Davis,” Nattie pushed a set of keys and a brochure across her desk, “I want you in the executive apartments for your next assignment. I’m sure you’re tired of living out of a suitcase.”
Dammit. I loved the Bellissimo.
She caught my look. “Don’t worry,” she laughed. “I can assure you that you’ll be back in the hotel soon enough. For now though,” she said, “we’ll do the apartment. I’ll have it set up for you by Tuesday afternoon, and I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
“See you then, Natalie.”
But at the strike of noon on Monday, not Wednesday, I parked the Bug in the parking garage for casino patrons, then hiked the mile to George. I had zero intention of spending my non-working hours under Bellissimo surveillance if I could help it, and now that I had my own paycheck, I came back early to find my own apartment.
I was weaving in and out of the landscaping, taking the exterior shortcut to the VIP entrance when my twin exited the building through the gold doors.
I was fifty feet away, between Southern oaks wearing thick capes of Spanish moss, about to step onto the sidewalk, when I heard someone say Mrs. Sanders .
My head snapped up and my feet quit working.
This was Bianca Casimiro Sanders? I caught my breath, my mouth hung wide open, my heart stopped beating, and I couldn’t have looked away if the trees I stood between had burst into infernos. I almost passed out. There was no doubt in my mind we’d been poured from the same mold. We were double whammies. She was me on my forty-sixth interview for this job: the blonde wig, the green contacts. I remembered Natalie taking all those pictures. I remembered Mr. Sanders looking at them when he interviewed me. They knew we looked alike!
I didn’t sit down so much as fall down on the hard cold ground. I’m pretty sure I still hadn’t taken a breath.
The thing about her husband, Richard Sanders, is that he was so perfectly accidental, as if no part of what made him tick was an effort. His wife Bianca Casimiro Sanders, the woman in front of me, was the opposite. Her jaw, a perfect replica of mine, was set in stone. Her entourage, a black-suited human cocoon, gave her two feet all the way around and looked straight ahead or at the ground, not at her.
And get this: to compensate for her stature, which was within a whisper of my own, she was wearing what had to be eight-inch heels. Stilettos peeked out from under the pelts of several hundred small animals sacrificed, I bet, just for her. Her blonde twist-up do was pulled back so severely it made my temples hurt.
The ocean quieted, the air stood still, and traffic at the VIP entrance, creature and otherwise, came to a dead standstill as her team escorted her to a black stretch limo. A Louis Vuitton trunk was carefully loaded into the back, accompanied by several matching bags.
Mrs. Sanders was on the move, and so, apparently, was my driver.
Of all things, George, who I would swear hadn’t gone anywhere the entire month of January except when I begged him to, took off after the limo. All kinds of questions raced through my mind. Was George some sort of covert tail on the boss’s wife? Was she the reason he parked three blocks away from everything? Another huge question: How in hell was I supposed to go apartment hunting without my driver? I can barely navigate the four roads in Pine Apple after having trod them my entire life. If left on my own here, I’d wind up in Texas by the end of the day.
I was having trouble processing it all, so I stayed on the cold hard ground watching the entourage pull out, including my ride, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal, all the while contemplating the largest curiosity of them all: was I a stunt double (whammy!) for the boss’s wife?
“Davis.”
I screamed.
Natalie’s voice was cool. “I thought we said Wednesday.”
I stammered a few syllables that came out, “Ya, ya, daaa.”
“Get your things,” she said. “Come with
Dammit. I loved the Bellissimo.
She caught my look. “Don’t worry,” she laughed. “I can assure you that you’ll be back in the hotel soon enough. For now though,” she said, “we’ll do the apartment. I’ll have it set up for you by Tuesday afternoon, and I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
“See you then, Natalie.”
But at the strike of noon on Monday, not Wednesday, I parked the Bug in the parking garage for casino patrons, then hiked the mile to George. I had zero intention of spending my non-working hours under Bellissimo surveillance if I could help it, and now that I had my own paycheck, I came back early to find my own apartment.
I was weaving in and out of the landscaping, taking the exterior shortcut to the VIP entrance when my twin exited the building through the gold doors.
I was fifty feet away, between Southern oaks wearing thick capes of Spanish moss, about to step onto the sidewalk, when I heard someone say Mrs. Sanders .
My head snapped up and my feet quit working.
This was Bianca Casimiro Sanders? I caught my breath, my mouth hung wide open, my heart stopped beating, and I couldn’t have looked away if the trees I stood between had burst into infernos. I almost passed out. There was no doubt in my mind we’d been poured from the same mold. We were double whammies. She was me on my forty-sixth interview for this job: the blonde wig, the green contacts. I remembered Natalie taking all those pictures. I remembered Mr. Sanders looking at them when he interviewed me. They knew we looked alike!
I didn’t sit down so much as fall down on the hard cold ground. I’m pretty sure I still hadn’t taken a breath.
The thing about her husband, Richard Sanders, is that he was so perfectly accidental, as if no part of what made him tick was an effort. His wife Bianca Casimiro Sanders, the woman in front of me, was the opposite. Her jaw, a perfect replica of mine, was set in stone. Her entourage, a black-suited human cocoon, gave her two feet all the way around and looked straight ahead or at the ground, not at her.
And get this: to compensate for her stature, which was within a whisper of my own, she was wearing what had to be eight-inch heels. Stilettos peeked out from under the pelts of several hundred small animals sacrificed, I bet, just for her. Her blonde twist-up do was pulled back so severely it made my temples hurt.
The ocean quieted, the air stood still, and traffic at the VIP entrance, creature and otherwise, came to a dead standstill as her team escorted her to a black stretch limo. A Louis Vuitton trunk was carefully loaded into the back, accompanied by several matching bags.
Mrs. Sanders was on the move, and so, apparently, was my driver.
Of all things, George, who I would swear hadn’t gone anywhere the entire month of January except when I begged him to, took off after the limo. All kinds of questions raced through my mind. Was George some sort of covert tail on the boss’s wife? Was she the reason he parked three blocks away from everything? Another huge question: How in hell was I supposed to go apartment hunting without my driver? I can barely navigate the four roads in Pine Apple after having trod them my entire life. If left on my own here, I’d wind up in Texas by the end of the day.
I was having trouble processing it all, so I stayed on the cold hard ground watching the entourage pull out, including my ride, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal, all the while contemplating the largest curiosity of them all: was I a stunt double (whammy!) for the boss’s wife?
“Davis.”
I screamed.
Natalie’s voice was cool. “I thought we said Wednesday.”
I stammered a few syllables that came out, “Ya, ya, daaa.”
“Get your things,” she said. “Come with
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