Debt Inheritance (Indebted #1)(3)

Needle&Thread: I’m afraid you’re talking to a nun who understands nothing of sexual hints and not-so-subtle suggestions. Patience to me is payment after waiting for a microwaved chocolate pudding. Wet to me is the brief enjoyment of a shower before the slave labour of my job. If your intention was to make me (an unknown stranger who could be your mother-in-law or an arthritic eighty-year-old) wet and patient, perhaps you could bribe me with sugar, a hot bath, and a night off from work—then perhaps I’ll obey and ‘deserve’ your veiled insinuation of pleasure. (By the way…if you haven’t guessed, wrong number.)

And so began a mistake that I had no intention of stopping.

I groaned under my breath, never failing to suffer a wash of embarrassment. I had no idea where the flippancy came from. I wasn’t a nun—but I wasn’t far off. Thanks to the two permanent men in my life, dating was a rare event.

A curvy model coasted down the runway in my favourite creation of cream lace, Victorian collar, and external bustle. I intended to head the trend of a historical fashion comeback.

“That would look better on you.” Vaughn’s husky voice cut through the graceful music.

I shook my head. “No chance.” Looking down at my small cup size and overly trim frame, thanks to my obsessive running, I added, “You need femininity to pull off a corset like that. I’m a rake.”

“Only because you exercise too damn much.”

Only because I have you and father stopping me from getting exercise in sexual form. I didn’t believe in self-pleasuring…running was my only hope at a release.

The model spun in place, swirling her train before disappearing up the catwalk. I suffered a moment of envy. It would be nice to have boobs and hips.

Vaughn’s strong fingers caught my chin, breaking the unlockable stare I had on the strutting model, guiding my non-descript hazel eyes to his vibrant chocolate ones. “We’re going out tonight. Hitting the Milan night clubs.” The low lights around the runway made his skin glow with a natural dusky tan. His blue-black hair was the one beautiful thing I shared. Thick, dead straight, and so glossy people said it was like looking into black glass.

My one saving grace.

Oh, and my ability to sew.

And flirt with a stranger on an impersonal device.

My phone buzzed—a reminder my inbox had something delicious for me to read. And it would be delicious.

Dammit. The urge to look almost broke my self-control. What the hell was he doing messaging me? We knew nothing about each other. We shared nothing but dirty fantasies. My mind once again jumped back to the first relay of texts.

Kite007: Shit, you’re a nun? Sorry…what’s the correct term of address…sister? I apologise for the incorrectly sent message. Despite your Godly perfection and sheltering, you deduced correctly. It was in fact very sexual. The woman in mind would never be welcomed into a sanctity such as yours.

I’d had no reply to that, but he’d sent another twenty minutes later.

Kite007: Sister…I need absolution. I find myself consumed with the image of a sexy nun stripping and sliding into a hot bath with chocolate sauce on her lips. Does that make me the devil, or are you for making me lust for someone I shouldn’t?

For the first time in my life, I’d felt the rush of power and need. This unknown man lusted for me. He’d replied based on what I’d sent. He’d been right about the blushing, but only because I was sheltered, not because I’d decided to dress in black and white garb for the rest of my life. I came from rainbow fabric; I drank textile ink as mothers’ milk. I learned to sew before I could walk. I could never become a nun, purely because of the boring fashion choices.

My fingers shook as I messaged him back.

Needle&Thread: I’m blushing but happen to be wearing something a lot more interesting than black and white or a boring shift.

I had no idea what made me reply. I’d never been so bold and he was taken—obviously. He’d been messaging a girl.

Kite007: Oh, see…you can’t say things like that to a complete stranger who mistakenly messaged a hot nun who doesn’t conform to the dress code picked out by God. Tell me.

Needle&Thread: Tell you what?

Kite007: What are you wearing?

And that was where I freaked. He could be a ninety-year-old pervert who’d tracked down my number from one of my runway shows to stalk me. Nothing was as it seemed in today’s world—I should know. I create clothing that stays together purely by a miracle.

Not to mention my father would kill whoever he was. He wasn’t exactly tolerant, my doting, dear ole’ dad.

Needle&Thread: I hope you find the person you were trying to contact. Enjoy your night of sexual torture. Goodbye.

I’d closed my phone and done exactly what I’d said. Microwaved a chocolate pudding and slid into a hot bath. Only to be interrupted by a reply.

And another.

And another.

I lost count of how many messages I received. I managed to ignore him for five hours, but then my innocent soul became corrupted by a man I’d never met.

“What do you say?” Vaughn pursed his lips, accenting his well-formed jaw and rounded cheekbones.

I blinked, shattering memories of phone flirting, dumping me back into the hot, stuffy venue of fashionistas.

“Huh?”

“Tonight. You. Me. A bottle of tequila and some bad decisions.” My brother rolled his eyes. “I’m not having you holed away in your hotel room on your own—not after a show like this.” Vaughn’s voice cajoled, his face—a cross between a cherub-faced youth and heartbreaker man—implored. I could never say no to him. Just like countless other women. It didn’t help he was heir to a textile business that’d been in our family since the fifteenth century and a seriously good catch.