The Billionaire Game(3)

I tore my gaze away from that searingly hot mouth as Dove squealed from the other side of the screen. “You liking so far?” I asked.

And then I heard another gasp-this one from Asher.

“Is that an original copy of Graham’s Magazine? With The Murders in Rue Morgue?” he whispered.

There was awe in his voice as he lifted the magazine from my shelf, reverently handling it in its plastic archival sleeve. Holy shit. His cool demeanor had most definitely left the building, and I felt myself flush with pride as I started to answer him, but then Dove peeked over the top of the changing screen, light dancing in her eyes.

“Oh my gosh. Her stuff is sooooo amazing, honeybun,” she gushed. “Most of the time you have to sacrifice comfort for sexiness, but Kate knows just what materials and cuts to use to keep that from happening. I can actually breathe when I wear her designs!”

“As long as I can’t,” Asher said drolly, setting the magazine back on the shelf, and Dove giggled as she ducked her head back down. I felt my back rankle, and tried to tell myself I was being irrational. Of course he was going to flirt with his girlfriend. That was what his girlfriend was for. The way he had looked at me before was just…chivalry, or something. And of course he’d been impressed by the original copy of Graham’s; who wouldn’t be?

I glanced over just in time to see his tongue steal out for a second to lick his lips—and then our eyes met and I momentarily forgot how to breathe.

Wow, Katie. Calm your rockets. You’re reading way too much into this. You’re reading so much into this it could be a Russian novel.

I cleared my throat. “So you’re still going with just two teddies and a brassiere?” I asked Dove, only partly to clarify the order, mostly to clear my head. “Can I persuade you to kick it old school with a peignoir?”

“I don’t know…” Dove dithered. She peeped over the top of the changing screen again. “Honey, what do you think?”

“What’s the difference?” he said dismissively, shrugging. “As long as they’re sheer and short, they’re basically the same thing.” Ah, there it was. The typical too-hot-for-his-own-good male personality in its natural state.

I felt a twinge of disappoint. Damn, but it had been too much to think a guy existed who was hot and also not an *.

Adding insult to injury, my body apparently didn’t care that this guy was a jerk, or that he had a girlfriend. It was too busy noticing how the muscles in his shoulders rippled when he shrugged, and sending memos to all the blood in my body to hop the fast lane to my *.

I sternly reminded myself that it shouldn’t matter to me whether his manners were straight off the Jersey Shore or if he was a perfect gentleman—he was Dove’s problem, not mine. I snapped the measuring tape with a little more vehemence than was strictly necessary—other than for my mental health, for which it was crucial—and retreated behind the screen, starting in on the important work of making sure that Dove hadn’t shed too many pounds since her last photoshoot to fit into her previous measurements. You can’t be too careful with models.

I had barely finished wrapping the tape around her hips when on the other side of the screen, Asher let out an anguished sigh, as if he had been exiled from his home country for his entire life. “Surely this whole screen thing isn’t necessary?” he purred smoothly. He had a voice like molten chocolate. “I assure you, I have seen Dove naked before.”

Dove giggled like this was the wittiest thing she had ever heard, and I ground my teeth and told myself I was annoyed because he was disrupting the fitting.

It definitely wasn’t because I was jealous or anything.

You know, I was probably just extra on edge because of that whole thing with Stevie. It had set my Asshole Detector on high alert, and was now pinging even trace amounts of douchebaggery in the atmosphere.

But hey, look on the bright side! I reminded myself. Sure, your life is going to be hell until a Christmas miracle gives Stevie the ability to empathize with other humans and stop being a dickwad to you, but in the meantime, you can blame him for everything! Hair-trigger temper? Stevie! Inability to trust men? Stevie! Global warming? Probably Stevie! Especially since he’s always leaving the fridge open. Jerk.

“Good lingerie is as much about strategic concealing as revealing,” I said, belatedly answering Asher’s query. “It shouldn’t matter if a team of scientists has had a woman under a microscope—a well-crafted piece should cultivate an aura of feminine mystique. She’ll feel empowered, like she knows things you don’t know, and empowered equals sensual. So no, you may not peek behind the curtain of Oz the Great and Sexy Designer.”

I heard a deep, throaty laugh, and I started revising my opinion of him back upwards—I make it my policy to get along well with all hot, muscular men with nice hair who laugh at my jokes—but then his reply derailed that faster than a log on a railroad track: “Really, though, how many way can you string minuscule bits of lace and silk across a body?”

I bit my tongue to keep from launching myself into a history of lingerie starting with Lady Duff-Gordon of Lucile, founder of the concept, and ending with Kate Jameson, revolutionary designer extraordinaire just waiting to be discovered, made famous, and showered with accolades. “You’d be surprised.”

I could hear the grin in his reply. “I can’t wait for you to surprise me.”