CAPTURED: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys(128)

Vaughn rolled his eyes. "Can't afford me."

I scowled. "Afford you? I've heard a perky pair of boobs and sex will buy your attention for at least a weekend."

He pointed at my small chest with a glint in his eye. "I see no perky  pair and … gross, Nila. You're my sister. Why the hell are we talking  about sex? You know we were raised better than that."

I didn't want to laugh. I didn't want to lose the wound-up tension from  my collection, but Vaughn never failed to earn a lip-twitch.

I sighed, shaking my head. "Sex, shmex. You'd be lucky if I hired your scrawny ass."

He smirked. "Who're you calling scrawny?" He waved at his tall frame.  "My skills are on the other end of the camera. As my track record  states." His perfectly straight teeth flashed-daring anyone to deny the  truth.

I used to be jealous of his deliciously good looks. My brother was rich  brocade while I was boring calico. But now, I was proud. I might be  graced with a body requiring embellishment by other means than fate, but  I knew the secrets of illusion. I'd spun magic with a sewing machine  since I was a little girl, stepping from the shadow of my family's name,  carving a small slice of greatness for myself.

"Well if the show tonight flops, at least you can bail me out with all that cash you've earned thanks to your god-like looks."

A laugh barrelled from his mouth, loud but still hidden by the sultry  fashion show music. The dark room hid the large crowd but couldn't  disguise the heavy press and body heat of numerous buyers, shoppers, and  catalogue procurers.

Vaughn squeezed me tighter. "Nila, I'm warning you. I want a smile.  You've worked on this for months. Stop being so damn pessimistic and  celebrate."

"I can't celebrate until the last model has shown their garment and not  tripped over their arse in a seven thousand dollar dress."

My phone buzzed again.

I froze, cursing my twisting stomach and the fire-bolt to my core.  Kite007. The nameless teasing male who had more power over me than any  other man. A stupid secret crush. With a stranger no less.

It's a sad day when I'm emotionally invested in a fantasy. I should  never have replied to the incorrectly sent message a month ago. Then I  might've directed the small energy I had left after working so hard and  find a real man. One I could kiss and flirt with in person.         

     



 

The jagged pain lashed again. Rejection. I'd asked Kite, after a late  night volley of messages, if he'd be interested in meeting.

Needle&Thread: So … I was wondering … I'm sitting here drinking a glass  of wine and thought you might like to do that sometime? Go out for a  drink, in person, together?

I'd pressed send on the jumbled, awkward sentence before I lost my  nerve. I'd never asked anyone on a date before-it nearly gave me a heart  attack.

He'd never replied. Silence was his usual reaction to dealing with  something he didn't want to discuss-only to message a few days later on a  completely different subject.

Where sexual innuendoes were hard for me, Kite007 was a master. He used  it as a weapon, making me forget we had no depth to our  conversations … not that they were conversations.

When he did reply, it'd been a clever mix of teasing and  emptiness-reminding me not to read into this shallow form of  communication.

Kite007: I'm in a meeting and all I can think about is your nun outfit. You wearing underwear today?

Yep. That stopped my wishful thinking of meeting him in person.

Untangling myself from Vaughn, I pretended to scrutinize the remaining  models while I indulged in the very first text I received. The one that  began it all.

Kite007: Tonight won't work for me, but waiting will only make you  wetter. Be a good girl and don't argue. I'll make sure to reward your  patience.

A shiver worked its way under my expensive gown. I'd never received a  message like that. Ever. And it wasn't meant for me. I imagined some  lucky woman looking forward to her reward. I tried to delete the  message-I really did. But after twenty-four years of being hidden away  from boys, I couldn't help myself.

My reply was utterly ridiculous.

Needle&Thread: I'm afraid you're talking to a nun who understands  nothing of sexual hints and not-so-subtle suggestions. Patience to me is  payment after waiting for a microwaved chocolate pudding. Wet to me is  the brief enjoyment of a shower before the slave labour of my job. If  your intention was to make me (an unknown stranger who could be your  mother-in-law or an arthritic eighty-year-old) wet and patient, perhaps  you could bribe me with sugar, a hot bath, and a night off from  work-then perhaps I'll obey and ‘deserve' your veiled insinuation of  pleasure. (By the way … if you haven't guessed, wrong number.)

And so began a mistake that I had no intention of stopping.

I groaned under my breath, never failing to suffer a wash of  embarrassment. I had no idea where the flippancy came from. I wasn't a  nun-but I wasn't far off. Thanks to the two permanent men in my life,  dating was a rare event.

A curvy model coasted down the runway in my favourite creation of cream  lace, Victorian collar, and external bustle. I intended to head the  trend of a historical fashion comeback.

"That would look better on you." Vaughn's husky voice cut through the graceful music.

I shook my head. "No chance." Looking down at my small cup size and  overly trim frame, thanks to my obsessive running, I added, "You need  femininity to pull off a corset like that. I'm a rake."

"Only because you exercise too damn much."

Only because I have you and father stopping me from getting exercise in  sexual form. I didn't believe in self-pleasuring … running was my only  hope at a release.

The model spun in place, swirling her train before disappearing up the  catwalk. I suffered a moment of envy. It would be nice to have boobs and  hips.

Vaughn's strong fingers caught my chin, breaking the unlockable stare I  had on the strutting model, guiding my non-descript hazel eyes to his  vibrant chocolate ones. "We're going out tonight. Hitting the Milan  night clubs." The low lights around the runway made his skin glow with a  natural dusky tan. His blue-black hair was the one beautiful thing I  shared. Thick, dead straight, and so glossy people said it was like  looking into black glass.

My one saving grace.

Oh, and my ability to sew.

And flirt with a stranger on an impersonal device.

My phone buzzed-a reminder my inbox had something delicious for me to read. And it would be delicious.

Dammit. The urge to look almost broke my self-control. What the hell was  he doing messaging me? We knew nothing about each other. We shared  nothing but dirty fantasies. My mind once again jumped back to the first  relay of texts.

Kite007: Shit, you're a nun? Sorry … what's the correct term of  address … sister? I apologise for the incorrectly sent message. Despite  your Godly perfection and sheltering, you deduced correctly. It was in  fact very sexual. The woman in mind would never be welcomed into a  sanctity such as yours.

I'd had no reply to that, but he'd sent another twenty minutes later.

Kite007: Sister … I need absolution. I find myself consumed with the image  of a sexy nun stripping and sliding into a hot bath with chocolate  sauce on her lips. Does that make me the devil, or are you for making me  lust for someone I shouldn't?

For the first time in my life, I'd felt the rush of power and need. This  unknown man lusted for me. He'd replied based on what I'd sent. He'd  been right about the blushing, but only because I was sheltered, not  because I'd decided to dress in black and white garb for the rest of my  life. I came from rainbow fabric; I drank textile ink as mothers' milk. I  learned to sew before I could walk. I could never become a nun, purely  because of the boring fashion choices.

My fingers shook as I messaged him back.

Needle&Thread: I'm blushing but happen to be wearing something a lot  more interesting than black and white or a boring shift.

I had no idea what made me reply. I'd never been so bold and he was taken-obviously. He'd been messaging a girl.

Kite007: Oh, see … you can't say things like that to a complete stranger  who mistakenly messaged a hot nun who doesn't conform to the dress code  picked out by God. Tell me.

Needle&Thread: Tell you what?

Kite007: What are you wearing?

And that was where I freaked. He could be a ninety-year-old pervert  who'd tracked down my number from one of my runway shows to stalk me.  Nothing was as it seemed in today's world-I should know. I create  clothing that stays together purely by a miracle.

Not to mention my father would kill whoever he was. He wasn't exactly tolerant, my doting, dear ole' dad.

Needle&Thread: I hope you find the person you were trying to contact. Enjoy your night of sexual torture. Goodbye.

I'd closed my phone and done exactly what I'd said. Microwaved a  chocolate pudding and slid into a hot bath. Only to be interrupted by a  reply.

And another.

And another.

I lost count of how many messages I received. I managed to ignore him  for five hours, but then my innocent soul became corrupted by a man I'd  never met.