“All wrong…” Cole sounded exasperated, ignoring her defense of Russell. “Where are you going for dinner?”
“I don’t know. Moroccan, I think. He knows I like it. So not dressy.” Margrit picked up a handful of clothes from the bed and discarded them again with an overwrought sigh.
Cole snorted. “You’ve been totally played, Grit. Are you aware of that?”
Margrit frowned at his shoulders. “What are you talking about?”
“’Eliseo Daisani is a dangerous man. You might make an enemy.’ Russell might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on the case and loosed you at it like an arrow, Grit. Either he knows you incredibly well or he’s astonishingly lucky. Here, wear this.” Cole pulled out a gold camisole and a red cashmere sweater, tossing them on top of her. “And jeans. It’s not like you have to make a stellar first impression.”
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