get me ready.”
“Aye, sir.” Garrett snapped a salute.
“And what about me?” Rosa asked.
He looked down at her. “If you think you’re coming, you need to look the part. It’s going to be difficult enough convincing the doormen to let us through as it is.”
“Take Perry,” Garrett added blandly. “You may have to show her what a dress is.”
Perry’s sudden glare was one step short of murder. “I hope you choke on your cologne,” she snarled, stalking toward the door and grabbing Rosa by the arm.
Through the door, Lynch barked orders, snapping one last briefing to his men. Rosalind took a deep breath, smoothing the trim skirts over her hips. The gown fit almost too snugly, her breasts threatening to spill over the top of the peach-colored silk’s square neckline. Bands of chocolate brown chenille passementerie foliage trimmed the neckline and the soft drapes of her skirt. A cream foile hip scarf spilled to the ground behind her, making a rustling sound every time she moved.
Perry raked her with an experienced eye. “You’ll do. Turn around.”
Perry herself was almost unrecognizable. Gone was the cold-faced woman in harsh black leather with her pomaded hair. Instead, a white ostrich feather danced in her hair, the curls of the black wig trailing over her shoulder. She wore red silk, the bias-cut panels of the bodice creating slight curves out of the woman’s slender figure. An underskirt of Point d’Angleterre lace peeked out from beneath the drape of her train, and she wore pearls wrapped thrice around her throat. Rosalind knew all of this, because Perry had explained it in quite explicit detail while they raided the French couturier that afternoon. One flash of Perry’s leathers and the madame had been most accommodating, no doubt for fear of incurring the wrath of the Nighthawks.
A strip of black velvet ribbon circled Rosalind’s throat and Perry tied it. A single teardrop-shaped pearl hung from the center, warming against her skin.
“Lynch is going to have an apoplexy,” Perry muttered with a nasty smile as Rosalind stared into the cheval mirror.
“You’re very good at this,” Rosalind noted, meeting the other woman’s eyes in the mirror.
“I prefer to wear pants. It doesn’t mean I don’t know what a dress is for.”
“I wear dresses,” Rosalind pointed out. “And I don’t know what half of this is called.” She pointed at the lacy frill that draped her shoulder.
“Do you know how to use a knife?” Perry asked, ignoring the question in her words.
“Better than I know how to use that fan.”
“This?” Perry grabbed the fan off the bed with a sharp flick of her wrist. The copper-plated blades fanned out, creating a deadly half circle that looked like it could be thrown.
For the first time that afternoon, Rosalind leaned forward in interest. “Are the edges sharp?”
“Sharp enough to shave with,” Perry replied, folding it back into itself. She hung it from her own wrist and took a small six-inch shape off the bed. “This is a bodice dagger.” Drawing the small blade from its velvet sheath, Perry flipped it in her fingers with a dexterity Rosalind almost envied. “Do you want it?”
Rosalind nodded and accepted the blade, tucking it between the fine boning of her corset, the handle sitting snugly between her breasts.
“And this”—Perry grabbed a thin shiv off the bed—“is designed to be worn in the hair. See how the handle is ornamental?”
“Very pretty.”
Perry grinned, handing it toward her hilt first. “Don’t let Lynch lure you into any dark corners. He might cut his fingers off by the time I’m through with you.”
Rosalind glanced at her beneath her lashes. She was almost starting to like the other woman. “I thought he looked more likely to throttle me.”
“Interesting. I was expecting you to deny it.”
“Black suits you, my lord.”
The sultry voice came from behind. Lynch’s fingers jerked on his cuff links and he turned around…then stopped.
Rosa sauntered down the staircase, fanning herself with a scrap of white lace as her skirts trailed behind her. His breathing quickened. Hell. Someone had poured her into that dress. If she took a sharp breath buttons were going to suddenly become a fatal hail around her.
His gaze dipped. Buttons trailed down the nipped in waist of her gown and vanished into the gauzy fabric bunching at her waist. He couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, an image of her clever little fingers working on similar buttons springing to mind.
“You look like your collar’s too tight.” A little smile flickered over her lips as she reached up and gently toyed with the white bow tie around his throat.
“You look amazing.” His gaze dropped again, a faint darkening shadowing the edges of his vision. Every man at the opera was going to be staring at her…buttons.
“Don’t scowl.” Rosa’s smile faded, her fingers lingering on his collar for longer than was appropriate. She stared at his throat, a small hint of nervousness flickering through those dark eyes. “I want you to be careful tonight, sir.”
The thought that she was worried about
Slowly her hands slid down to his chest, resting lightly against the lapels of his coat as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to stop touching him.
“Rosa,” he murmured.
Her dark lashes fluttered against her smooth cheeks and those luminous eyes hit him with all the power of a punch.
“Rosa, I wanted—”
“Don’t.” A bleak word. Her gaze dropped, her hands fluttering helplessly against his chest. “Please, don’t.”
Light gleamed over the coppery shine of her hair. Lynch took a deep breath, drawing in the lemony scent of her as he closed his eyes. He felt as if they stood alone, the world a thousand miles away. Silence fell over them like a mantle, and he simply listened to the soft sigh of her breathing, the racing, throbbing beat of her heart… The sound of it was its own form of communication and he felt it echo deep within his chest.
Reaching out, he traced his fingertips over her lips. He’d sworn he wouldn’t do this. It would only hurt her if he failed at his task tonight, yet he was as helpless as a moth drawn to flame. Slowly his head lowered, his forehead leaning against the soft silk of her hair. He could taste her breath between them and as she shifted, her own face lifting ever so slightly, he felt the stir of it against his own lips.
Lynch couldn’t move, couldn’t press closer. Instead he lingered, drawing her breath into his lungs, where it belonged. Feeling her so deep inside him, as if she had wrapped chains around his heart and bound them together.
Rosa tilted her face, a soft whimper sounding in her throat. Her mouth brushed his. Once. Twice. Silk rasping over his sensitive lips. His hands fisted at his sides and he brought them up, stroking the backs of his knuckles against the velvety skin of her jaw.
Again their mouths brushed against each other, more of an inhale than a kiss. Rosa’s body surrendered to his, her hips pressing hard against his thighs. Yet despite the softness of her body, her hands still curled around his lapels as if she was afraid to let go entirely.
“Be careful tonight,” he whispered, tracing her mouth with the words. “I could not bear to see you hurt.”
