The Billionaire Game(4)
And oh, didn’t that set off a few dirty films in the theatre of my mind.
As I continued my measurements, and answered Dove’s questions with slightly distracted answers, half my attention was still taken by the sounds of Asher moving around outside the changing screen.
What was he doing? I really, really hoped I had cleaned up the room good enough. If another stray sock or pair of mass-market panties or dog-eared romance novel happened to fall out from behind the cushions when he prodded them, I might have to kill him and hide the body. And in addition to the crime against hotness that his death would be, I think we’ve already established that I’m potentially on the hook for one murder. Real-life detectives may not all be Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes, but even they can usually spot a pattern.
A rustling sound. “Ah, this looks familiar. Was it on sale at the local craft store?”
The direction his voice came from made me realize what he was touching, and my blood boiled like a pot left on the stove by a harried executive.
“Not unless Michaels has taken to selling spider-silk gossamer, and if you get any dirt on that, I will be charging,” I snapped, throwing the concept of diplomacy right out of the window. Diplomacy? What’s that? Never heard of it. “I had to buy that in bulk and it cost an arm and a leg, so if you could not grub around in things you don’t understand—”
“I assure you, my hands are very clean,” Asher smirked. “If you’d like to inspect them…”
Unbelievable. He was blatantly flirting with me now, even as I was fitting his girlfriend for lingerie. And what’s worse, it was making me blush. I never blush. I have a strict no-blushing policy that I instituted in seventh grade and never looked back. Oh damn, it was spreading down my chest, my skin flushing hot beneath my clothing as my nipples hardened.
“Just keep them out of the materials,” I shot back, pleased to note that my voice was firm but no longer in danger of being mistaken for a harpy’s. The customer is always right, even when you could cheerfully contemplate kicking them out of a window. Or at least chaining them to a bed until they’ve learned a lesson. Thoroughly.
Asher seemingly complied—at least, I couldn’t hear him moving around anymore—but kept talking, sounding interested. “Bulk, huh? You see enough demand for that particular material to make it worth the investment?”
“Long-term, yes,” I said around the pins I was holding in my mouth as I adjusted the fit of the violet silk teddy. I felt my shoulders relax—I so rarely got the opportunity to talk shop, and it was nice for someone to be taking an interest. “It’s versatile, and laying in a good supply will keep me from having to run after manufacturers to meet client deadlines. If I’m not constantly extending deadlines, clients will be more satisfied and more likely to recommend me to their friends.”
“That’s how I came to her,” Dove put in. “Through friends. Jessaminda—you remember Jessaminda, sugar dumpling, she was hanging all over you at that premiere—she had that sex tape leak with her in that utterly divine babydoll, and I thought, ooooh, I just have to get one of those. Except different, of course.”
Hey, it wasn’t an ad in the New Yorker, but I’d take my advertising where I could get it.
“An excellent business strategy,” Asher said, his tone so neutral that for a second I was sure he was being sincere, and in the next sure he was mocking me.
Jeez, Kate, self-doubt much?
Like I’ve said before, it’s a hell of a lot easier for a statuesque redhead to get compliments on her looks than it is for her to get compliments on her artistry or business acumen. And once she’s got them, how is she ever supposed to trust them?
I remember in college when my art mentor Professor Carey told me I had real talent, that with my vision and my head for business I could make it as far as I wanted to go; I remember that soaring feeling of joy in my stomach.
And then I remember how he put his hand on my knee, and began to stroke my leg as he told me how he just wanted to guide me on my path, and how much he could help me if I would just help him, and I remember that crashing sensation of my stomach dropping down to the floor as I realized that it had all been lies to butter me up, and I remember the tears rushing down my face as I fled from his office.
I pushed that memory away violently. “All right, let me just tuck in this little bit here…” I said, adjusting the fabric. “There! Take a look. This is basically what it’ll look like when it’s all done next week.”
Dove paused from making kissy-faces at Asher over the top of the changing screen to look at herself in the mirror, and an expression of awe bloomed across her face. An almost disbelieving smile dawned as her hand—so slowly she seemed almost unaware of it—trailed across the sheer fabric cupping her pert breasts. I watched her shoulders straighten as that smile grew wicked, predatory, and delighted; a little sway sashayed into her hips as she twisted to look at herself from another angle. Oh yeah, Dove had definite plans for this outfit, and she was going to see them through.
And I felt the last of the tension go out of my throat and shoulders. This was why I did what I did—this was why I emptied out my rent budget to get ahold of luxurious fabrics, this was why I gave myself migraines tracking down old-fashioned lace-making techniques, this was why every spare moment I found my hands sketching a new design, trying to find a way to convey sleekness, sophistication, daring, and sexiness, all in the minimal amount of cloth.