Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(42)

“Please,” Malcolm said, “get dressed.” He closed his sketchbook and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth and fixing his eyes on me. It took me a moment to realize he wasn't going to leave. Instead, he was going to watch me.

I swallowed and stood up, letting the comforter and the warmth of the bed fall away. I shivered a bit in the cooler ambient air, but I threw my shoulders back and padded over to the chair where the pile of clothes threatened to tip over. Reaching out, I began to flip through them.

Every single one was beautiful. Lovely, well-made. And not fussy. Thank god. I just hate fussy clothes. Pulling out a dark shirt and holding it up, I realized it was warm cashmere. For a long moment I ran my fingers over it, enjoying the fine texture.

“There's under things in the bag,” Malcolm said, his voice startling me. Looking down, I found a discreet bag, colored silver, at my feet, full of tissue paper. Bending over, I peeled back the paper and found a small collection of lacy bras and flimsy panties in bright, startling colors.

Urgh. Colors. I selected the least offensive—a dark indigo-purple—and pulled the panties on before sliding my arms through the straps of the bra and hooking it in back. I tried not to think about Malcolm and his intense eyes watching me get dressed, though I felt a heat light up my cheeks anyway.#p#分页标题#e#

But the bra made my tits look amazing. And the indigo complemented my skin, dammit.

I slid the sweater on, then pulled out a white wool skirt from the pile, slipping that on as well. My boots, low-heeled and black, had survived the paintpocalypse, and I slipped those on as well before selecting a gray scarf from the pile and then shrugging into a soft black leather coat covered in pockets. I'm not a fashion girl, but I have to say: I looked good.

Malcolm stood, a smile on his face. Without a word, he led me out of the bedroom and to the front of the plane, where he donned his own coat, and then we exited, walking down a stairwell to the runway, like the rich and famous do. I knew Malcolm was technically rich and famous, but it seemed weird to see him surrounded by wealth. His sparse room at the top of his mansion suited him far better than sumptuousness.

We entered a private car, and I watched out the window as we drove from the airport to Dubrovnik.





Chapter Eight

Mediterranean countryside. That was what greeted me. And a crowded Mediterranean city. I hadn't expected these things, I suppose, when I had realized where we were going. Croatia was forever wedded in my mind to Bosnia and Serbia. Mountains and cold, and a war that had happened when I was very young—those were the things I had called up in my mind.

But this place was lovely, by the Adriatic Sea. It was like Rome, or how I imagined Rome to be—I've never been—and it took my breath away.

A castle sat guarding the Old Town of Dubrovnik against the threats of the sea. Red-roofed buildings and ancient stone churches and crowded the streets peeked up at us from the walled city as we rode down toward the sea. Our driver, far more adventurous than any New York cabbie, wove and bobbed between other weaving and bobbing vehicles, until we got down to the wall and I discovered that the old part of town—where we were going, I assumed—was pedestrian only.

Wow, I thought. I didn't have a lot of coherence at that point. I felt like I had stepped into a completely new world, one that I had never even imagined existed. Our driver stopped and we exited the car, Malcolm holding the door for me, murmuring something about how our luggage would be brought behind us, but I wasn't really paying attention. A chill and the smell of the sea wrapped around me, and I huddled up next to Malcolm as he snugged his arm around my shoulders and held me close, gently leading me where he wanted to go.

We passed through the old stone wall and down stone steps to land in a square mostly devoid of people, but filled with gray stone and architectural details and puddles of rain reflecting the patches of blue sky overhead.

“I'm sorry,” Malcolm said. “I'd heard it was warmer here this year.”

I tried not to look like a tourist as we began a leisurely stroll through the streets. Narrow alleyways peeped at me from between buildings, terraces jutted around corners in the little paths off the main thoroughfare, long stone stairways of a hundred steps flashed here and there. People passed us, dressed beautifully for the cool weather, and fine clothes shone prominently in shop windows.

I was utterly taken. Malcolm had been right. The place appealed to my artistic sense, a city out of time. Another country, where magic might happen.

After a few minutes of walking, Malcolm turned and led me down a narrow alleyway. The old stone buildings reared up around us, stately and imposing, blocking out the sky. A wooden door, ornately carved, was set into the wall with a lovely arch over it. Malcolm pulled a key from his pocket and opened it, gesturing for me to enter.