Still, something was wrong and she meant to find out what.
An uninterrupted hour with Father Ruger, thats all she needed. A soul-searching session with her brother to assure her that all was wellthat their secret was safe.
The elevator continued on its way into the underbelly of the Vysehrad Museum. Thats where EURO-Quest had been conducting its secret intelligence operations for the past ten years. Where femmes fatales such as herself were trained to their fullest potential according to their expertise.
She shrugged off her wool cape, and thats when she saw the fat wrinkle blazing a path across the front of her thighs. How it had gotten there, she had no clue. She studied it for a moment and decided she looked like shed slept on a bar stool all night.
She hadnt.
Shed gone to bed on time.
Only she hadnt fallen asleep right away. Shed gotten caught up in all the possible reasons why Ruger had stopped writing. She had succumbed to exhaustion, only to awaken hours later and realize shed slept straight through her alarm.
Nadja slapped at the wrinkle, then swore when it sprang back into place as if it was spring-loaded. Facing the mirror that decorated one wall inside the elevator, she looked for a way to camouflage the wrinkle. If she dropped her hand just so, when she walked into the meeting room, maybe she could conceal it.
She went through the motions as she studied her white blouse and black jacket.
The blouse looked good.
Her jacketwas missing a gold button.
It suddenly occurred to her why this particular suit looked so awful. It was the one shed intended to drop off at the cleaners.
Shit.
She dropped her cape to the floor, swearing three more times before pinching her briefcase between her knees to peel off her jacket. Briefcase back in hand, she draped the jacket over her arm to hide the wrinkle, then examined herself once more in the mirror.
Better, but
She gathered her blond hair into one hand and pulled it back from her face. Wishing she hadnt overslept, disgusted that she had no clip to make even a bare-bones improvement where her hair was concerned, she dropped her hand and shook out the mass.
Her hair wasnt the worst of it. Her eyes were bloodshot. Glasses would disguise her lack of sleep and lack of makeupthere simply had been no time for eyelashes and lipstick.
Not even time to pee.
Again she pinched her briefcase between her knees in search of the reading glasses she kept in her jacket pocket. Of course they werent thereit was the wrong suit jacket. Angry with herself, she grabbed the briefcase unaware the metal clasp had caught on her silk stockings. When she felt the unmistakable tug, she glanced down to see a large hole circling her knee.
In a matter of minutes the elevator would stop, the doors would open and she would be greeted by two in-house agents. Kimball and Moor had squarish faces, pug noses and no sense of humor. But then, why would agent hopefuls who had fallen short be in a good mood? Ever.
The butlers, as Nadja called them, would flank her as she left the elevator and doggedly escort her to the conclave where Pasha Lenova and Casmir Balasithe other two agents vying for the Austrian assignmentwould already be waiting.
As stringent as Polax was about being punctual, he was twice as neurotic about professional neatness. Which meant arriving late looking like shed been on an all-night bender would definitely get her a look, but not the job or a trip to Austria.
She would be skipped over in favor of Pashas promptness, orshe glanced down at the fat wrinkle tracking her thighs, then the hole that had targeted her kneeCasmirs flair for always looking like she stepped off a Paris runway.
She dropped her briefcase to the floor, pulled off her boots and jerked her skirt high. It would take only a second to unhook her stockings from her garter belt. No one in the business could get in and out of their clothes faster than Quests bedroom assassin.
Nadja Stefn had the best hands in the business.
The sexy garter belt was red, the flat-screen monitors in Polaxs office recreational size.
After studying the first two Quest agents on the monitor as they entered the elevator, Bjorn Odell had slid his ass onto the corner of Polaxs desk to watch the third, and final, candidate. She was late, and Polax had pissed and moaned about that for the entire twelve minutes.
Arms crossed over his chest, Bjorn watched as the brown-eyed blond peeled off her silk stockings and dropped them to the floor next to her briefcase. He put to memory every detail of her performance. Studied every move she made, every article of clothing on the floor and left on her body.
The Italian-leather holster strapped to her thigh was also bad-girl red. Inside was the prettiest pearl-handled mini-compact .45 Springfield hed ever seen. The Springfield was a dandya one-of-a-kind, just like the femme who owned it.
She had long thoroughbred legs and beautiful thighs.
Satin-smooth skin.
The sweetest ass in PragueBjorn would wager his own concealed 380 Beretta Cheetah on that.