I was good for the case because I’m black. He actually said that. And then. Then.” Outrage had her in its grasp again, Cole the unwary mark who’d asked how her day had gone. Margrit stood before her closet, eyebrows knit together so hard her head ached. “Dammit, I don’t have anything to wear!”
Cole leaned in her bedroom doorway, watching her warily as he thumped a wooden spoon against his shoulder. “You could go like that. I’m sure Tony would appreciate it.”
Margrit scowled at him. “I am not going on a date in a sports bra and running tights.”
“You going to take all this moodiness out on Tony? I thought you two were trying to patch it up.” Her housemate pushed away from her door and stepped across the piles of clothes that littered the floor. “I don’t understand how someone with a mind as orderly as yours can live in a room as messy as this one. And then what?”
“A clean desk is a sign of a cluttered mind,” Margrit muttered. She sat down on her bed, surrounded by lumps of discarded clothing, and put her face in her hands. “Then I went to see Eliseo Daisani.”
“You what?” Cole turned away from her closet, spoon lifted like a ceremonial spear. “You what?”
“I went to see Eliseo Daisani,” Margrit repeated. “He knows my mother.”
“How?”
“I have no idea! He offered me a job!”
Cole put his spoon hand against the closet as if he needed the physical support. “Eliseo Daisani offered you a job?”
Margrit looked up through her fingers. “Yeah.” “Did you say yes?” “Of course not!”
“Margrit! He’d pay you half a million dollars a year! What’d you say?”
She snorted and flopped violently onto her back. “And move me to the Upper East Side. What do you think I said?”
Cole shook his head and turned his attention back to her closet, rifling through it. “I think you went back to work and said to your racist boss you’d take the case against Daisani, despite it not being your area of expertise, and despite your fears about how it’ll play to the media. Grit, you’ve got more clothes than Cameron and me put together. How can you have nothing to wear?”
“Those ones are all dirty!” Margrit pointed accusingly at her closet without looking at it. “And those ones are all—wrong!” She smacked the pile beside her, then shoved it away as she scowled. “And that’s exactly what I did. He’s not racist,” she added in another mutter. “He’s playing the advantages he has, and it pisses me off.”
“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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