Sent over? What the fuck...? This isn’t Pretty Woman. I won’t be playing Julia Roberts to his control-freak Richard Gere.
‘I don’t need your clothes. We do have theatres in New Zealand.’ Damn. Now I’ll have to waste my afternoon shopping, with jet lag, when I could be hanging out with Will. My fingers dance on my thigh. I press my hand flat. ‘It’s just a play. Are all Brits as snobby as you?’ Will’s hubby, Josh, is lovely...
Another snort. ‘It’s more than a play.’ Another hot but assessing look. ‘Our clients expect the five-star service they pay for and which we deliver. Anyone can buy the best seats in the house—Faulkner clients want the personal touch. To be schmoozed and personally escorted by me and, if you want this job, by you also. Temporarily.’ He licks his bottom lip, contemplating the expression I hope says unfazed.
‘Personally, I don’t care what you wear,’ he continues, his eyes sliding over me with enough heat he could be imagining me naked. ‘But you cannot schmooze two of my most valued clients in jeans. Consider it a uniform, if it upsets you, but if you want the job, that’s one of my rules.’
How many rules does he have? And how many can I break? I narrow my eyes while the prickle of a thousand ants covers my skin.
Rules? Uniforms? Schmoozing?
I’ve spent years growing comfortable with who I am and overcoming where I came from. Tonight, dressed up in some sort of fancy frock so Kit’s VIP can flaunt his wealth, won’t be the first time I’ve felt like I don’t belong.
But Kit’s next words cement my decision.
‘Unless Reid has miscalculated...now’s the time to back out, Mia.’ A small smile tugs at his decadent mouth. My own lips tingle, the urge to kiss him returning in full force. He’d love it if I caved that easily—a big suck it to his brother and a way to get rid of the inconvenient woman who doesn’t own a cocktail dress with one blow.
‘I’m a Kiwi, as New Zealanders are affectionately termed. I’m up to any job.’
Including him, his intriguing impenetrable guard and his ridiculous rules.
I offer a saccharine smile. ‘I look forward to receiving your couture. I’m a size six shoe and size ten dress.’
Another swipe of his brooding stare scrapes at my nipples. ‘I know what size you are.’
Oh, I bet he does. I bet he’s used to controlling everything, including the wardrobes of fawning females, before showing them the sheet-clawing night of their lives and then scarpering faster than I could say Not with this chick, buddy.
I stand taller, using my height to my advantage. In flats Kit can still peer down at me, but in heels, something I rarely wear, we’d be almost eye to eye. Now, despite the fact that I’m immune to fancy clothes, I have no idea how to put on eyeliner and don’t own hair straighteners, my breath hitches as I look forward to tonight, to challenging both his misconceptions and his rigid control.
With one last smirk I can’t help but deliver, I offer him my hand for a curt handshake, turn on my heel and head for the door. ‘See you at six, then.’
My palm tingles as I walk away, still resonating with his touch, while the hum of an electrical storm buzzes throughout my nervous system. This job just became a whole lot more interesting.
And Kit’s sheet-clawing ride of a lifetime...tempting. A chuckle escapes me as I press the button for the lift. I’m a film-maker after all. Perhaps I’ll film the experience.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
