Page 5 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 1

My heart catches in my throat at the gravelly tone in his voice. “What do you need?” I can see that my determination is surprising him. I’m sure I look like a girl who should be in a puddle of tears right now. I’m cursing my choice of baby pink cardigan over a white oxford and a knee-length black skirt. I look more librarian than head bitch in charge. But I will not let my wardrobe define me right now. I imagine myself wearing the slim black suit I saw at Nordstrom’s that I was too afraid to touch, much less try on.

That’s probably what the woman dining with Jared King tonight will be wearing.

He nods. “There’s a little shop on Newbury Street. Délicat.” His French is flawless and sounds like rich butter melting on a baguette. “Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes,” I reply, though familiar is about all I am with it.

Délicat is an upscale boutique selling dainty, yet dangerous, lingerie. Beautiful and expensive and meant to be ripped from your body, preferably by someone’s teeth. I’ve walked past it on my way to brunch, peered through the window as I passed, trying not to get caught staring in at the little pieces of lace and satin.

I’ve never worked up the courage to go in, not that I could afford anything in there to begin with. Or that I’d wear anything in there. Twenty-two-year-old virgins have no reason to wear anything sold in Délicat.

“Excellent. I’d like you to pick up a gift for my date,” he says. He taps his toe beneath the desk, somehow both impatient and a dare.

When he says the word date, I get another furious twinge of jealousy and my stomach clenches.

Ok, so I guess I’m finally going in Délicat. If that’s what he wants, I’m game. I nod at him, but before I can go, I see the corner of his luscious lips turn up into a hint of a smile. He’s not done. Not even close.

“My date is about your size,” he says, his eyes roving the length of my body leaving a trail of heat wherever they land. “I’d appreciate it if you could try it on to be sure it’s right. If you don’t mind, of course.”

Right?Right for what?

This I don’t ask, because now I know he’s playing with me. He’s like a big game hunter cocking an enormous rifle, the sight set squarely on me. This is a game, and I can’t lose. I refuse.

Still, just the thought that I am even the same size or general shape of his future date tonight has me on pins and needles. It makes me feel warm all over to know that he has seen my body, evaluated it, perhaps not found it totally and completely lacking.

I square my shoulders and nod. “I can do that,” I say. And then, I screw up my courage and dish a little back at him. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

But Jared King is ready. As if he was hoping I’d ask, he casually bites his lower lip, then leans back in his chair, now openly staring at my figure, which is successfully hidden beneath the aforementioned baby pink cardigan. I vow to burn the thing as soon as I get home.

But I should have known that billionaire Jared King possessed a sixth sense or X-ray vision, because without skipping a beat he says, “Let me guess, you’re currently wearing underwear that’s one hundred percent cotton?”

Despite my best efforts to remain composed, I feel all the saliva retreat from my mouth. He has me dead to rights.

I don’t really wear sexy lace underwear, thongs, or any of that kind of thing. I drop my gaze to the floor as my cheeks flush and the heat rises to my face.

When I finally look at him again, he’s still staring at me.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, and his smug smile would be maddening if it wasn’t so goddamn sexy. He shakes his head. “Maybe you’re not the right person for this job.”

“I can do this,” I say, too quickly for my liking. But suddenly I want nothing more than to prove myself to him. And if that means buying sexy lingerie for whatever blond trust fund case who will probably only push her food around on her plate (despite the fact that Renew is known for spicy steamed pork buns and a crème brulee so rich it could stop your heart), then that’s what I’ll do.

My insistence seems to only fuel Jared’s fire. He arches an eyebrow and nods towards to the door. “Then you’d better get going,” he says, suddenly back in boss mode, ordering me around like a poorly trained puppy. “My car will be waiting for you downstairs.”

Back in the lobby I grab my purse and start to swap out my heels for flats before I remember that I’m going to Délicat. Those saleswomen will probably toss me out for wearing anything with less than a 4 inch heel, so I leave them on. Downstairs, a shiny black Mercedes is waiting, the rear passenger door held open by an older man with gray hair in a black suit and tie.

“Mademoiselle,” he says. I instantly flush with the realization that this man who just called me “mademoiselle” is driving me to try on slutty lingerie for my boss.

I wonder if this is a task he takes on frequently.

While I’ve never seen Jared with a woman in the office, he’s nearly always photographed for the society pages standing next to this supermodel or that heiress, all size negative with smokey eyes and bored-looking smiles. Those are the women for whom I’m purchasing this lingerie, who are supposedly my size (though, with my full breasts, curved hips and even fuller backside, I’m skeptical).

I climb into the car, the door shutting behind me, and within moments we’re speeding through Fort Point towards Newbury Street in that fast-yet-controlled way that only luxury cars seem capable of. I spend the short drive trying to mentally prepare myself to walk through the door at Délicat, but I don’t have nearly enough time.

In a matter of minutes my driver is opening the door, and I have no choice but to climb out onto the sidewalk.

The store is quiet, not even a low ambient classical soundtrack playing in the background. It’s cold and quiet like a fine art museum, the garments hung like works of art along the pristine white walls.

There are no other shoppers when I enter, leaving the two saleswomen, both in little black dresses that definitely don’t look like they came from an outlet mall, to focus only on me. They observe me from behind the gleaming white counter, no sign of a cash register in sight, of course, because that would be gauche.