Page 11 of Undercover Star
"So I see." The man wasn't smiling. He never was. He checked the cabinet was closed and nothing was missing. He didn't question them. Or their right to be where they were.
"Are all the staff here like this?"
"Can't answer that one. I've only been here a handful of times. When it isn't gala night, the staff are well-nigh invisible. When it's gala night... I think it's an event management company staffing the place. The catering isn't done in-house. I know that for a fact."
"How?"
"When you have to attend functions as part of your job, you quickly learn who makes the canapés." And what was it about Josh's soft laugh that lifted his spirits? "Do you really think your thief will be here?"
"I should think so. I was worried he'd already beaten us to it, but coming here during the gala is so much easier than having to break in."
"You think he could have?"
Matisse's question had been idle curiosity. He'd not been prepared for Josh's mien turning to stone and his warm chocolate gaze cooling to ice. "Without breaking a sweat."
Chapter Four
"This jacket is tootight." Josh jerked his shoulders from side to side in a bid to escape the constricting fabric. He stood in a room behind a door labelledWardrobe. One look at the rows of clothes on racks, and the shelves brimming with a huge assortment of shoes, hats, belts, and assorted accessories, and Josh decided thatwarehousewas a better description. The place was presided over by Lynn, Matisse's red-haired stylist, who'd torn a strip off him the first time they'd met. She'd been marginally more friendly when Matisse had ushered him in. She'd looked him up and down, had taken an insane number of measurements, and then had thrown a shirt and this appalling jacket at him, telling him to get dressed. It seemed the woman was a tyrant.
"Really. I need this a size bigger."
"Did I measure you or didn't I?" Lynn regarded him, hands on her hips, eyes flashing. The woman was tiny, but she had fire. "Are you telling me I don't know how to do my job?"
"No." He sighed. "It's just...."
"It's just what?"
"I cannot move in this jacket. Which means it's too tight."
"It means, Detective Inspector, that you have no idea what you're talking about. This is a fitted tux, and it fits you to a T."
"So why does it feel as if it's trying to strangle me?"
"Because you're used to throwing on clothes at random. And like most men, you wear yours a size too large."
"Not his jeans, he doesn't." Josh spun and found Matisse leaning in the doorway, jeans unbuttoned, arms crossed over his bare chest, and nothing but malicious amusement on his face. "His jeans are perfect."
