Wicked Ties(12)

relative stranger—her only hope for salvation.

With a few glances and fewer words, Jack had made it clear he was no saint. Even

now, she felt his gaze burn her back. Against her will, she peered over her shoulder. Jack

stared up with an intent gaze, eyes looking nearly black, as he watched her ascend the

stairs. A speculative smile creased the chiseled features of his strong-jawed face.

She knew absolutely nothing about the man, except that he had the kind of looks that

made women do double takes and drool. Oh, and that he liked to dominate in bed. Hard

to forget that. But his smile made her nervous. Why would anyone look happy in the

aftermath of a near shooting?

Finally, she and Alyssa reached the top of the landing. The blonde led her through

the door at the end of the hall, into a small but surprising luxurious suite.

Alyssa shut the door behind them, blocking out the loudest of the music’s throb. The

floor beneath them still shook. The sexy tempo resonated around her, stark in its

suggestion.

Morgan looked around the room. A large, rumpled bed lazed in the center, as a

standing lamp cast muted golden light over the white sheets. Hardwood floors gleamed

cherry beneath her feet. Soft beige walls accented flowing white sheers at the large

window. Four black-and-white landscape photographs formed a grouping above the bed.

“You were expecting a red bedroom with a stripper pole in the middle?” Alyssa asked

with a cocked brow.

Embarrassment stung Morgan. She had wondered… “I had no idea what to expect.

This is lovely.”

Some of the starch bled out of Alyssa. “It’s peaceful. C’mon, let’s get you out of that

ugly rag.”

Before she could ask for privacy and a bathrobe, Alyssa was unbuttoning Morgan’s

coat and prying it off her shoulders.

With a casual toss to the bed, the coat flew away. Like the mom of a toddler, Alyssa

reached next for Morgan’s purse and subdued floral-print T-shirt. Before she could

sputter a protest, the stripper had them over her head and tossed them on the floor.

“If you’ll point me to a bathroom, I can undress—”

Alyssa ignored her and plucked at the front clasp of her lacy white bra. With a drag

and a tug, it was gone…and Morgan stood nude from the waist up before a total stranger.

Alyssa studied Morgan’s breasts, lifting one in her hand to test its weight. “We can

work with these.”

Morgan tensed, resisting the urge to cover herself like a self-conscious seventh grader

in a locker room. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t have anything I ain’t seen, honey. 34C.” Another glance over the rest of

her body, and Alyssa added, “You wear a size six. Right?”

“How did you know?”

She smiled. “It’s my business. Strip out of everything else and hang tight.”

Alyssa disappeared out the door, shutting it gently behind her. Morgan stared after

her. Strip out of everything else? Like it was easy. Like she took her clothes off every day

in front of people she’d never met. Well, Alyssa probably did, so it probably didn’t faze

her in the least. And Morgan realized that if she wanted to get out of here without a

bullet in the head, she’d better get over her modesty quickly.

With a sigh, she took off her jeans and white cotton panties, folding them neatly and

setting them on the edge of the bed. She looked around for a robe or spare blanket. A

towel—anything to cover herself. Nothing. Morgan was not accustomed to prancing

around without a stitch on. Clearly, that didn’t trouble Alyssa.

The blonde returned with a black satin bra and a matching thong. With her teeth, she

ripped the tags off, slipped a pair of gel inserts into the bra, and handed it all to Morgan.

Before Morgan could ask for privacy, Alyssa disappeared again, this time into the

suite’s adjoining bathroom. Grateful for the reprieve from the woman’s keen gaze,

Morgan wriggled into the thong. Not comfortable—who wanted a string up their ass?—

but a perfect fit.

Alyssa emerged from the bathroom, carrying some very brief garments and her black

high-heeled boots. In the doorway, the blonde paused, waiting. Morgan pretended not to

notice her. Instead, she frowned at the gel inserts in the bra. The grown-up version of

wadded-up tissues?

When Morgan winced, Alyssa laughed. “You gotta do what you gotta do. They’re like

an instant boob job. With clothes on, no one will know the difference.”

Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Morgan realized that was likely true. She

had no business bemoaning the fact she wasn’t a D cup.

Morgan began to don the bra, acutely aware of Alyssa watching her every move. It