Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)

She doesn’t even know me. That’s obvious given this red dress with a neckline somewhere below my sternum.

Back in the shop, Samantha bursts out in laughter. “If you were going to a strip club, that’d be perfect. But for dinner? Absolutely not. Your tits, while fabulously motorboat worthy, are one breath away from popping out. Venus may’ve free boobed it, but you cannot.”

Around ‘strip club’, I’m offended, but by the time Sam mentions Venus . . . “You do listen to me when I talk about art, don’t you? That’s so sweet.” Touched, I place my hands over my heart and find bare skin. “Oh!” My breasts are not just showing off, they’re showing out.

“Of course I listen,” she preens. “Now take that off.” She wiggles her fingers at me to shoo me back to the fitting room, and I hear her tell Brenda, “Less slutty, more sensual.”

I try on a few more dresses, each of them okay but not it. Until the last one.

“Carter’s jaw is going to hit the floor when you walk out in that. It’s perfect.”

When I look in the mirror, I think Samantha and Brenda might actually be right. I never think of myself as a sexy woman, but in this green dress, I am. My curves are whiplash worthy, my breasts are pushed up to be shapely but not overly exposed, and my ass is guaranteed to bounce a quarter. Best of all, the knee-length skirt and short sleeves keep it modest enough for dinner at the Cartwright estate.

When Brenda walks off to look for jewelry, Samantha purses her lips. “Okay, you’ve got the body armor for dinner, but are you sure about this?”

Looking at my reflection, I’m more ready than I was before we got here, but still . . . “No, not at all sure. But ugh . . .” I groan. “Sam, some of the pieces in this collection haven’t been seen in decades. The list of what Thomas Cartwright purchased, as well as his own paintings, is more supposition than fact. The last time I saw even a guess at a list was when Art World did a story about an insurance company agreeing to cover the collection, and a few of the pieces were named. Now I have a chance to see them first-hand, with Elena Cartwright herself as a tour guide. As crazy as it is, I have to do this or I’ll never forgive myself.”

Samantha tilts her head, mulling over what I’ve said. Finally, she says, “Okay, if you say so. But I’m not talking about the art. I’m talking about Carter. You’re stepping into dangerous territory with a man like that. I mean, he’s . . . him.”

“I know, and I’m me,” I say bitterly, turning away from the mirror. “I’m out of my league.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” she corrects firmly. “I’m worried about Carter.”

“You think I can’t handle him?”

“I think he’s a do-or-die businessman who’s obviously willing to go to major lengths and lie through his professionally-whitened teeth without losing a wink of sleep at night. But that’s not how you operate. I want you to be careful with him. Don’t get caught up in this husband-and-wife act.”

“I’ll be careful,” I vow. “This is solely about the art for me. I have no plans of falling for Carter Harrington. He’s too old for me and too focused on business. He’s one of those guys who only date gorgeous, debutante types and probably think graphic novels like Alphena are silly stories for kids. I honestly don’t like him very much.”

“But he’s, and I quote, ‘a good kisser’,” she reminds me.

“A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.” I shrug noncommittally.

Samantha frowns. “You’re lying to the wrong person here, Luna. A kiss is the physical meeting of two souls, sharing time, heat, and space. Their breath becomes one as their bodies react to one another. Don’t simplify or degrade something so vital.”

Her words are poetic and make my whole body go liquid, but she’s missing a key factor. “If the people are kissing as part of a relationship, whether a momentary or permanent one, that’s true. But a kiss can also be just a kiss. No meaning, no souls, no promises. Just a touching of lips, no different from bumping into someone on the sidewalk.”

Sam sighs heavily, unconvinced but not willing to argue further. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

The promise is heavy, even as I pay for the dress, shoes, and jewelry using Carter’s Amex card, but I keep reminding myself . . . the Thomas Cartwright collection.





CHAPTER

SEVEN





CARTER





Standing outside Luna’s door once again, I feel like my world has become some over-scripted pseudo-reality show in the last twenty-four hours. I’ve gone above and beyond for deals before, but this is so much more. No matter, though, because I’m doing this, as crazy as it is.

I knock on the door, and in the few seconds before I hear Luna turning the lock, I have one last thought of making a run for it and calling the whole thing off.

But before I can, the door swings open.

“Wow, you look great.” The words pop out of my mouth before fully forming in my head, but they’re true. Luna is wearing a dark green dress, showcasing an hourglass shape she usually hides beneath the oversized overalls and frumpy uniform. Her hair is down and curled, her lips glossy, and behind her glasses, her eyes are almost doe-eyed with liner and lashes.

In an instant, her smile falls. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. Come in while I grab my purse.”

I can’t help but notice the way her ass sways left and right with every step of her clicking heels on the wood floor as she strides to the kitchen. And of course, she catches me looking when she spins back around.

“Seriously?” she huffs, totally busting me.

Shrugging innocently, I reply, “What? I’m just appreciating my wife, and I said you look great.”

“Don’t even start. And it’s not what you said, it’s how you said it,” she says quietly. I open my mouth to ask what she means, but she cuts me off with an outstretched palm. “Can we just go?”

“Sure.” I agree because it seems like the safest bet before we go to Elena’s and have to sell being a happily married couple. I offer my elbow, hoping some gentlemanly charm will help, but she struts right past me and out the door. Though, if I’m not imagining it, she’s swishing her hips a bit more now that she knows I’m watching.

She locks the door behind us and then downstairs, she snorts when she sees my car parked on the curb. “Should’ve guessed.”

“What?” I question, not sure what’s irritated her now. First off, the Mercedes CLS is a perfect vehicle for me and my lifestyle, sporty and powerful enough that I can pass anything I need to on the highway, but safety conscious, with airbags everywhere and antilock intelligent brakes. The thing’s even eco conscious, with a hybrid drive that lets it get good in-city gas mileage. And it’s not too crazy looks-wise either, in perfectly glossed black and chrome, with a smoke gray leather interior.