She gulped, remembering her earlier thought about strength and power and dominance, and used the tip of a finger to extract a pair of lace-trimmed silk hipsters. A new and very expensive pair of hipsters judging by the embossed tag still dangling from the band. Natalie’s eyes widened when she saw the hand-lettered price.
Good grief! Three hundred pounds? Could that be right?
When she recovered from sticker shock, she found it interesting that the price was displayed in British pounds and not in Hungarian…Hungarian whatever. Also interesting, the light-as-air scrap of silk had evidently been crafted by an “atelier” who described her collection as feminine and ethereal, each piece a limited edition made to measure for the client. The matching garter belt and triangle bra, the tag advised, would put the cost for the complete ensemble at just over a thousand pounds.
Well, she thought with a low whistle, if he was into kink, he certainly did it up right. She was about to stuff the panties back in the drawer when she noticed handwriting on the back of the tag.
I stuck these in your suitcase so you’ll know what I won’t be wearing next time you’re in London.
Kiss, kiss, Arabella.
Oh, yuck! Her lip curling, she started to stuff the hipsters back in the drawer. Common sense and a bare butt made her hesitate several seconds too long. She still had the panties in hand when the front door opened and the hound burst in. Sweat darkened the honey-brown patches on the dog’s coat. Similar damp splotches stained Dominic’s soccer shirt.
“Find everything you need?” he asked as he dropped a leash and a white paper sack on the kitchen counter.
“Almost everything.” She lifted her hand. The scrap of silk and lace dangled from her forefinger. “Do you think Arabella will mind if I borrow her knickers?”
“Who?”
“Arabella. London. Kiss, kiss.”
“Oh. Right. That Arabella.” He eyed the gossamer silk with a waggle of his brow. “Very nice. Where’d you find them?”
“In with your socks,” she drawled. “There’s a note on the back of the tag.”
He flipped the tag over and skimmed the handwriting. She could smell the sharp tang of his sweat, see the bristles darkening his cheeks and chin. See, too, the smile that played at the corners of his mouth. He managed to keep it from sliding into a full grin as he handed back the panties.
“I’m sure Arabella wouldn’t mind you borrowing them,” he said solemnly.
* * *
But he would. The realization hit Dom even before she whirled and the hem of his soccer shirt flared just high enough to give him a glimpse of her nicely curved butt.
“That might have been a mistake,” he told the hound when the bathroom door shut. “Now I’m going to be imagining her in black silk all day.”
The Agár cocked his head. The brown ear came up, the white ear folded over, and he looked as though he was giving the matter serious consideration.
“She’s fragile,” Dom reminded the dog sternly. “Confused and frightened and probably still hurting from her dive into the Danube. So you refrain from slobbering all over her front and I’ll keep my mind off her rear.”
Easier said than done he discovered when she reemerged. She wore a cool expression, the blue crew shirt and, as Dom could all-too-easily visualize, a band of black silk around her slender hips.
And here he’d thought her nondescript back in New York. She certainly looked different with her face flushed and rosy from the shower and her damp hair showing streaks of rich, dark chestnut. The oversize glasses had dominated her face in New York, distracting from those cinnamon-brown eyes and the short, straight nose. And, he remembered, her full lips had been set in such thin, disapproving lines for most of their brief acquaintance. They were close to that now but still looked very kissable.
Not that he should be thinking about her eyes or her lips or the length of bare leg visible below the hem of his shirt. She’s vulnerable, he had to remember. Confused.
“I bought some apple pancakes from my favorite street seller,” he told her, indicating the white sack on the counter. “They’re good cold, if you’re hungry now, but better when crisped a bit in the oven. Help yourself while I take my turn in the shower.”
“I’ll warm them up.”
Rounding the glass counter, she stooped to study the knobs on the stovetop. The soccer shirt rode up again. Barely an inch. Two at the most. All it showed were the backs of her thighs, but Dom had to swallow a groan as he grabbed a pair of jeans and a clean shirt and hit the bathroom.
* * *
He didn’t take long. A hot, stinging shower and a quick shampoo. He scraped a palm over his three or four days’ worth of bristles, but a shave lost out to the seductive scent of warm apples.