Final Masquerade Read Free Page B

stretched higher, but still couldn't see the man.
    Paige frowned and inched closer to the center aisle. She peered out near the Celica's front bumper and whipped her head back as if she'd been shot. Slowly her eyes roved up, past the neatly pressed khaki slacks, mock alligator belt, and blue button-down shirt, to a man with a cleft chin, bulbous beak, and beady eyes that were nearly lost in the shadow from the nose.
    "Are you all right?” he asked.
    Paige rose, dissecting him with her eyes, searching for his weapon as she dusted off her palms on her thighs. Her ears burned. The sensation spread down the nape of her neck. All instincts commanded her to flee.
    "Are you all right?” he repeated, his tone held a note of curiosity.
    "I ... er, lost one of my contacts."
    "Show me where. I'll help you find it.” He knelt beside her, not bothering to avoid the oil and grime. He leaned down and squinted at the pavement. “I don't see anything."
    "Ooh, I found it.” She pretended to snatch it up, held out the tip of a finger, then yanked it back before he had a chance to see it was empty. “Thank you for stopping, it's so rare these days that anyone helps out. Well, I have to be going, I'm very late. Thanks again.” Paige hurried toward the stairway.
    Glancing back, she realized he wasn't following or even paying attention. She slipped between a pair of red sedans near the stairwell to watch, knowing he'd followed her into that garage with orders from Stefano to “bring her back—or kill her trying."
    He stood beside his Toyota with his back to her, again on the phone. After a minute, he flipped the lid shut and reached inside his car for a brown sports coat, which he put on. He slipped the cell phone into an inside pocket, then straightened his tie and strode in her direction, whistling the theme from Rocky. The notes ricocheted off the cement colonnades. Paige ducked as he passed into the stairwell, envying his easy-going demeanor, something she'd give anything for—even the mob's $650,000 of which was now on its way to Minneapolis.
    When the man's whistling faded, she sprinted back to the stolen Taurus. She slid the blouse off and dropped it in the trunk, replacing it quickly with the racecar T-shirt.
    She took a tissue from her bag and wiped off the ruby-red lipstick that, to this point, perfectly complemented her coloring and hair. Paige slipped into Nikes, a short blond wig, and drab makeup that she thought made her look sickly and washed out. She squinted in the car's smudged side mirror, examining the changes, then adding a sporty pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses. She used the lipstick-smeared tissue to wipe her prints from the entire automobile.
    Paige had tucked her clothing into a plastic bag and rescued her overnight case from under the Sebring when a voice called out, “Ms. Carmichael?"
    She spun to face the man from the beige Toyota, and stumbled, nearly falling into the trunk. When she regained her footing, she gripped a tire iron in one hand.
    The iron made a horrific thud as it struck the man's temple. He lurched forward and crumpled to the pavement behind the Taurus. His cell phone clattered beside him, pieces flew everywhere.
    She considered hiding his body in the trunk, but he looked too heavy to lift. Besides, the blood on the ground would be a dead giveaway. She frowned at the unintentional pun. Paige used her old clothes to wipe her prints from the iron, gathered her things together, and shut the trunk.
    She removed her Rolex watch and gold filigree necklace and then wrestled the engraved diamond engagement ring from her finger. She ran a thumb regretfully over the enormous stone before burying everything in a dented trashcan under some filthy black paper towels.
    She told herself to be more careful, to keep her eyes open. Paige added a youthful bounce to her step and waltzed past the greasy-haired attendant, suitcase swinging by her side. He lifted his eyes from the tiny television screen long enough to