What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(54)

The eyes of the four Kinkaid sisters sparkled with interest as she ascended the stairs. Laurel grinned back at them. She must find out more about her great-aunts sometime. Pen Swaim would probably have the lowdown on them—he knew everything about the families of everybody else in Bosque Bend. His parents, Baylor professors, had retired to the castle on the corner when Laurel was a child, and after they died, Pendleton inherited the house and the copious research his father had compiled on the town’s history.

Sitting down at her dressing table, she opened the wide center drawer and selected her makeup—a light base, smoky eye shadow, mascara, and blush. Her lipstick would be a vibrant red to match her gown. Next came the gold earrings—heirlooms, like almost everything else she owned. She checked out the Spanish-style dress. A winning combination.

She draped her robe over the back of the chair and picked up the jumble of scarlet and black spread out on the bed. Off the hanger, the dress looked shapeless and bulky, but it was actually the sexiest thing she’d ever owned. Also one of the most uncomfortable. The first time she’d worn it to a formal tie event with Dave, she thought she was going to die. Every breath was a Herculean labor against the ever-tightening black bustier—but, with any luck, she wouldn’t have it on for very long.

She picked up the boned corset, which boosted her breasts to heights previously unknown. It attached to a black underskirt of starched tulle. Over the black went the scarlet, which clung on top and swelled out below.

She wished she didn’t have to wear the bustier, but otherwise…

Otherwise?

Otherwise the scarlet plunged into free fall between her breasts and dipped four inches below her waist in back. She held the sleek, soft dress fabric her cheek. Mmmm. It was heaven to touch. Maybe…did she dare?

Slipping the scarlet over her head, she slithered across to the standing mirror—what else could one do in a dress like this but slither? The fabric clung to her like a second skin, the skirt draping and redraping against her each time she moved. Her mother’s voice protested dimly in the background, but the image in the cheval mirror drowned her out.

She looked hot. Not only hot, but indecent.

Good. She struck a pose and ran her hand down her hip and discovered a panty line. She’d have to change to hose.

Or…

She slid off her panties and studied herself in the mirror again. No panty line, but her breasts were peaking from the friction of the fabric across them.

So much the better.

Before she could censor herself, she slipped into black stilettos to compensate for the length the dress had gained from the loss of the stiff tulle, rechecked the clock on her dressing table, and headed out the door. Now she was ready for their “special evening.”

Jase wasn’t downstairs yet, which meant she could set out the dinner without him being any the wiser about her nonexistent cooking skills. The situation was ridiculous, but Lolly had established expectations, and she was just too proud to admit that she was thirty-one years old and didn’t know how to cook.

She removed the dinners from the oven and distributed the food to the two glass plates, giving Jase the lion’s share of the shrimp. The scarlet fabric shifted wickedly against her bare skin as she carried the plates into the dining room. Would Jase be able to tell she didn’t have anything on under it?

She hoped so.

Hearing him on the stairs, she posed beside the table with her shoulders back, one hand reaching down to rest on the top of a chair.

He stopped just inside the room, his mouth dropping open as he focused in on the dip between her breasts. Raising his gaze to her face, he cocked a wicked eyebrow and gave her The Smile.

“Special, huh?” His coal-black eyes burned with a hunger that went beyond food.

Her earrings swayed, and she felt a warm blush creeping up her face. Dressed in dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt open at the throat, Jase looked like nothing so much as an eighteenth-century buccaneer. All he needed was a sash, a sword, and a parrot.

“Light the candles and pour the wine, will you?” she said, edging sideways so he couldn’t see her rear exposure yet. “I’ll switch off the overhead.”

She took her chair quickly, to avoid his playing the gentleman and seating her. Her half-bare bottom was the dessert, not the appetizer.

The candlelight flickered between them, blurring her vision, and she had a split-second fantasy of him sweeping everything off onto the floor, candles and all, then lunging across the table for her. But her saner brain hoped he wouldn’t. The house would catch on fire, they’d end up huddling naked under blankets on the lawn with the volunteer fire department gawking at them, and she wouldn’t be able to collect insurance on the house because the policy probably had a sexual frenzy exclusion.

She picked up her fork to indicate Jase could begin eating. He was quite punctilious about manners, she’d noticed. Some woman must have schooled him along the way. He’d certainly never learned table etiquette from Growler Red.

Laurel sampled each item on her plate, but was too keyed up to finish anything. The rice was a little sticky but the broccoli was good, and the sauced shrimp had turned out surprisingly well. If she could work a few gourmet dinners into her budget, she’d buy this brand again. Not that the food mattered. This dinner was more about seduction than sustenance. The real meal would be when they went upstairs—or maybe into the den or the drawing room.