I walk through the living area, and when I reach her desk, I don’t slow down, just say as I pass, “Come here.”
I head straight to the bedroom where I throw all the bags on the bed, turning to face Emma walking in behind me. Her eyes go down to the parcels I just deposited, and then back to me. “What’s all that?”
“New clothes for you,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest. “You need to try them on now, so anything that doesn’t fit will get returned.”
“New clothes for me?” she asks hesitantly. “You went shopping for clothes for me?”
“The stylist here in Miami did,” I tell her. “I snooped through your suitcase and gave her your sizes.”
At that admission, Emma’s eyes narrow at me and she grits out, “You went through my clothes?”
“Yup,” is all I say, and I stare her down, daring her to argue with me about any of this.
And I’m banking on an argument. My time having Emma on this tour is limited. She didn’t come to the Atlanta show, preferring to stay on the bus, where she scurried to after the press conference she sat in on with me. She didn’t want to hang at the after-party, and she’s refusing to engage with me otherwise. She’s all work, work, work and that is most definitely interfering with my plans for her.
Ordinarily, I’m a patient guy and I could give her more time, but fuck that. I decided since we were in Miami for a few days, I’d take the bull by the horns and start insisting that my little employee start doing what I want since I’m the one paying her.
“Just why in the world did you think I needed you to buy me clothes?” she asks in short, clipped bursts of anger.
“Because you,” I say as clearly as possible as I wave my hands toward her, “dress like an Amish spinster. And while you did a good job fielding reporters at the Atlanta show, you sounded a little rehearsed and you can do better. I’m not quite sure anyone really bought what you were saying in your prim little business suit. You’re a member of the rock industry now, and you should look the part. Not like you should be up there quoting the stock exchange.”
“I was nervous,” Emma practically growls at me. “And my clothes don’t have a damn thing to do with it.”
“You represent the brand of Evan Scott,” I say adamantly as I lean toward her. “And you’re going to act the part with one-hundred percent devotion.”
“I’m not wearing clothes you choose for me,” she bites back stubbornly, her little hands now clenched into fists.
“You most certainly are,” I retort. To make my point, I start emptying the bags out onto the bed. Clothes start piling up… jeans, sexy skirts, skimpy shirts, high heels and boots, and—
“You bought me lingerie?” Emma screeches as she grabs up a bra done in black lace with red satin trim.
“Technically, the stylist did,” I tell her. To add fuel to the fire, I grin at her. “But I would not be averse to you trying that on right now and perhaps giving me a little fashion show.”
“Oooh,” Emma screeches in anger, taking the bra and throwing it at me, where I catch it cleanly before it hits my face. “I am not trying on any of this, and you cannot dictate how I dress.”
And fuck me standing… she’s goddamn hot as hell right now. Same high color to her cheeks, eyes blazing, and hair seeming to fly all around her face as if the torrent of anger coming at me is electrifying it.
“I am your employer,” I tell her imperiously, folding my arms back across my chest without letting go of the sexy bra. “I am an entertainer. I have a brand. I can most definitely tell you how you should dress.”
“Not down to my underwear,” she hisses at me, her cheeks flaming brighter as her eyes flick to the bra.
“You wear granny panties, Emma.” I sneer at her in disgust, and yes… real disgust because Emma is a passionate woman and should never be wearing grandma underwear. “You act like you wear granny panties. It’s bad for my image.”
If I thought she was mad before, her eyes practically blaze with undisguised fury. She leans her upper body toward me, her fingers flexing outward and clenching back into fists repetitively. Through gritted teeth, she snarls, “You conceited, narcissistic barbarian. How dare you think to judge me based on something as shallow as my clothing?”
I cock an eyebrow at her and chide, “Come on, Emma. Granny panties. You can do better than that.”
“Aagh,” she screams in frustration. I’m stunned when she bends over the bed, gathers up an armful of clothing, and throws it at me. “You… you… you asshole!”
And I’m a fucking goner.
My hands shoot out fast, grabbing her by the shoulders, and I pull her into me so hard her head snaps backward. I get just a brief glimpse of her eyes rounding in surprise before my mouth is crashing down onto hers.
Emma whimpers, possibly in fear, and I have a moment where I go shockingly still. But then Emma’s hands grip onto my biceps and she squeezes, and that’s enough for me.