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The wig shop was empty except for her, Oz, and the saleswoman. Ayla sat in a chair similar to what her hair stylist in LA used. The walls were filled with mannequin heads wearing wigs of different lengths and colors.

“Well?” Oz prompted.

Reluctantly, Ayla looked at her reflection in the mirror in front of her.

Instead of the light brown she’d suggested, Oz had picked a long red wig.

The ginger-copper color complemented her coloring, but it didn’t look like her.

Of course, that was the idea, but, well, red?

“I need a few minutes to get used to it,” she said.

The shop’s phone rang, and the saleswoman excused herself to go answer it.

“What don’t you like about it?” Oz asked.

“It’s so long. The lady said that it’s going to tangle easily.”

“We’ll buy one of those pick combs the shop is selling, and the length helps the disguise. They’ll be looking for someone with shorter hair. You said your sister wears hers the same length as yours.”

“True.” The mention of Io made Ayla’s stomach churn harder. She’d been queasy all day. Her nervousness about her sister’s safety was doing a number on her.

“And?”

She sighed. “It’s heavy, and it’s hot even in this air-conditioned store. And it itches.”

“Any wig is going to be heavy, hot, and itchy.”

“We could dye my hair,” Ayla suggested but regretted it nearly immediately.

Oz shook his head. “Then we’d have to worry about roots showing and we’d still have to get extensions or something to change the length. We don’t want to go shorter because they’ll account for that change. Longer might take them some time to guess.”

Ayla nodded and resigned herself to wearing what felt like a helmet on her head.

The bell on the shop door indicated someone had entered, and Ayla stiffened. Oz moved, putting himself between her and the front of the store, but it only took a moment before he relaxed. It was his friend, the one who was supposed to be helping them.

Baggs came to a stop, stared at her for a moment, and then turned to Oz. “She looks too much like the Nerd with that hair. BD will kill you if she drives trouble in that direction.”

“Shit. You’re right. I was so focused on making her look different that I didn’t consider that. This limits things. No red, no blonde. We’ll have to go brunette.”

“Who’s the nerd?” Ayla asked.

“BD’s fiancée,” Baggs said.

Before Ayla could ask any more questions, the sales clerk returned.

The exchange between Oz and the woman was in rapid-fire Spanish.

She was able to keep up with it now, but she heard Oz ask for dark brown.

That couldn’t be right. With a polite smile, the woman helped her remove the red wig and headed off with it.

Ayla stared at her reflection some more. Her own hair was pinned under a nylon cap banded in some kind of velvety material. She felt self-conscious sitting in front of Oz looking like this, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Pru turn up anything on Fuentes?” he asked, voice soft.

She’d met Pru at dinner last night. Oz had asked him to do some computer searches for Fuentes. If the glowing review he’d given could be believed, the man was a maestro with anything digital.

Baggs shook his head. “He said to tell you that he’s good, but miracles are hard to come by. You didn’t give him much to work with.”

“Yeah.” Oz frowned. “I figured it was a long shot. If Archer didn’t turn up shit, Pru was going to hit dead-ends, too.” He stopped talking abruptly.

The saleswoman returned carrying the same wig but in brunette.

A brunette that was the color of double fudge brownies.

Her eyes went wide. That was too dark for her.

It would completely wash her out and leave her looking like a vampire who hadn’t seen sunlight in six centuries.

Ayla glanced over at Oz, certain he’d say they needed something lighter.

He didn’t. In fact, the man looked pleased.

It was her turn to frown.

Picking up a brush from the faux marble counter in front of Ayla, the clerk carefully ran it through the synthetic tresses, starting at the ends. As she worked, she quizzed Oz about why Ayla needed a wig.

Ayla hid a smile. Yes, let the man explain the wig. Seeing him squirm a little would be worth it. Sure, she’d promised to listen to him, but she hadn’t expected him to disregard everything she said.

Her enjoyment died a quick, horrible death.

It took all of Ayla’s control to contain her shriek of outrage.

Oz, that asshole, told the woman she was the mistress of a man who liked to do cosplay in the bedroom.

His boss was tired of her blonde hair and wanted something drastically different from the same old mistress. Oz and Baggs were her bodyguards.

Ayla gave him her death glare, but he ignored it. His friend looked as if he was trying not to laugh, and as Oz continued embellishing the story, Baggs turned to study a wall of gray-haired wigs. His shoulders shook. At least someone was amused.

The saleswoman continued to brush the wig until Oz finally wound down.

Only then did she carefully place it on Ayla’s head, making minute adjustments until she was satisfied with how it sat.

She added a few strokes with the brush. “What do you think?” she asked in Spanish.

The question was directed at Oz, not her.

While he evaluated the wig, Ayla did the same, staring into the mirror. The color didn’t wash her out as she’d feared, although it was close. One shade darker and she’d look like Morticia Addams from those old movies.

It did drastically change her appearance. If she went a little darker on her makeup, it would alter it even more without looking fake because of the hair color.

Just because Oz was right, though, didn’t mean she was ready to forgive him. Not after spewing that cosplaying mistress bullshit.

“We’ll take it,” Oz said, “and everything she needs to care for it.”

Oz guided Ayla to a table at the café while Baggs went to the counter to get their lunch order.

She remained pissy with him, and he was enjoying it a little too much.

He could have kept the story he told the wig clerk much shorter, but the angrier Ayla became, the more details he added.

There was something about seeing fire in her blue eyes that did it for him.

Since she wasn’t inviting him to share her bed again anytime soon, fury was the best he was getting.

For now.

The square table was in the corner, away from the other customers, and a napkin dispenser sat in the center. He pulled out a chair for her. Ayla looked at him suspiciously before sitting. Oz hid his amusement and took the chair to her left.

With her long dark wig, new makeup, and changed clothing, she didn’t resemble her usual self.

It had been a struggle to outfit her. Her business casual look was out and her sister was into comfort and athletic leisure.

That eliminated a lot of options. They’d finally settled on something Ayla called Boho style.

As far as Oz could tell it meant loose, flowing, light-weight fabrics in a mish-mash of color.

His plan was working so far. He’d dragged out shopping for her disguise for hours.

If Ayla ever figured out he was deceiving her, letting her think she was searching for her sister while Baggs did most of the work, she’d skin him alive, but he’d do whatever it took to keep her safe.

It should be fine. If her superpower was looking like her twin, Oz’s superpower was manipulation.

Going undercover was a long con. Sometimes maneuvering people was for the greater good. Like bringing down an arms dealer or keeping his prissy little blonde alive and unhurt. Of course, she wouldn’t see it that way.

“How much longer are you going to be angry?”

“I don’t know. Why did you feel it necessary to embarrass me today?”

Oz went still. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you, only make you mad. Why were you embarrassed? It’s not like you’ll ever see the sales clerk again.”

“You made us memorable. What if the Russians go there and ask questions?”

“Pollita, we were already memorable. Trujillo doesn’t get American tourists, and even if one or two do visit, do you think any of them go wig shopping?”

“I was talking in Spanish. She wouldn’t know?—”

“You speak Spanish with an American accent. She knew you were from the States. That means, whether I said anything or not, she’ll remember you a month from now.”

Ayla’s Spanish had improved dramatically since she arrived. There wasn’t a hesitation any longer while she translated to English, telling Oz she must have been fluent at some point and only needed a refresher. Her pronunciation, however, remained accented.

She frowned for a moment. “That makes sense, but you could have made up another story.” She kept her voice low, but there was no mistaking that Ayla remained furious with him. “You smeared my reputation in front of a stranger.”

Smeared her reputation? “You haven’t been in Puerto Jardin long enough to have a reputation. The woman doesn’t know anything about you. The important thing is that after hearing you were playing sex games with your sugar daddy, she didn’t ask anything else.”

Ayla’s blue eyes flashed. “She didn’t have to ask because you kept talking and talking and talking.”

That color raised an issue he hadn’t considered. “Maybe we should have bought some contact lenses,” he said with a frown. “Your eyes are an unusual shade of blue. It makes you stand out. You’re not wearing tinted contacts, are you?”

Confusion crossed her face, likely over his abrupt change of topic, but it didn’t last long. “This is my own eye color. I’ve never worn contacts. How hard are they to manage?”

Oz shrugged and weighed how much time they could waste looking for contact lenses. Would that involve an eye doctor? He wasn’t sure he wanted to take the chance of bribing one. Besides, she’d have to take them in and out and keep them clean or she’d risk an infection.