Carlota knew she was taking a horrible chance doing this, but the game had finally matured, and she wanted to run a few noses into things. Not enough to get caught, but sufficient to remind the men in the fancy suits behind heavy desks that they should have listened to her.
Gods, that metaphorical pat on the head by the Administrator of the Bureau on that last day.
Walking across the casino floor, she remembered every bit of it with a rage that almost felt like she should catch fire.
Grendel Montague—what a name—sitting behind his desk scowling at her.
“Rojas, I’ve called you in here because I’m getting reports that you’re unhappy, down in Recordkeeping,” he’d said to her.
Even today, she could still smell that tacky aftershave his stupid wife had bought for him for some holiday. The man wore it everywhere, reminding her of cheap tarts sitting in windows with red lights on, passing the time and catcalling sailors walking by.
And his suit had been let out just about as far as it could, and that still hadn’t been enough. Should have tossed it and bought a new wardrobe. The man had the money. Either that or he should have started enforcing those same standards on himself that everyone else had to meet at least semi-annually.
But she’d sat, primly, hands clasped on her knee. Carlota had even happened to be wearing a long dress that day, like some soap opera housewife who had wandered into the wrong scene by accident during live filming, leaving everyone to improvise.
She was an expert at improv. One had to be when people around you had pistols aimed in your general direction.
“Has there been any complaints about my work, sir?” she’d asked him, dark brown eyes aimed like deadly weapons at the man.
Physically, Carlota was blessed, at least in certain ways. Slightly better than average looks. Nothing that would stop traffic. Nothing memorable. Brown hair nearly white now if she let the roots go. Dark eyes. Dark brown skin that almost made her look Aquitainian compared to others.
Invisible. Bad when trying to work in sales. Perfect in espionage.
“Your work has been spotless, Rojas,” Montague groused at her, leaned back and playing with a pen like a miniature baton. “Frankly, it’s your attitude.”
“Sir?”
“Bureau psychologists don’t think you should be in the field, Rojas,” he said, leaning forward to put a hand down firmly. Like squishing her to the desk in his mind.
“And I believe you are all wrong, Administrator,” Carlota replied with a petite smile and the slightest twist of her head.
Montague shuddered under her assault, possibly without even realizing what or why.
She was good at that. Getting inside a man’s mind and planting suggestions.
Montague was just too bullheaded to allow her any leverage.
It didn’t help that he had spent most of this meeting staring at her tits instead of her eyes.
I have a face, you asshole.
But he hadn’t listened.
“Well, my decision is final, Rojas,” he’d growled finally. “You need to get with the boat, or get off it.”
She’d considered her options. They’d offered her a medical pension. Nothing great, but she had funds hidden in various banks and other places.
“That’s it?” she’d asked.
“That’s it, Rojas.”
“In that case, my resignation will be on your desk this afternoon, Administrator,” she’d said.
And walked out.
And done some things that they wouldn’t catch until later.
And resigned.
Had an entire year passed?
Carlota had been watching the casino floor as she moved through the crowd like a tide ebbing and flowing around her. Tonight, she’d dressed in a long, silk sheath in light green that was off one shoulder, sliced nearly to the other thigh, and seemed to be hung slightly askew. Across her body instead of along it.
Her tan was perfect.
As with Montague, many of the men never made it far enough up to see she had a face, studying the tantalizing bits she was displaying. Her bra pushed her breasts up and fuller than normal, just to accentuate things. Her long legs ended in stiletto heels nearly twelve centimeters long, making her the equal of most men and taller than many.
She approached a sour-faced man behind a lectern, guarding a closed door near a corner of the game floor. He wore a suit off the rack that hadn’t been tailored, so she marked him as an employee of the casino.
“Tamblin Bernard,” she said a little breathlessly as she got close enough to speak over the quiet roar of machines and conversations behind her. She even leaned forward a little to draw his eyes down. Worked like a charm. “I’m on your list.”
“Do you have your invitation?” he asked in a grumpy, bored tone, not even enthusiastic enough to ogle her.
Carlota wasn’t sure if she should be insulted or not. Certainly, the man wouldn’t remember much of her later, when asked by folks no doubt busy chasing her.
Carlota sighed in a way that literally heaved her bosom at the man. Rolled her eyes just a little to get into the character of a put-upon princess.
Then she got mean.
Carlota turned slightly, presenting the right leg, the one that was open to nearly her hip so the man could see it. She even pulled the front back like a curtain displaying her lovely leg.
And the bridal garter she wore around her perfectly-smooth thigh.
That got his eyes bulging a little. And a few pedestrians with the amazing luck to be walking nearby at the right moment.
Carlota removed the invitation card from the garter and looked at it for a moment. No larger than a standard business card, printed on exceptionally heavy stock and hand-printed in the name of the person she was playing tonight as she’d wandered onto somebody else’s set.
The garter on her left thigh had a small knife tucked in on the inside, out of sight, razor sharp on both edges and perfectly balanced for throwing, if necessary.
It had been years since she’d needed it as anything but a conversation piece in a seduction.
As Tamblin Bernard, she handed the card to the man, not bothering to close up the possible view of heaven that held his attention.
Leg man. Good to know.
Men were visual creatures. Useful intelligence to learn what this one’s triggers were.
He made a point of checking the card against a clipboard that he’d had hidden inside the lectern. Smiled at her. Handed it back without losing the smile.
Carlota rewarded him by replacing it where it had been.
Letting him see something he’d never get a chance to touch, as it were.
There must be a buzzer somewhere that she’d missed, because the door behind the man opened now and a tiny woman in a painful-looking black and red corset opened it and bowed to her.
“This way, madame,” she said.
Carlota followed her through the door, into the back rooms where the big pots occurred.
The game had gotten a little tame. A little stale.
Carlota needed to stir things up again.