He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Your clothes were destroyed, and as much as I’d love to have you waltzing around the office naked, there’s probably some pesky Human Resources regulation against it. Just pick a few outfits to tide you over for the week.”
She let her gaze skitter back to the clothes and the two—because God forbid one should be enough—personal shoppers Brody had summoned to replace her wardrobe. They gave encouraging, bleached-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives smiles.
Everything was her correct size. “How did you know they would fit?” she asked them, fingering the label of a beautiful green suede skirt.
Before Colgate and Crest could answer, Brody chimed in. “I took a look at the shredded remains and asked for two sizes down. You have terrible taste in clothes, and you dress like my grandmother. I should have given you a clothing budget months ago so you could present a more professional face to our clients.”
“I am professional.” She stroked a silk bra, unprofessionally, enjoying the sensuous slide of it against her skin and trying not to let his casual words about her frumpy clothing bother her. “I just don’t dress like the rest of the office staff looking to grab the attention of Texas’s gift to Chicago.”
“Is that what they call me?”
“That’s what they call all of you. Like you have no idea how much heat you’re packing.”
He smirked at that.
Determined to wipe it off, she added, “Of course all the girls think you’re gay.”
Smirk, out. The male representative of the personal shopping pair regarded Brody with renewed interest.
“Why would they think that?”
“You don’t date. I manage your schedule and not once have you asked me to book a restaurant, make an excuse, or send apology flowers. No breathy admirers have ever called because they can’t get a hold of you on your cell.”
“So I keep my personal life personal. And I think we’ve dispelled the gay notion, don’t you?” He gave her a look of such heat it’s a wonder she didn’t melt into a gooey puddle of hormones on the spot.
She coughed, eager to recover her balance and send him off his. “So why don’t you date?”
“Is that what’s missing from our working relationship? Your need to schedule my dates as well as all other aspects of my life?”
Something lurched in Emma’s chest. She already hated these imaginary future dates she so wanted to schedule.
“Just being nosy.”
He arrowed a dark look her way. “I was engaged once, but it didn’t work out.”
“Had a hard time competing with your Doctor Who figure collection?”
He held her gaze, steel and soft at once. “We weren’t very compatible.”
Heat to rival a furnace blasted through her, his implication obvious. Sexually compatible. So the ex didn’t enjoy bossy, hair-pulling, dirty-talkin’ Brody between the sheets.
She returned her attention to the gorgeous things, unable to get the tune of Pretty Woman out of her head. They’d never had money for clothes; as a child, she always wore Salvation Army hand-me-downs. The three suits she owned prior to Kevin’s psychotic break—brown, black, and gray—she’d picked up at the White Elephant Charity shop. In becoming respectable, she didn’t want to attract attention; she just wanted to do her job.
But perhaps there was no harm in looking good while she did it.
“The navy pin-striped suit is nice,” she said tentatively. “Very professional.”
“Go try it on,” Brody said, not even looking up from his laptop.
Two minutes later, she came out, dressed head to toe in brand-new threads. Underwear, silk shell, gorgeous Michael Kors suit (no price tag, she’d noted) and nude heels that Katerina might scratch Emma’s eyes out for.
“Well, it fits,” she mumbled, suddenly shy.
Brody raised his gaze, and it felt like he drank her in. “It certainly does. Like it?” His voice sounded husky as all hell.
“Yes,” she whispered.
It took a couple of loaded beats to drag his gaze away from her, back to the clothing and the mute personal shoppers who avidly watched the electric exchange. “One each of everything. Charge it to my account.”
“Brody, you can’t do that.”
“Can and did.” He sighed. “You need lounging-around-in clothes as well as stuff for work. Your day job.”
Anger colored his voice, as if he hated to be reminded of what she’d done at the club. What she would have to go back to in five days if she didn’t come up with a plan.
“But I don’t need all these clothes.”
“I wish that were true. But Emma, you wearing all these clothes is about the only thing keeping me from biting that sweet little ass of yours. The more f*ck
ing layers, the better.”
…