The Moscow winter bit at Lily's cheeks as she stepped out of their unmarked car, her newly platinum blonde hair catching the weak afternoon sun. Chris's hand found the small of her back, warm and steady through her designer coat – some ridiculously expensive thing that matched her temporary identity as Evangeline Rothschild, sole heir to a banking fortune with too much money and too little sense.
"Remember," Chris murmured, his lips barely moving as he guided her toward Chanel's flagship store, "you're just here to shop. Nothing else." His own disguise was subtle but effective – colored contacts turning his blue eyes brown, his usual powerful stride softened into something more servile, playing the role of her family's most trusted security advisor.
