Jane made a mental note to stay out of every parking garage within the city limits.
The van door slid open, a gorgeous Asian woman with bright red lipstick stepped out. “Right off the runway. But some may need adjustments.”
Curiosity got the best of Jane, so she got out of the car and peered behind the girl. The back of the van was filled with at least twenty, maybe thirty, gorgeous ball gowns in every color of the rainbow and in every type of material she could imagine. Silk, satin, tulle.
With a gasp, she covered her face. “Those are beautiful.”
“I’m glad you think so, sweetheart.” Suddenly Bentley walked up, his swagger even more pronounced. “Pick one. Oh hell, pick two. Nothing’s too good for my date.”
“Your what?” She tried to hide her disappointment, but it was impossible.
Bentley wrapped a muscular arm around her and smiled harder. “Now, I want you to pick one that screams sexy. Brock’s favorite color is black—shocker, I know—but he gave me strict instructions for you to make sure it’s what you want, not what he wants, not what I want, not what anyone else wants but you.”
Jane was still stuck on the fact that Brock had given his brother instructions. He had to care. He just had to. And in her heart she knew he did; she just didn’t understand why a simple text message or phone call would hurt anything. The media was still hounding her. Maybe he was afraid something would leak? Ugh; and now Bentley was escorting her, instead of Brock?
“Brock knows you’re my date? And he’s okay with it?”
Bentley rolled his eyes. “Women are so damn complicated.” He pointed to the dresses and then back at her. “Just because you’re arriving at the ball on my arm doesn’t mean you’re leaving on it. Make sense?”
“No.” Jane shook her head. “Not at all. In fact none of this makes sense!”
“Trust. Remember?” Bentley smiled. “Now hurry up. I have places to be, women to seduce.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I look like I belong in prison.” Brock complained. Brant nodded his head in agreement.
“I’ll admit,” his brother said, “the stripes are a bit…bold.”
“You think?” Brock pointed down at himself. “Do you have anything less…” He scowled as his gaze fell to the striped pants. “Loud?”
Jean Paul, the man helping them, gasped aloud.
Bentley and Brant cringed and moved closer to Brock while the personal shopper for Prada began pacing in front of them, a pinched expression between his eyebrows as he started cursing in French.
“Should we tell him we understand him?” Bentley said out of the corner of his mouth. “Or just let him keep going?”
“I hear you!” Jean Paul stopped pacing then glanced up, his eyes hopeful. “I do have one suit left. It’s perfect.”
“Not to be a jackass, but you said that about the stripes,” Brock muttered, glancing back in the mirror and shuddering.
“Here.” Jean Paul returned with a black garment bag. “Very new, very classic. A black and white three-piece tuxedo with a black tie. The shirt is a white silk. I’ll admit the coattails are a bit long but I think you’ll find the cut agreeable to your full figure.”
“The hell,” Brock muttered. “Did he just call me fat?”
“Good thing Jane loves all sizes,” Bentley said helpfully. “Plus more cushion for the pushin’…right?”
“Please stop talking,” Brock pleaded while Jean Paul unzipped the garment bag and did a little ta da with his hands.
“Dibs,” Bentley called.
“Damn it!” Brant yelled.
“Guys, I thought we were here for me? Also: born first, getting auctioned off, you lose.” He touched the smooth silk shirt. This, he could wear.
A few hours later, he was back at his apartment, the garment bag hanging in his closet, the rooms silent.
He’d told the twins he wanted time alone, and now he was lonely. Imagine that? Idiot.
He was so damn tempted to just text Jane and let her in on his plan, but Jane deserved more than a text. He wanted to sweep her off her feet, surprise her, do it in front of the whole fucking world. And unfortunately her reaction had to be real—the plan depended on it. If it looked fabricated, people would accuse them of setting the whole thing up.
He picked up his phone and swiped past her contact, even though it made his chest hurt just thinking about the pain he was putting her through by not calling—and hit his grandfather’s number.
His grandfather answered on the second ring. “Son, you better be dead. I’m up to my earlobes with ball details. Everything has to be perfect as you know, and the media is in a frenzy over that kiss with the maid!”