding our way via cab to Des Vries’s condo, we had a little trouble with the key card the agency had provided Dutch to enter the building, but a helpful doorman came to our rescue. He took one look at Dutch and said, “Welcome home, Mr. Des Vries! I’m Daniel, your new doorman.”
    Dutch nodded curtly and handed him the faulty key card. “This doesn’t work,” he snapped.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” said the doorman. He rushed behind his desk and rummaged through a drawer, coming up with two new white key cards, which he handed to Dutch. “Those will work in all entrances and exits, and will give you access to the penthouse, sir.”
    Dutch snatched the key cards out of the doorman’s hand without so much as a thank-you.
    I thought he was being a little rude, but then I remembered he was supposed to be an arms dealer who probably didn’t have much of a warm fuzzy side. The doorman smiled brightly, however, and said, “Will you and the lady need assistance with your bags?”
    “No,” Dutch said, walking to the elevator without looking back.
    I couldn’t help it; I smiled apologetically to the doorman and hurried after Dutch, but as my six-inch heels clicked along the slippery floor, I lost my footing and nearly went down. Waving my arms like a pinwheel and making a little “whoop!” sound, I managed to keep myself erect, but was thoroughly flustered by the time I reached Dutch’s side. I didn’t look at him or the doorman; instead I busied myself trying to hike up the boots so the shoes would stay on my feet a little better. While I was bent over and tugging on the leather cuff of the boot, my wig fell off.
    It plopped to the ground and lay there like a big blond rat. I gasped as the cool air hit the back of my scalp, and I looked up at Dutch, who eyed first me with large round eyes, then the doorman, who just happened to see the whole thing and was staring at me also with big Wile E. Coyote barooga eyes.
    “Don’t panic,” Dutch whispered as the elevator doors opened. “Just pick up the wig, tuck yourself back in, and step into the elevator.”
    I could feel my cheeks heat with color and I snatched the hair off the marble floor and dove into the elevator. Mortified, I stood against the wall and stared meanly at Dutch, who inserted his key card, pressed the P for “penthouse,” and did his level best not to laugh. . . . He failed.
    “Ha-ha,” I snapped, watching his shoulders shake as the