more than she should. But she compensated them well. And as her beloved workroom was above, she regularly visited the boutique-style store to ensure everything was as it should be for her loyal and growing clientele, who favoured the luxury-with-a-social-conscience brand she offered.
‘Let’s feature this in the window, shall we?’ Harley pulled a size two green silk dress from the rack and began to remove the protective tissue wrapping. ‘Let’s team it with the tan suede pumps.’ The spreadsheets, marketing and correspondence might be above her, but she understood how to put an outfit together, her eye for accessorising and layering contrasting textures spot on.
Belinda nodded, her attention snagged by someone entering the store behind Harley. She waved Belinda away. Her store manager moved to the front of the shop to intercept the customer.
Harley hung the dress on a hook outside the fitting room and stooped to snag the pumps she’d wear with this particular dress. Yes. That worked. She’d designed a faux-fur bolero that would finish this look to perfection...perfect for the opera, or theatre or...
Her phone buzzed and she snatched it from her purse, her shoulders drooping when she saw the message was from her assistant, confirming her lunch date with an A-list celebrity who loved her brand and wanted to discuss an endorsement. Then they dropped again when she realised she’d never actually given Jack her number.
‘Waiting for an important call?’
His breath warmed the back of her neck, raising the hairs. Harley jumped, but then the shock dissipated, leaving behind the throb from her pebbled nipples, an inconvenient thrill brought on solely by Jack’s husky voice. She closed her eyes, breathing hard, and fought the urge to lean back into his solid chest.
She schooled her features to neutrality and spun, slowly, to face him. The impact of him all suited up and sexy as fuck sent electricity zinging between her legs. She swallowed.
‘Shopping?’ She fisted a hand on her hip. ‘Can we help you find something?’ It wouldn’t do that he knew the effect he had on her body—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy his.
She ogled him shamelessly. He was dressed in a dark charcoal business suit and a blue shirt and tie—could she close the store, send Belinda on an early lunch break and persuade him out of his immaculate tailoring?
Harley held her breath as, in return, he eyed her up. Please let him be here for sex. Her panties turned slick and desire coiled in her belly as the uncontrollable lust poured through her system.
One eyebrow arched, his sinful mouth twisted. ‘Perhaps.’ He tilted his head and opened his jacket to push his hand into his pants pocket. ‘Do you have time for a tour?’
The vest he exposed matched the suit. She wanted to unwrap him layer by layer—yet to see him completely naked—and take her own tour of his sexy, cut, mature male body.
He waited, giving no indication he’d read her thoughts, or shared them. She flustered. He seriously wanted to look at couture, not peel her out of her clothes in the back room?
‘Sure.’ Harley placed her purse on the counter where a discreet Belinda busied herself at the computer. Her heart thumped with more than sexual anticipation.
Her business, her passion—it was more than a job for her. Would he understand what she tried to achieve? How hard she’d worked? What she’d overcome to have her own Fifth Avenue store turning over enough profit to fund initiatives she considered important?
He wouldn’t know how whole she’d felt the first time she’d created something with her hands, the summer she’d stayed with her grandmother, who’d spent long patient hours teaching her to sew. For the first time in Harley’s life something had come easily, when all else—reading, maths, writing—seemed like traversing the Grand Canyon on a broken pogo stick.
Would he get her, or dismiss her, like her father and Phil? She cleared her hot throat, meeting his stare, one of genuine interest.
‘Give is a concept store.’
He nodded, his thumb and forefinger stroking his cleft chin as his eyes scraped over her. She looked away, unable to witness any judgment from him, if it came. She moved to a wall of exquisite shoes, each designed by her and made in the US.
‘For every pair of shoes we sell, every purse, every item of clothing, the profits are turned into food and clothing in Third World countries.’
He frowned. ‘All the profits?’
She nodded, jutting out her chin. She’d heard it all before. Crazy. Naïve. Ridiculous.
‘I take a modest salary. The rest...it’s surplus. I’d rather see it doing real good than sitting in the bank.’ Her face grew hot. Why should his approval matter? ‘And I have no shareholders to pacify. The store is leased. A lot of the business is clicks, not bricks, so overheads are minimised.’
She moved to the make-up area, acutely aware of his proximity behind her. ‘All Give’s cosmetics are cruelty-free and packaged by disabled adults here in NYC.’ The surprise and admiration she saw in his face flooded her body with warmth, bolstering her sense of pride in what she’d painstakingly created and she herself often failed to enjoy. She’d spent too long compensating for her challenges. Too long doubting herself and her abilities to break the habit and take full ownership of her achievements, at least on the inside.
She warmed to her topic, basking in his interest.
‘Even our lingerie line contributes.’ She ran a hand through a rack of skimpy silk and lace, holding his stare. ‘Sales funding global women’s issues initiatives.’
Jack glanced at the froth, his fingers tracing the lacy edge of a rose-pink thong.
‘And you design everything here?’ He stepped closer, eyes hot, searing, probing deep inside her until she wanted to hide.
She nodded, pressing her thighs together as his fingertip lingered on the silky fabric. The air thickened, heat from his closeness making her dizzy with longing. He wasn’t even touching her but she was ready to combust.
He took the garment, if such a filmy scrap could be called that, from the rack and lifted it between them, eyes wicked.
‘You’re very...talented.’ Low, seductive, innuendo dripping from his tongue. His eyes flashed. He was picturing her in the thong he held in his hand.
Harley tilted her head, a challenge, half tempted to dash to the fitting rooms and oblige. To wipe that cocky smirk from his face, replace it with the burning lust he’d shown her that night in her apartment.
‘Would you like to see my workroom?’ Air caught in her chest. Why had she said that? Her inner sanctum? The creative space the only place that settled her mind and gave her a modicum of confidence in her abilities.
He nodded and followed her to the back of the store and up a narrow flight of stairs, the lingerie still in his hand.
Light spilled into the room from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and she cast an eye around the space, guessing at what he would see. Two long, wide cutting tables dominated the room, racks of paper patterns lined one wall and rolls of fabric occupied every corner, nook and cranny.
‘I’m working on my spring collection.’ She indicated the sketches and swatches cluttering
