The Billionaire Game(4)

I had barely finished wrapping the tape around her hips when on the other side of the screen, Asher let out an anguished sigh, as if he had been exiled from his home country for his entire life. “Surely this whole screen thing isn’t necessary?” he purred smoothly. He had a voice like molten chocolate. “I assure you, I have seen Dove naked before.”

Dove giggled like this was the wittiest thing she had ever heard, and I ground my teeth and told myself I was annoyed because he was disrupting the fitting.

It definitely wasn’t because I was jealous or anything.

You know, I was probably just extra on edge because of that whole thing with Stevie. It had set my Asshole Detector on high alert, and was now pinging even trace amounts of douchebaggery in the atmosphere.

But hey, look on the bright side! I reminded myself. Sure, your life is going to be hell until a Christmas miracle gives Stevie the ability to empathize with other humans and stop being a dickwad to you, but in the meantime, you can blame him for everything! Hair-trigger temper? Stevie! Inability to trust men? Stevie! Global warming? Probably Stevie! Especially since he’s always leaving the fridge open. Jerk.

“Good lingerie is as much about strategic concealing as revealing,” I said, belatedly answering Asher’s query. “It shouldn’t matter if a team of scientists has had a woman under a microscope—a well-crafted piece should cultivate an aura of feminine mystique. She’ll feel empowered, like she knows things you don’t know, and empowered equals sensual. So no, you may not peek behind the curtain of Oz the Great and Sexy Designer.”

I heard a deep, throaty laugh, and I started revising my opinion of him back upwards—I make it my policy to get along well with all hot, muscular men with nice hair who laugh at my jokes—but then his reply derailed that faster than a log on a railroad track: “Really, though, how many way can you string minuscule bits of lace and silk across a body?”

I bit my tongue to keep from launching myself into a history of lingerie starting with Lady Duff-Gordon of Lucile, founder of the concept, and ending with Kate Jameson, revolutionary designer extraordinaire just waiting to be discovered, made famous, and showered with accolades. “You’d be surprised.”

I could hear the grin in his reply. “I can’t wait for you to surprise me.”

And oh, didn’t that set off a few dirty films in the theatre of my mind.

As I continued my measurements, and answered Dove’s questions with slightly distracted answers, half my attention was still taken by the sounds of Asher moving around outside the changing screen.

What was he doing? I really, really hoped I had cleaned up the room good enough. If another stray sock or pair of mass-market panties or dog-eared romance novel happened to fall out from behind the cushions when he prodded them, I might have to kill him and hide the body. And in addition to the crime against hotness that his death would be, I think we’ve already established that I’m potentially on the hook for one murder. Real-life detectives may not all be Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes, but even they can usually spot a pattern.

A rustling sound. “Ah, this looks familiar. Was it on sale at the local craft store?”

The direction his voice came from made me realize what he was touching, and my blood boiled like a pot left on the stove by a harried executive.

“Not unless Michaels has taken to selling spider-silk gossamer, and if you get any dirt on that, I will be charging,” I snapped, throwing the concept of diplomacy right out of the window. Diplomacy? What’s that? Never heard of it. “I had to buy that in bulk and it cost an arm and a leg, so if you could not grub around in things you don’t understand—”

“I assure you, my hands are very clean,” Asher smirked. “If you’d like to inspect them…”

Unbelievable. He was blatantly flirting with me now, even as I was fitting his girlfriend for lingerie. And what’s worse, it was making me blush. I never blush. I have a strict no-blushing policy that I instituted in seventh grade and never looked back. Oh damn, it was spreading down my chest, my skin flushing hot beneath my clothing as my nipples hardened.

“Just keep them out of the materials,” I shot back, pleased to note that my voice was firm but no longer in danger of being mistaken for a harpy’s. The customer is always right, even when you could cheerfully contemplate kicking them out of a window. Or at least chaining them to a bed until they’ve learned a lesson. Thoroughly.

Asher seemingly complied—at least, I couldn’t hear him moving around anymore—but kept talking, sounding interested. “Bulk, huh? You see enough demand for that particular material to make it worth the investment?”