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“Who the fuck are you?” I whisper.
But as I turn to look at the right, my question is answered.
Leather.
Lace.
Latex.
The three Ls.
I don’t even pull one of them down off the rack to look at it. I’m betting the lingerie drawer on that side of the closet is either empty or full of the kinds of things I’ve only seen at his sex club and at one of the sex shops that dot the city with their dildos and maid outfits and trashy, crotchless underwear made for fucking.
Except way more X-rated than those.
I turn to look behind the door.
The outfit’s there, just like he said.
And my stomach plummets into my feet.
Shiny latex. Vixen red. Fishnet stockings. And the highest sluttiest stripper heels I’ve ever seen.
I swallow. Hard. “No way. No way at all. Not happening.”
I’m about to stomp out the door when a thought occurs to me and I stop short.
“If he wants a show pony, I’ll give him one.”
And with that, I smile, then stalk out and into the en suite bathroom.
It’s not until I’m about to step under the hot shower spray that his final words come back to me. He’d extinguished all of my panicked thoughts with that soul-searing kiss, and now that my head is clear, the anxiety is back in force.
First night out as my fiancée.
He’s insane for even thinking I’d go along with that.
“He can bite my ass.”
“We,” I say, “are not getting engaged.”
He’s on his phone in the living room, looking at I don’t know what—probably porn or guns or piles of stolen money. I don’t know. What I do know is he doesn’t look up, just takes a sip of his drink and puts his booted feet on what’s probably a ten-thousand-dollar stone coffee table.
“I don’t actually want to marry you, Scarlett. I’m just using you to open doors.”
“You can do that, Sir,” I say, heavily leaning on the Sir with sarcasm, something that I swear to God turns the corner of his mouth up into the thinnest ghost of a smile. “Without the engagement lie.”
This time, he raises his blond head. Startling green eyes laser into me. “Then we’ll do it for real.”
He puts his feet on the ground and rises, pocketing his phone. And my heart… that traitorous thing with some kind of hard-wired connection to my libido, throbs in time with my clit.
Because, oh, fuck, does he look…
Good isn’t the word.
Good’s bland.
He’s wearing dark gold, almost caramel. The suit’s trendy and expensive with the merest thread of gold weaved into a checkered pattern. And his silk shirt’s a black-green. He has on gold cufflinks, coupled with a gold and black striped tie.
