Zander's hand rested on
the curve of her lower back, making it very difficult to
continue fighting against his insistent control of the
situation. The heat from his hand flowed through her,
heating her skin, boiling her blood. He looked way too
delicious in that dark suit. He'd shaved as well, a citrusy
waft of his aftershave teasing her nostrils, making each of
her senses beg for their own samples of this much too virile
male.
Why couldn't he be a
regular guy? Then she could enjoy, even anticipate building
on the attraction she felt. But no, he had to be an
untouchable. Someone she could lust after from here ‘til
doomsday and never have. Not for real anyway.
As it was, nobody was
going to believe he not only asked her to be his date, but
he'd taken her shopping for clothes. Sexy clothes. What the
heck did that mean anyway? And how could she not respond?
She wasn't dead, after all. Still, a small part of her was
grounded enough to know that regardless of his final
purpose, he needed for her to look good on his arm.
Ah hell. He was right.
She hadn't had a man buy her clothes like this before.
The scent of vanilla
greeted her as she stepped through the doorway. Her pump
clad feet sunk into the plush cocoa-colored carpet. An
immaculately dressed woman rushed up to them, smiling. Yeah,
she recognized Zander. That had to be it. Either that or she
simply read money in his tailored jacket and charcoal,
brushed-silk shirt with same color tie. He could dress,
there was no doubt about that. He wore success well.
After the woman had
thoroughly ogled him, then made eye contact, attention was
turned to Molly. She was simply going to go along with this,
unless, of course, he intended to put her in something
sleazy.
"Black, yes?"
Molly shrugged and
looked up at Zander. He nodded and gave her one of those
looks that made her feel like she'd already removed all her
clothing. She shivered as his hand brushed her arm, but
followed the saleswoman down to the dressing room with
careful steps.
The fitting room was
the size of a master bathroom, complete with mirrors on two
walls, wall hangers for her own clothes and marble counter
for her purse. Amazing.
"Mr. Torris has already
suggested this for you." Molly followed the woman's long
pink fingernail to the very elegant dress hanging on the far
wall. Draped on the counter were silk stockings, panties and
just below it, a pair of strappy heels. Had he thought of
everything?
"He wasn't sure of your
size," she said and smiled, her eyes twinkling. "I think he
was pretty accurate describing. But if something doesn't
fit, let me know."
"I will."
Okay, she was excited.
Hard not to be when being treated like royalty. She slipped
into the stockings and dress, sighing as the silk whispered
against her bare flesh. Her nipples puckered as the material
cupped her breasts, draping elegantly over them. She
smoothed the narrow straps over her shoulders, then let her
fingers trace down the sides of her curves and rest on her
hips as she surveyed her appearance in the mirror. She
should have trusted him.
The skirt was layered;
the hem uneven. It reminded her immediately of the sketches
of faeries in the children's books she kept in her office.
It hugged her waist, lying smooth over her stomach. She even
adored the neckline, an elegant draping of material that
made it sexy, but without showing even a hint of cleavage.
One couldn't find dresses like this in regular department
stores, that was for sure. The straps in the back
crisscrossed. Shame she'd left her hair down so she couldn’t
show off the elegant string of black beads that lay draped
along her shoulder blades.
"Molly?" Zander called
through the door. "What do you think?"
She twirled around,
half in wonder, half in disbelief. "Oh my God, this dress is
gorgeous."
Without preempt, Zander
opened the door and joined her in the room. Suddenly, it
didn’t seem so big. She sucked in her breath, wondering if
she'd ever get used to how powerful his presence was. His
eyes roamed over her, the color darkening even as his mouth
spread into a satisfied smile. He looked like the cat who
had the canary trapped, and was about to have lunch.
"You're not supposed to
be in here!" she cried, backing up and checking to make sure
the dress covered everything it needed to. Her bra lay on
the floor between them where she'd dropped it in her haste.
She hated the heat in her cheeks as his eyes lazily roamed
over her, then her discarded clothes, then back to her
again.
She may have known who Zander Torris was for damn near a decade, but she'd only met
him today. It was far too soon to be sharing this moment—one
bordering on intimacy—in a fitting room, no less. Yet she
couldn’t deny it. Her nipples had pebbled beneath the soft
material the moment his gaze had rested there. Anticipation
spun in her stomach, and lower. Never had she felt turned on
from a man simply looking at her—fully dressed, at that. Her
heart pounded, worried he could see her arousal through her
clothes.
"We don’t want to be
late," she said, or rather, choked out. What was wrong with
her body? Around him it seemed to behave so
uncharacteristically.
"I'm not sure I want
you wearing that dress." Voice low, matter-of-fact, and sexy
as hell. Despite the meaning of the words, her body
responded as if was an invitation to strip.
Molly had to pry her
eyes from the way the shoulders of his shirt strained when
he crossed his arms over his chest. He'd removed his jacket. Yowza. Concentrate, Molly, look him in the eye. You're
eye candy, not dessert. He's told you as much. "Wh-why?"
"'Cause it'd be
dangerous."
Lord, she knew it was a
trap, knew he said it as pure flattery but damn it, it
worked. The wicked half smile on his face, the gleam in his
eye. He should have been an actor instead of a driver, the
man was amazing. "Well, thanks. So, Mr. Hot Shot, what will
it be, the dress or my suit. Frankly, I don't care." She
shifted her weight, and set about picking up her clothes,
hoping to personify the confidence she lacked.
"The dress. What
panties are you wearing?"
Her hands instinctively
slapped onto her thighs, holding the skirt down. "None of
your goddamn business." The tingling in her body pooled
between her legs, making her well aware of the silk pressure
of the thong's material against her most intimate parts.
Sexy, rich, who cares,
he didn't need to know anything about her panties…or lack
of. She repeated that to herself at least three times as he
studied her.
"Well, I thought I had
them pick up a garter and thong, but you're not wearing a
thong with that. I'll be right back."
He stepped out,
shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.
Words she usually saved
for stubbed toes or drivers who cut her off tumbled from her
mouth. What had been so wrong with her own black French cut
bikinis? Seriously. She was slipping out of the thong—which
he'd undoubtedly have to pay for just because she'd tried it
on—and was just reaching for her own undies when he came in
again.
"Here, I like these
better."
These
were low-cut, satin boy briefs with a nearly sheer lace
front. He held them like he handled women's panties all day.
Hell, he probably had enough experience. Good reminder, she
decided as she snatched the scrap of fabric from him and
nodded toward the door. "Just because you're buying doesn't
mean you get to see them."
He turned around.
Her heart thundered in
her chest. She clamped her thighs together, amazed her body
found his presence in the room while she was naked under
that skirt all the more arousing. "Out."
"Just slip them up
under your skirt."
"Don't you dare move or
I'll scream rape." She was really more afraid of screaming
in other ways, because if he moved, it meant only one thing.
Her body shuddered as she imagined him pinning her against
the wall, shoving her skirt up and burying his face in her
pussy. She bit her lip to keep from gasping. Her legs felt
like putty. Oh, God, how was she going to survive the night?
