Taking another deep breath, he said, “Caterina?”
“Yes?” Her cool, imperious voice floated in.
“How much longer? I may not have mentioned this before, but I’m kind of claustrophobic.” The curtain rattled back and Caterina stood in the doorway, looking at him, as he peered at her from under his knees. He was lucky he’d put his pants on before he sat down.
“Are you all right?” she asked, and although there was still that touch of icy authority in her voice, the place between her brows held a crease, as if she were really concerned.
“Yes, fine.” Rahul sat up and took a shuddering breath.
Caterina turned and spoke, presumably to Oliver. “We’ve had enough. Let’s go with the first tux he tried on; I think that’ll do nicely.”
Rahul stood shakily, grateful that he could leave the tiny coffin of a dressing room. He followed Caterina out as the assistant ran in and began to take the clothes he’d already tried on. (Oliver had insisted Rahul leave them for her; apparently, customers only “ruined the vibe” of CdT by jamming things on racks where they clearly didn’t belong.)
“Oliver, I do like the tux,” Caterina said, once they were at a little seating area made of velvet, fuchsia-colored armchairs. “But…”
Oliver held up a hand. A pinkie ring glinted in the light. “Say no more. There’s something missing.”
Caterina sighed and crossed her legs. “Yes. I’ll be doing his makeup tomorrow, of course, but I have a feeling that’s not going to be enough. Do you have anything else that might help complete his transformation?”
Makeup?? She’d never mentioned makeup before. He had an image of Caterina dusting his face with her glittery powder. No, if she tried that, he’d have to put his foot down. He drew the line at sparkles.
Oliver took his time, tapping his finger against his chin, pacing around the armchairs. And then, finally, he looked up, a small smile on his face. “I have it. Come with me.”
They followed him to the far end of the store, around tiny side tables stacked with old books, tree branches hanging from the ceiling with fishing wire, and even, inexplicably, a giant stuffed tiger (artificial, hopefully) with reindeer antlers on its head. A taxonomist’s nightmare.
Oliver, unbothered by his atrocities against science, went around a large ornate cherrywood desk where he checked out customers. He pulled what looked like a small, squat glass jar from one of the drawers.
“I haven’t had a chance to put this on the floor yet,” he explained, holding the jar in the palm of his hand and extending it toward Rahul. The label was black-and-white, and the wording was in a language Rahul didn’t recognize. For just a moment, the letters appeared to glow as if made from flame. But then Rahul blinked and the effect was gone. Huh. Must be low blood sugar or something.
Oliver continued. “This is a very special hair gel, from a small fishing village in Estonia. I got it from my cousin, who traveled there and met a woman at a night market.” Leaning closer to Rahul, his dark eyes gleaming like wet stone, he added, “They say it’s made from wolfsbane and has magical properties. That it will bring the wearer the ability to disguise himself as whatever his heart desires.”
Setting his palms flat on the desk, Rahul narrowed his eyes. “Wolfsbane is toxic. Why would I want to touch that?”
Oliver laughed, though his face flashed annoyance for a tiny beat. “The toxins have been taken out through a very lengthy process.”
Rahul raised an eyebrow. “What process? Boiling? Or distillation? Or—”
“Does it work?” Caterina interrupted quickly from beside Rahul. “Have you seen it yourself?”
“I have,” Oliver said immediately. “My cousin, he was not a musical man. And yet, once he began to use this…” He shook his head. “I have not seen such ability, not even in the masters. Now he travels the world playing his harmonica for enormous crowds. He won’t go a day without using the gel.”
That was anecdotal evidence, based on nothing more than one man’s experience (if it was even true) as opposed to a controlled, scientific study designed to look at statistically significant trends within populations. Clearly, the story was designed to part Caterina from her money. But before Rahul could open his mouth to say that, Oliver extended the jar toward him again. “Take it as a trial. No charge this time. If it doesn’t work for you, no harm, no foul.” A smile licked across Oliver’s face.
Tucking her hair behind one ear, Caterina spoke. “Well, that’s very generous of you, Oliver. Thank you. We’ll certainly give it a try.” Seeing Rahul’s skeptical face, she narrowed her eyes. “Won’t we?”
“Um, sure. We’ll definitely try it.” He took the jar from Oliver and pocketed it, hoping it wouldn’t cause all his hair to fall out.
“Excellent.” Oliver bowed. “I know you’ll find it… transformational.”
Going bald would be transformational, but Rahul didn’t think he’d say that just now. He had a feeling neither Caterina nor Oliver would be amused. As the assistant packed up the things Caterina had purchased for him, Rahul studied the packages. Caterina was spending a lot of money and time trying to gold-plate his dull exterior. Rahul glanced at her, feeling his heart thrum with nerves. What would happen if he remained stubbornly brass-hued in spite of all her ministrations?
At least you had this time with her, he thought, even if she never speaks to you again. Be grateful for that.
And in spite of the sinking feeling in his heart at the thought of never hearing her say his name again, Rahul promised himself he would be.
CHAPTER 8
CATERINA
Caterina did not like being nervous. It was an odd, uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling, as if an olive pit had gotten lodged in her diaphragm and was waiting to be coughed up. She felt like she couldn’t get a deep-enough breath, even though her custom Balenciaga evening gown was perfectly fitted to her form.
She turned to Rahul in his hotel room in Denver. The Hindman Gala was a mere hour away now, which meant Caterina had exactly sixty minutes to make him presentable. And so far… it wasn’t working.
He stood there before her in the tuxedo that Oliver had so carefully picked out. It was impeccable, as were all of Oliver’s curations. Caterina had purchased all-new designer makeup for his exact skin tone, and that, too, was top-of-the-line. Rahul promised he had freshly washed his hair. She’d gotten him into contacts, even though he insisted stabbing his eye with his finger was completely unnatural. And yet… yet he was still so very Rahul.
Somehow, he managed to make the tux look ill-fitting, even though Oliver had tailored it (at record speed; he was such a lovely person) to suit him. The makeup did accentuate his strong jawline, but his hair refused to cooperate, no matter how much she’d fiddled with it. And it was clear he had no confidence. He kept rubbing his palms on his trousers, though she’d warned him not to about a thousand times so far.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his palms on his trousers again. Caterina stifled a sigh. “I know it isn’t working, but I’m not sure why. Should I stand up straighter?” He adjusted his shoulders, and she could see the reflection of his back in the floor-length mirror behind him. He had a playful whorl in the middle of his head that she hadn’t noticed before; it showed a pale scalp. Not to mention, “playful” was all wrong for the gala.