Recipe for Satisfacton(24)

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” She looked over at Jack, who stood in the doorway with a smile on his face. “At least not in real life.” This closet was the work of one woman, over years and years of gracing the most prestigious and elite parties in the city. Money may not be able to buy love…but it definitely bought a closet full of things that could take its place.

He walked farther into the room. “This is one of the rooms I’m having trouble deciding what to do with.” He ran his hand along the color-coded line of clothes.

There was only one thing to do with a wardrobe like this when all you had were men to hand things down to. “It should be donated to charity, don’t you think?”

“That’s a great idea.”

Her heart skipped a beat. He was open to charity. A definite product of his environment.

She opened one of the drawers affixed to the unit. Lacy undergarments stared back at her. She quickly shut the drawer—there was a fine line after all, and going through a strange man’s mother’s underwear was crossing it.

“She liked to support local designers, but the stuff back there was too edgy for her taste.” He pointed to a section of the closet in the corner, filled with bright colors, shorter-cut dresses, and styles that were definitely more Penn. “This is one of the times I wish we had a sister. She’d take all of this and it would be done.”

“Women would kill for this stuff.” She raced to another part of the room, to a small section of dresses. Her eye caught on a floor-length gown. “This looks like something Jackie Kennedy would wear.”

“It’s old?”

“Not old, Jack. Vintage.” She held up the dress against her body in front of the full-length mirror and admired herself. “Ever seen footage of women lined up outside of a designer warehouse sale? They trample each other. Literally. People end up in the hospital.”

Jake laughed.

“You think I’m joking?”

He held up his hands in defense and grinned.

She could stare at that grin all day, every day, for the rest of her life. She shook off the thought. Her eyes traveled down the length of his body. When she got to his hand, she remembered… “Oh, how is your hand?” She lunged forward, nearly tripping as she folded the dress over her arm, but stopped before she got too close. She took his hand in order to inspect the bandage. He’d replaced it with one of his own.

“It’s just fine.” He stepped closer. “Thanks to you, I avoided infection.”

“Glad I could help.” She took a step back. Unfortunately, the top half of her body didn’t follow suit. Her head and chest still soaked up the power of the sexy man standing before her.

He stepped closer still. “Do you think—” The beep of a digital timer interrupted his words. “Shit! The cookies. Just…” he tensed. “Stay right here.”

She let go of his hand and he stepped out of the closet, not turning his back to her until he cleared the doorway.

How many years had it been since she felt the butterflies? The tickle of excitement at the thought of a man? But these were super butterflies. Gigantic oversize, hyped-up-on-steroids butterflies. Was that because of Jack? Was it because she was in the most amazing home with the most eclectic collection of things and the most fabulous closet in the entire world that gave her the butterflies? Had to be. He was hot, in that bad-boy-with-tats-and-a-colorful-past kind of way.

Jack Vaughn wasn’t the commitment type of man. Maybe for the next little while, Sterling wouldn’t be that kind of woman, either.

She needed to get back on her own horse. And boy did she need someone to saddle her up good. And fast. And hard. And—shut it, Sterling. Pull up your professional pants and get back to work.

With him downstairs, she continued to look around the amazing closet. Her eyes rested on an unopened designer shoebox placed demurely on the edge of one of the shelves. She couldn’t resist. Sterling tentatively glanced back toward the door and then peeked inside the box. A brand-new pair of purple, strappy stilettos stared back at her. There was no way a woman who wore vintage Jackie Kennedy would’ve bought these puppies for herself.

She hung up the dress, kicked off her sensible flip-flops, and reverently withdrew the shoes from the box before sliding her feet inside the straps. She didn’t need to fasten the clasp in order to get the effect. She admired her feet in the long mirror, twisting and turning in the light.

Thoughts of riches and leisurely time spent on a yacht with champagne and not a care in the world were so easy to believe when you wore a symbol of the elite. What she wouldn’t give to know just for one day what it felt like to be the person who could afford these shoes.