“She’s your depilatory and image specialist.” The sector head’s chuckling amusement had Chris squinting at the girl.

“My what?” Chris asked.

“She’s your wax and buffer, moron.” Vin gave the girl a broad wink. “Give him a Brazilian. It’s critical to the case.”

“A what?” Chris repeated lamely.

“Yes, sir,” she said, smiling through an impressive blush.

“We should leave, Vin. Tarpington has some work to finish before you move in tomorrow.” The Chief circled the table and herded Vin out.

“You should wear pink. It’ll look great with your coloring,” Vin threw over his shoulder as he strode from the room.

Chris watched, transfixed at the swaggering, shoulder swinging harmony of Vin’s powerful body in motion. Agents and office staff cleared the way for him, unconsciously giving him a respectful berth.

“Yep,” the sector head said, coming up beside Chris. “Classy, Tarp. Less than ten minutes with your new partner and you let him take you up against a wall. Now you’re exchanging grooming advice. I’d say you lost that battle.”

“Fuck off,” Chris snarled.

The standard friendly razzing scraped a little too close to the truth. He’d never disclosed his sexual orientation-not the agency’s business-but being up against a wall with Vin didn’t sound like such a bad idea. His adrenaline was still pumping after their zinging exchange.

He laughed, clapping Chris on the back like they mutually shared the joke. “Make sure she gives you mace. Three weeks without rowdy sex and a guy like that might come looking for it under your skirt.”

Chris shot him a baleful look. “Three weeks without sex and I’ll be hitting up one of the druggy housewives for sex. Vin can fend for himself,” he said with a smirk, playing into the expected locker-room talk.

“Just remember that one’s a detective. If you put up a fight, he might use his cuffs on you.”

“Damn, boss, it’s an op, not prison. The wife isn’t putting out anymore?”

Jennings ’ smile faltered. “Yaste tell you that? Shit. Get the fuck outta my sight and do whatever she tells you,” he said, cocking his head toward the woman who had begun setting up tubes and lotions on the conference room table.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris muttered.

The woman stepped around Chris and shut the door. She handed him a thin cotton dressing gown. “Here ya go,” she said, trying not to crack a smile. “They told me to tell you that the rest of your wardrobe will be on site when you arrive. But before you get there, we have some work to do on you.”

He stared at the gold and green, sixties inspired cloth with huge daisy print. He flicked a gaze to the woman who no longer tried to suppress her amusement. “You telling me you’d wear this thing?” he asked.

“Not even if it meant a week long paid cruise,” she said sweetly. She moved back around to her potions and assorted tubes, pulled out a bag and unrolled it. Clear plastic pouches with assorted paintbrushes, small and large powder containers, tubes of bright color, pencils, and beige creams stretched out before him.

Chris thought again about Vin, this time carrying a lady’s makeup case and sporting a pair of commando boots under a long flowing dress. The image didn’t compute and only made the reality that Chris was stuck with the role ever more apparent. “Fuck.”

“You don’t know how to put on makeup, do you?” Pity softened her voice. “First disguise?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Chris said. Sick coldness hit the pit of his stomach. The base of his skull throbbed at the four-foot display. God, he so didn’t want to do this.

“C’mon, I’ll show you. But first you have to strip and put that on, and then we gotta do something about those eyebrows.” She turned her back in a show of privacy and God help him, Chris stepped toward the dungeon of scented, color-coordinated hell.

Chapter Two

Fucking panties did bind, damn it. Or it could have been the hosiery trucking up his ass, and whichever sadist had fucking invented the bra was going to see a slow, painful death right after Chris had a chance to soak his cramped toes.

A couple of moving grunts wheezed by with the last few pieces of furniture. Chris tried not to reach between his ass cheeks and yank out the offending fabric. Being ladylike sucked. His ass would be chafed before the end of the day, and any prospect of sex would have to be avoided at the risk of additional irritation. Ass-burn wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

Which reminded him: He owed Vin for the fucking Brazilian bikini wax which still had him straddling ice packs whenever he had a chance to sit. That shit was just mean.

“I told ya you’d look good in pink,” Vin said.

Chris glared up at him. “Seriously? You’re going to start this now?”

“Pitch that a little higher, honey, you’re sounding hoarse.”

“Okay, let’s start it then,” Chris snarled. He shot a look around quickly taking stock of who’d get to see this next little stunt and how loudly he had to project his voice.

Vin’s eyes narrowed.

Swinging his cheap Gucci knock-off and smacking Vin in the chest, Chris screeched feminine outrage. “How dare you? We haven’t even moved in and you’re already calling your girlfriend on my cell phone! You are a piece of work, Vinny. How do you expect us to make a fresh start when you can’t leave the old life behind?”

Chris smacked him again and again until finally the baggie filled with oregano he’d been trying to dislodge flew out of the purse and landed on the sidewalk.

“Vinny?” Vin growled under his breath.

“You said I was special. You said I was the only one for you. But you think I’m fa-fa-faaaaaat!” Chris dropped his arms limply and began to wail dramatically.

“Oh, shit,” Vin said, his eyes as huge as saucers. “Shh! Hey, cut that out.”

“You said you liked my body but, but, but, but you lied.” Chris resumed smacking Vin’s chest, head, arms, anything he could reach with the ridiculous handbag. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the mover picking up the baggie and two women whispering over their fences nearby.

Vin looked about wildly, alternately ducking and trying to shush him.

Chris wailed louder. “Why don’t you love me anymore? Haven’t I given you everything? Don’t I go down on you whenever you want? Even when you ask me to do those nasty, nasty things, don’t I do them?”

“Shh! Yeah, baby, you do all that.” Vin held out his hands placating.

The bigger man’s hunched shoulders and panicked expression only fired Chris’ drama.

“And that time you begged me to put on the diaper and clown mask, you said no one had ever done that for you before.” Chris turned to the chuckling movers with tearful eyes. He gasped sharply. “Vinny! They’ve got my oregano! Vinny, make them give it back! I can’t make your lasagna without the oregano.”

“It’s okay, baby, I’ll get it back. I swear.” Vin turned and leveled a look at the mover with the baggie. “My wife wants her oregano. Now!” he thundered.

The hapless man tossed the bag into the air. Vin caught it and shoved it at Chris.

Nice save, Chris thought.

“Now, Christy baby, say you won’t leave me over a little call.”

Chris blinked, searched for something to harp on and came up dry. He sniffled instead. “Oh look, my mascara is going to run.”

“It’s okay. You look great. I think you’re sexy when you get jealous.” Vin said, a toothy grin mischievously split his lips.

“You don’t think I’m fat?” Chris wheedled.

“No, baby. You’re sexy as hell.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah, baby.” Vin gently cupped Chris’ hips and drew him closer. Close enough that Chris could see the way Vin flicked glances around them instead of looking at him. “Don’t like those wimpy, flabby chicks. I like the way you give as good as you get.”

Interesting. How far could he push Vin?

“Oh, Vinny,” Chris sighed. Then with a wicked grin of his own, Chris threw his arms around him. “Kiss me.”

Vin’s nostrils flared and his icy gaze locked on Chris’ uncertainly. Chris tightened his smile and fluttered his lashes in challenge. He knew the moment Vin committed by the steely determination in his crystalline gaze and the half-quirk of his lips as he accepted.

He descended, swooping down to take Chris’ lips in heated assault. Firm and full, they crashed against his. Day-end whiskers prickled the outer rim of Chris’ mouth. Strands of hair from the wig stuck like loose netting on Chris’ perfectly applied lip-gloss, distracting but not creating any resistance. Chris’ lungs expanded sharply yet the air he breathed saturated his senses with a hint of mint and oak. Only enough to make him wish he could breath deeper still. His stomach plummeted, or soared, or both, and deep rolling tingles engulfed unsuspecting nerves in his pelvis.

Whistles and hoots from the movers filtered through the roar of blood in his ears.

When Vin’s tongue swept into his mouth, Chris’ knees weakened. He blamed the damn heels-oh holy hell, his dick was on fire!

Oblivious to the pain, Vin’s fingers tightened on Chris’ hips, dragging him forward. In defense, Chris pushed at Vin’s chest.

“Stop,” Chris gasped for only them to hear. Groin burning, he clutched the front of Vin’s shirt to hold himself steady. The pain lingered-none too subtle proof that his restricted junk didn’t take kindly to stimulation.

“Your dare,” Vin reminded.

“My rules,” Chris finished, still wincing. Damn that man. He can fucking kiss.

“You look pale,” Vin said, holding him as he ducked to see Chris’ face.

Onlookers would see it as a lover’s embrace. Chris tipped his head aside. It would be a cold day in hell before he let the guy see how badly he wanted to continue that kiss. But maybe next time without restricted blood flow to vital parts of his anatomy. Shit, that hurt!