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CHAPTER SEVEN: SETTING SIGHTS
She had a nice ass.
He stood there poised to pounce, stiff as stone, against his desk for several drawn out moments.
Damn, she could fire a man’s blood when pushed. The inner businesswoman in her—the wheeler and dealer within—loved to fight. He could see it. Provoked, she came alive. Her dark eyes sharpened and glittered while her quick mind churned. Her lips, deceptively soft and pink, were lethal as they spat daggers into the heart of her target and twisted. She could tear even the most careful man apart using nothing more than those lips and tongue.
His dick hardened at the thought.
“Sir?” his intercom sounded, Elin’s voice careful and questioning.
With his thoughts still wrapped around Max’s mouth, he tapped the phone, putting it on speaker. “Yes.”
“I pushed back the office meeting until tomorrow,” she said. “Mr. Werther’s office called and said that he had to cancel the meeting anyway. And Miss Hannings called.”
Hallie?
He straightened immediately, his lust-fogged mind clearing. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s Mr. Wayne,” she answered, “again.”
Shit.
“What now?” he asked, going on alert.
“He left a threatening message on her voicemail.” Elin sniffed, disgusted. “He wasn’t happy about the pictures.”
Good.
He’d hoped the pictures would spur Wayne into action. He rather hoped that action would have been to back off.
But this was good too. Recorded evidence of direct harassment from Lionel Wayne. Yes, that was definitely good.
“Get Hallie on the phone now.” He needed that voicemail saved and sent to him immediately. He’d visit Wayne tonight. This would be the last late-night call that man made to Hallie Hannings; he’d make sure of it.
An idea occurred to him as he thought about Bits ‘n’ Pieces. He could kill two birds with one stone—so to speak. Skirting his desk, he slid into his seat, reached for his computer, and clicked onto Hallie’s website, grinning as a plan began to build in his mind.
Well, as long as he was going to be in the area, he might as well make it worth the trip.
———
My next request: Meet me after work.
Come to this address immediately after leaving
your office. Don’t change, come exactly as you
are—exactly as you left my office this afternoon.
I can’t wait to see you again.
Max glanced down at the printed email again.
Slamming her hands against the steering wheel of her car, she groaned. Why had she come here? What was she doing answering this man’s email as if it were some kind of summons?
Well, there was the file. He had those twenty-six pages that could completely ruin her life.
There was that.
She wanted it. Needed to get it and destroy it.
But that didn’t explain the excitement—the nerves—racing through her, reminding her of her first junior high formal.
So she’d come, bounding in like an obedient puppy, just as he’d asked, wondering when exactly this had begun to feel less like blackmail and more like a date.
When she’d first seen his email, she’d wondered where a man like him would take a woman on a date. A fancy restaurant or a dungeon? The ballet or a key party?
She’d searched the address online, trying to get a hint of what he had planned. But all the search had turned up was an address of an apparently unowned, empty lot.
Max looked up at the unhung sign sitting outside the not-quite-empty, obviously owned storefront.
Bits ‘n’ Pieces.
From the front seat of her silver Prius, she could see mannequins, half-formed and naked, standing awkwardly in the windows. The lights were on, illuminating the small shop sitting lonely and unfinished on the busy street-side strip mall. Flanked by restaurants and other independent shops and boutiques, Bits ‘n’ Pieces was the only empty spot in an otherwise bustling block—her car, the only one parked in front of its small lot.
What kind of fucked-up date was this? Max huffed, snapping her overhead mirror shut. Figuring that there was only one way to find out, she climbed out of her car and headed toward the store.
Opening the door, she half-expected the place to be abandoned, but music, joyful and ecclesiastical, filled the jubilant, colorful room. Periwinkle walls, pretty as a Tiffany’s box, were decorated with lovely Victorian-inspired lighting sconces. Round, empty, metal racks stood tall and waiting.
Only one rack was filled. Its items—lacy, satiny, sinful concoctions—looked lovely and lost on their hangers, hidden in the back of the otherwise empty store.
Drawn, Max went to one cloth creation—a frothy sapphire thing that was more fragile lace than substance, more luxury than sense, and probably cost more than the contents of her wallet.
It was absolutely beautiful, but it just wasn’t her. Though she’d often admired things like it—naughty nighties, tempting teddies, and nearly nude negligees—it just wasn’t a practical purchase.
The men she saw and dated were enlightened, modern men. Nice guys. They dated her for her wit and intelligence. Her success and business prowess. Some had dated her for her contacts in the literary world or to glad-hand the corporate execs at parties, where they’d stood, decorative and undemanding, on her arm. Some had been just quick lays—itch-scratchers—where flash and show were less important than the act.
But all of them had been non-aggressive, intellectual men who knew that sex was a biological act between two consenting equals.
There’d been no need for artifice or games. No need to dress it up or make more of it than it was. Max was an efficient woman who got the job done quickly, smoothly, and to everyone’s satisfaction. She wasn’t a seductress or a tempter or a tease.
When she dressed, she dressed for herself. For comfort or efficiency. For power or prestige. Her suits were her shield, a symbol of who she was and how she expected to be treated. Cut in hard, aggressive lines that emphasized her shoulders, they made her feel strong. They readied her to meet the challenges that faced her in what was still very much a male-dominated shark tank.
So, though she might admire pretty, princess-soft pieces like the lace negligee, she doubted that it would have the same desired effect.
“You must be Max,” a soft, Southern belle voice said.
Max turned to face a bright, big-haired, bubbly blond. Beautiful and buxom, the beaming woman was as lovely as the store. Dressed in a pretty, white, ‘50s style, housewife dress with her hair twisted up into victory curls, she looked—much as her store did—like a modern twist on nostalgic glamor.
Without effort or intention, Max felt herself instantly liking the woman. “Yes,” she greeted before holding out her hand. “Max Wells.”
The woman smiled, took her hand, and tucked it into the crook of her arm. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Hallie Hannings. I was told you’d be coming. Plans are running a bit late though, so I figured I’d just get you started,” she drawled cheerfully.
“Started?” Max asked. “Started on what?”
“Your underthings.” Hallie waved around the store. “That’s what my grams used to say, though I’ve always thought that the best lingerie goes wasted worn underneath clothes.”
She patted Max’s hand. “Now he made a few suggestions that he found off my website but, after he gave me a description of you, I went ahead and added a few more of my own. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Wait.” Max dug in her heels when Hallie grabbed an armful of underthings before leading her further into the shop and down a hidden hallway. “This is all for me?”
“Well, of course.” Her tinkling laugh was as pretty as she was, making Max feel clunky and overdressed in her business suit. “We’re not officially open to the public yet,” Hallie said, flashing Max a knowing smile, “but he mentioned something about replacing a pair you lost.”
Max blushed as they entered a large open area that was only half-painted and filled with antique-styled standing mirrors. The future designation for a dressing room, Max supposed. “It’s not what you think,” she stammered while they made their way through the angled maze of mirrors. Though Hallie’s imaginings were probably closer to the truth than Max would like.
The blond held up her hands innocently. “With that man,” she said with deferring discretion, “it rarely is.”
Max wondered what that meant, but didn’t think she really wanted to know.
She watched Hallie fuss with the clothes in her hands, draping the frothy fabric over the tall walls of silvery glass. With a conspiratorial wink, she added, “Have fun.”
And then she left, leaving Max alone.
After a moment of hesitation, Max sidled up to the nearest mirror and the frivolous undergarment draped across it. It was white, shimmery and all sleek slink. She touched the hem, fingering the cool slip of satin while it cascaded water-like over her skin.
She lifted it up off the mirror and held it in front of herself thoughtfully.
Though stunning in its simplicity, it was a fairly plain piece. Made of a single swath of cloth, the dress was knee-length and unadorned. Really, she thought to herself, it’s a basic slip, something you could sleep in or wear beneath a dress too sheer to wear alone. It was really less frivolous than the other things—more like practicality with a bit of flair.
Sighing longingly, she slipped the thin straps off the hanger. What would it hurt to try it on? Alone in the mirrored maze, who would know?
It wasn’t as if she were putting it on to please some man. To please him. She wanted to please herself. It was beautiful and lovely and she liked it. Why shouldn’t she try it on?
After looking over her shoulder to make sure Hallie had truly left and that she was really alone, Max slid off her jacket, watching her reflection in the glass. She watched her shape change as the stiff cloth came off. Her bare shoulders—slim and graceful unconfined—looked different in the boutique mirror. Without the pressed collar, her neck looked longer and her jaw less squared.
She took the plain, white, sleeveless shirt she wore beneath her jacket off next, watching as her waist and ribs and breasts were revealed, her simple, functional bra pitiable in the presence of such gleaming, delicate competition. She unhooked it and slipped it off, feeling both free and ridiculous while she watched it flutter to the ground.
Her simple, straight-cut skirt was next. Her hands hovered over her zipper a moment.
She squirmed a bit, biting her lip, and turned to look over her shoulder again, the strange sense of being watched prickling at her neck.
But the room was empty. Safe.
Just her and the mirrors; her reflection bounced and refracted back at her from a dozen different angles.
Max stared into the pretty, brown eyes staring back at her. Were they nervous? Anxious and alert? Did their dilated pupils show excitement? Holding that dark gaze, she pushed down her zipper, the sound so loud as the teeth released and the firm fabric parted. She watched full, curved lips part on a breathy pant before her legs rose, stepping from the restricting cloth easily.
Tugging the soft, liquid-like slip over her head, she let it slide down her body, causing a sensual shiver to ripple along her spine. Her breath caught when the fabric fluttered down around her hips.
Max spun around, taking in the whole of its sweeping, snowy sheen in its entirety. Against her pale, faintly freckled flesh, the fabric seemed to glow, bringing out the rosy peach in her skin. Her eyes ran up and down her body’s reflected image. Over her shoulder, her gaze was drawn to the plump, firm roundness of her ass revealed just beneath the slip’s flaring hem.
She hadn’t noticed just how cinched the waist was on the hanger, leaving the hem quite a bit higher than she’d thought. On her, the dress conformed easily and adoringly to her body. Draping loosely over her breasts, the satin gathered and poured over the mounds, emphasizing their fullness and leading the eyes to the shadowy space between her breasts. Hugging her waist, it followed the smooth scoop of her back down over the swell and shape of her ass, revealing the length and strength of her legs.
Max’s eyes widened in fascinated surprise.
She looked luscious. Looked ripe and full. Soft and curvaceous. Tempting and tasty. Inside the mirror’s silvery space, she was earthy.
“You look beautiful.”
Max jumped with a yelp. Her gaze locked on a figure in one of the mirrors.
Him. She would know that voice anywhere.
She turned around, expecting to see him behind her, but all she saw was her own reflection in an opposite-facing mirror. She blinked, her eyes doe-like while her chest heaved beneath the cloud-like folds.
“Try the blue one,” his voice said, the sound still disembodied behind the large, standing glasses. “It should look lovely with all that milky skin and lustrous hair.”
Wrapping her arms around her body, she shrunk down onto herself, feeling far too exposed. Her eyes searched the many mirrored surfaces for a glimpse of him, seeing only herself huddled and unable to hide.
“The blue one,” his voice repeated, “the lace negligee. Try it.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to try it. She wanted to change back into her clothes. Wanted to be suited up again, not naked and alone with him.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was weak and shaky. She should tell him to leave. Should scream and shout at him to get out. She was in a dressing room; he had no right to be here.
Except she’d known he’d come. Had, in the back of her mind, been waiting for him. With more anticipation than she wanted to admit.
She knew that. She did, as she silently stared out into the room, but that didn’t put her at ease. She bit her lip, feeling caught and undecided.
“Should I leave?” His voice was strong, but not forceful. If anything, he sounded curious. “Do you want me to?”
Did she?
Her pulse raced as she worried her lip. About to reach for her clothes, she realized that in order to change back into her suit, she would have to undress again. And, while she felt naked beneath the tiny slip of a gown, feeling naked was a far cry, and a far better state, than actual nudity.
Unable to hide from her own image—not with it reflected back at her from every angle—every flaw, every imperfection seemed magnified in the mirrors.
Her butt, that had seemed full and lush before, now looked fat.
Her breasts, that had seemed bountiful and free, now looked showy and loose outside the confines of her bra. She flushed with embarrassment when she saw the outline of her nipples like a stain upon the white dress.
In an instant, her mind cataloged—from her hips to her thighs, from her tummy to her barely covered cunt—every blemish she dressed to hide, every part of herself that she never let anyone see.
And she couldn’t hide any of it. Not from herself. And not from him.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice sounded close as if he were pressed just against the mirror’s back.
She looked away, wondering and worried what he’d seen in her eyes.
“I like seeing you in that slip,” he told her. “I remember seeing it on the website and thinking that the fabric would be so sheer that, in the right light, I could see glimpses of you beneath it.”
Her eyes blinked up, looking again into the glass.
“Like right now, I can see your nipples,” he said, his voice a rasping melody that coaxed her. “The generous curves of your breasts. And if I look really hard,” there was a heavy, charged pause before he said in a low tone, “I can see the hint of hot, wet flesh, pink and full and open.”
Her gaze dropped to the hem of the dress where it cut just beneath the vee of her thighs. She was shocked to see her skin glistening where her legs clenched.
“You’re a pleasure to look at, Max.” His voice was full of rough, ragged heat. “But, if you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”
Her breath hitched and her heart lurched.
“What do you want?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Max took several deep breaths.
“Do you want me to go?”
“No.” She felt so uncertain about so much, but she knew that much.
“Then what do you want?”
She licked her lips and tried to sort her thoughts, to put her wants into words. “I want to know what you want.”
“I want to see more.” She felt his words like a caress. “Show me,” he urged. “Try more.”
“Here?” She choked on the words, her voice broken and barely audible, her eyes unable to look away. “With you watching?” Staring. Seeing.
“Change into the blue one,” he offered, his shoes quiet clicking as he stepped back, “and I’ll give you another sheet.”
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “You still haven’t given me one for coming here, for calling you sir, or for giving you my panties,” she pointed out, reaching for her clothes. Maybe there was a way to change back into them while maintaining a modicum of her modesty. She doubted it as she juggled her clothes. “You’re at a deficit already so why should I give you anything?”
Her speech was interrupted by the rustling of papers, the crisp crinkle of pages. Her gaze narrowed as three sheets fluttered down from over the top of the mirror and onto the marble-style tiled floor. As the third sheet finally settled onto the floor, flat and text-up, another sheet tumbled over in suit.
Paid in full and in advance.
“Show me.”
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