Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [28]
The men were approaching from opposite ends of the room. A stall door squeaked open to my left. We jerked our gazes toward the noise in unison, both breathless as I grabbed her arms. She dragged her attention back to me and we waited. Three stalls to the right, another door opened. Her eyes were steady on mine, sharp with focus, bright with terror and intellect and hope. I pointed toward the floor. She stared a moment longer, then, without a word, dropped to her knees, where she remained, gazing up at me. I held up one hand, heart pounding. The door next to us was pushed open. The man’s footsteps came toward us. I pointed. Aalia rolled silently into the stall he’d just checked. At the same moment I stepped out, adjusting my skirt.
“I don’t like to use those nasty urinals,” I said, and sashayed to the row of sinks. An old man with a goatee hobbled in, looked at me, and backed out. It took all of my restraint to keep from searching for Aalia. Instead, I made a great show of lathering my hands.
The second Middle Eastern man reached the first. In the mirror, I watched them confer. My fingers were beginning to chaff, but finally, after glancing once more in my direction, they left.
I dried my hands with a paper towel, then tossed it in the nearly empty basket, just as Aalia slipped from hiding. Ramla was right. She was gorgeous. All smooth mocha skin and soft eyes.
Her wide gaze skittered to the door. “They will return,” she whispered.
My mind was bouncing like an overinflated balloon. What would a cocky man do to keep a woman like this? “You know them?”
She shook her head. “But my husband, he has many friends.”
“Do you think they recognized you?”
“I am not certain.”
I contemplated that for a moment, then, “Get undressed,” I said.
She stared at me. “I do not think it proper—” she began, but I interrupted.
“Your husband has many friends,” I said. “You have me.”
She stared at me a moment, then nodded curtly and disappeared into the nearest stall.
Yanking the plastic bag from the garbage can, I emptied the few contents, then tore a hole in the bottom.
In a moment Aalia opened the door, wearing nothing but her underwear. The bra, white and lacy, did good things to her modest boobs. The panties were a floral pattern and the size of a midget’s handkerchief.
“Victoria’s Secret?” I guessed.
“Orchid V-string.”
“Nice,” I said, but just then a noise sounded from outside. I crowded her back into the stall and closed the door behind us.
She took the garbage bag from me and popped it over her head without a question asked. It just reached the middle of her perfect thighs. Whipping off my belt, I handed it over.
The restroom door opened. We both froze but in a moment a stall door creaked open and shut.
We exhaled in tandem, then she cinched the belt around her waist.
I glanced at her. She looked like a high-fashion model with poor taste. Perfect.
We traded shoes in a matter of moments. She teetered a little in mine, but managed the altitude. It was the attitude that was problematic.
“You’ve seen Gisele Bündchen?” I whispered.
“The model super?”
I nodded. “Be her.”
It took her a moment to assimilate my meaning, but then she transformed, pulling her shoulders back, letting her eyes go mean. By the time we stepped back into the bustle of LAX, she looked angry enough to be anorexic and we’d been inside the restroom less than five minutes. I glanced in both directions but the turbaned men were nowhere to be seen. Aalia was walking straight and true on my three-inch heels as we made our way toward the parking lot. All seemed well. But as we stepped past the nearest carousel, three men caught my attention. Their nationality was uncertain, but they wore Italian suits like they had been born to them. Their black hair was peppered with salt, and their dark eyes were narrow and cautious as they glanced