Hot Commodity (Banks / Kincaid Family #1)(2)

Instead of slipping into the dress Vivian had bought her from the hotel boutique down on the first floor, Olivia had returned and exchanged it for another. Now, at a quarter 'til seven, she slipped into a pair of strappy shoes and started toward the exit, where she eased open the door to her suite and scanned the halls in her new outfit.

To be honest, though, the term outfit was probably too liberal for the contraption she sported. With her eyes and lips lined in thick black, Olivia’s face matched her costume (ah, now 'costume' was a good name). The tight black leather bustier and matching mini skirt adorning her body could give Cat Woman a run for her money. All she needed was whiskers and a tail to match.

She already had a leash-like collar wrapped snuggly around her neck. Silver spikes studded the black choker necklace. It was so goth, she’d been tempted to dye her hair black just to match the wicked duds. But Olivia loved her silky, oh-so-blonde corn-silk mane, so she let it be.

There was no need for a dye job anyway. She looked perfectly transformed without one. Vivian would drop dead if she caught sight of her daughter in this get-up.

She snuck from her room and darted for the elevator. The escape would’ve gone smoothly except for the fact that one of her four-inch d’Orsay stilettos snagged a tassel on a rug and tripped her. She went careening forward and probably would’ve torn her fishnet hose if she hadn’t caught herself with her hands at the very last moment, breaking a new French-tipped fingernail in the process.

She struggled to her feet—and not gracefully—when the elevator opened, emitting an elderly couple. The pair pulled to a halt when they saw Cat Woman sprawled at their feet. The man’s jaw dropped. He pressed a fist to his chest as if he might have a heart attack. His wife, a prudish-looking fiend, immediately covered his eyes with her long, bony fingers.

Olivia glanced down, hoping she hadn’t spilled out of the top of her costume. Her shoulders slumped when she saw all was good in the boob-exposing department. Not a nipple in sight, just a nice healthy display of deep cleavage between the criss-crossing leather ties holding her bustier

together.

"Thank God," she muttered, staggering to her feet.

She grinned engagingly at the couple.

But the woman merely scowled and yanked her husband a step back. "Well, I never." She elbowed her man when he peeked around her fingers in order to get another look at Olivia.

Olivia hissed at them.

Hey, it seemed like a Cat Woman thing to do. Actually, most of her actions this evening were spurred on by courage in a bottle. After bawling her eyes out, she’d raided the suite’s tiny fridge and divested it of its entire stock of mini liqueurs. Now, feeling loose and free, she tossed back her shoulders and tilted up her chin, then strolled toward the elevator where the attendant, hanging his head out to gawk at her, held the door open with a white-gloved hand.

Feeling suddenly uninhibited and mischievous, Olivia winked at the guy in the elevator and swatted the old married fart on the butt as she passed. She felt him jump and spin around, but she didn’t bother to give him a backward glance.

She was on the prowl.

It was a new and odd sensation, this sudden loss of inhibitions. But the proverbial camel’s back had been broken and the straw that had done it was tucked neatly in its safe foil container inside Olivia’s bustier—just waiting to be used on the right man.

Vivian Donavon had gone too far this time, and her obedient daughter wasn’t going to allow it.

Olivia had actually scanned the report about Cameron Banks. There was no picture or age listed in the information, but what she’d learned made her cringe.

Cameron Orville Banks, president of EarnNet spent his time buying and selling other companies in order to gain a profit. If that detail, which mirrored her mother’s occupation right down to the dotted I’s and crossed T’s, hadn’t turned Olivia off, then the rest of the information certainly finalized her distaste. Banks was supposedly a recovering alcoholic whose wife had committed suicide and left him a millionaire widower.

No, it definitely didn’t make her heart go pitter-pat with the warm fuzzies. The rage skimming her bloodstream was barely leashed and growing more uncontrollable by the minute, and in effect, making her crazy plan sound even more sane.

Her mother wanted her to marry a lousy alcoholic. Fine. She’d marry a lousy alcoholic. In fact, she planned to snatch up the first alcoholic moron she came across. And then she was going to use the condom meant for Cameron Banks, and she was going to make her new alcoholic husband beg for mercy.

The elevator stopped on the first floor. Grinning one last come-hither

smile at the attendant, Olivia trailed her nails over the chest of his uniform as she stepped out into the foyer.

Suck on this, Vivian.

She lifted her chin again and sauntered out the front doors, where the cab she’d called was already waiting.

She let the doorman open the back door for her. The driver asked where she wanted to go, and when she answered, "Just drive," he complied.

From the backseat, Olivia scanned her options. There were so many places to husband-hunt. Cruising the Vegas Strip opened numerous options. Not that she felt picky at the moment.

"This looks good," she told the driver about ten minutes later.

The taxi pulled to the curb, she paid her fare, and out she slid, only to wrinkle her nose at the seedy-looking bar and swallow nervously. Good God, was she really going to do this?