the sense that when John had chosen teaching instead of big business, he’d left a hole Dad never bothered hoping Annabel could fill. Certainly not with something as girly as food service.
Was that what drove her? Partly, sure, that—and her own Dad-inherited need to do things in a big way. But the drive certainly fueled her irritation at the message on the flowers, which Quinn had bought to be supportive and thoughtful, so she should chill the heck out and…she glanced at her watch…yikes! Get dressed!
She took the stairs two at a time, launched herself into her room and came to a stop in front of the closet. All day she’d been distracted by thoughts of this date—what would they do? what would she wear? where would they go? would they…mmm…or not?—and finally decided to take Quinn at his word, wait to see what mood she was in and dress accordingly.
Now she wished she’d planned ahead, her usual strategy.
So…
Would they be going out? Staying in? There wasn’t much open now. Milwaukee was hardly the city that never slept. If they went out, she’d need something warm to combat the icy temperatures. But if they stayed in…she could get away with next-to-nothing.
Gulp.
Could she open the door to him in next-to-nothing?
Her stomach growled. She was starving, so she hoped the evening involved food, though if they stayed here, she had almost nothing to offer him, which meant—
Okay, Annabel, focus. Clothes first, the evening would decide itself.
She scanned the contents of her closet and glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes. Ack!
Pants? A Dress? Skirt?
Deep breath. Calm down. If she dressed her mood now, she’d have to wear something so full of static she’d crackle if anyone went near her.
First she needed to decide her mood. Something besides frazzled. She took more deep breaths, then deeper ones, closed her eyes, imagined seeing Quinn—how would she feel? Not quite daring. Not quite demure. Available, but not easy. Calm, confident, in control.
She opened her eyes and approached her closet again. She slid a hand between a black rayon blouse and white silk and encountered something exquisitely soft. Cashmere. Annabel drew the top out and smiled. Apricot-colored cashmere, wide neck, nearly off the shoulder, fairly tight fit.
Pair it with a slit-to-heaven, knee-length black wool skirt. Seductive without being obviously so, good to go out, good to stay in.
Yes.
She shed her sensible slim-fitting black gabardine pants and acrylic knit sweater, her skin and nerves enjoying the air and freedom. Stepped out of her Victoria’s Secret cotton panties, unhooked and pulled off her underwire bra, raced to the shower to soap off the kitchen smells, and came back into her room, too nervous to glance at the clock. Calm? Did she say she wanted to be calm?
Focus.
Underwear: black lace micro-bikini. Matching push-up bra. Sheer black thigh-high stockings.
Makeup: eyeliner, mascara, concealer, blush, the barest smear of deep rosy apricot color on her lips.
Before she put the skirt and top on, she stole to the mirror to check herself out. Would he see her this way tonight? Dressed only in black lace and nylon? Would he want to?
Oh, she hoped so. She very, very much hoped so. She looked good, her body slender, firm and strong. And suddenly she felt good, the way she looked, the way she wanted to appear—calm, confident and sexual.
A chuckle escaped her. He’d said to dress her mood. Well, this was pretty much it.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, someone she assumed was Quinn chose that exact moment to ring her front doorbell.
Annabel started and glanced at her clock.
Midnight. On the dot.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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