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‘I did not book you in as a couple,’ Avery protested for the umpteenth time. ‘I can’t help it if Sherry got the impression you two were...together.’
‘And then,’ Claudia said, ignoring Avery’s arguments because they both knew damn well who had planted those impressions in Sherry’s head, ‘you sabotage my wardrobe.’
‘We’re going dancing—you need your dancing dress.’
Claudia glanced at the dress again, then firmly turned her back on it. ‘The blue one is fine.’
‘Of course it’s fine. But the red one...’ Claudia heard Avery sigh loud and clear across the connection and rolled her eyes. ‘The red one is ooh-la-la. Every man’s head is going to turn when you walk into the room in that thing. Every man is going to want to dance with you. Your dance card will be full.’
‘I don’t want every man’s head turning,’ Claudia said waspishly. ‘I don’t want to dance with every man in the room.’
There was a pause for a moment before Avery’s voice said softly in her ear, ‘Just the one?’
‘Avery,’ she warned. ‘Forget about Luke and I.’
There was another silence during which Claudia could almost hear the thoughts whizzing around in her friend’s head.
‘We can never have that kind of relationship, Avery,’ Claudia said, gentler his time. ‘We’ve known each other too long. Too well. And he’s too cynical about love.’
It helped to say the words out loud, and not just for Avery’s sake. ‘It’s never going to happen.’
A brief pause followed this time but Avery was never one to be kept down. ‘So that’s even more reason to go out and let your hair down,’ she enthused. ‘You deserve a night on the town. So go knock ’em all dead in that dress.’
Claudia turned back to face the dress. ‘I don’t know, Avery...I’m kind of tired.’
It was a lie, of course; the massage had rejuvenated her from the inside out and it had been such a long time since she’d danced...and if Luke wasn’t going to be there she’d definitely be up for a party.
She stroked a finger down the deep V of the halter neck.
‘Oh, come on, you know you’ll have fun once you get into it.’
‘I suppose...’
Avery tutted in her ear. ‘Suppose? Phfft! You know you’ll love it. Now, say it out loud. I, Claudia Davis, will put on my red dress and shake my booty all night and I will enjoy it.’
‘Avery.’
‘Say it!’
Claudia sighed and repeated the requested phrase. ‘Louder,’ Avery said. ‘Say it with feeling.’ Claudia said it louder. And with feeling.
‘There, now, doesn’t that feel better?’ she asked.
Claudia smiled. ‘Yeah, it does.’
‘Good,’ Avery chirped and the triumph in her voice was infectious. ‘Now, what have you learned from this incident?’ she asked, then gleefully supplied the answer to the rhetorical question. ‘That Avery’s always right.’
Claudia laughed. ‘No. Try never trust someone who has access to your door key.’
* * *
Luke almost had a heart attack when he called on Claudia to pick her up right on the dot of seven as they’d prearranged. She was swathed head to ankle in slinky dark red velvet. Like crushed raspberries.
And he was starving.
Her hair was in some kind of messy up-do that trailed blonde wisps down her nape, her shoulders were bare, her clea**vage was bare—do not think about her breasts—and she had on some strappy shoes with ten crimson toenails flashing at him in all their sinful glory.
She looked as if she’d been shrink-wrapped from chest to hips into the dress before it flowed around her thighs and calves.
‘You’re wearing that?’
Claudia supposed she could have taken offence at his rather rude greeting, but she wasn’t stupid and she didn’t believe in acting obtuse around men. It was clear she’d stunned him and her feminine ego swelled dramatically.
‘And good evening to you too,’ she murmured, pulling her door closed.
Luke ignored the gentle reprimand. He looked into the depths of her cleavage. ‘Don’t you have some kind of...’ he waved his hands in the general direction of her shoulders and clea**vage ‘...wrap?’
Claudia’s chin rose. ‘No.’
‘Don’t you think you should?’
Claudia smiled and shook her head. ‘You do know I’m not six years old any more, right?’
Luke blinked as she swept past him and headed for the lift, the dress clinging to every microscopic movement of her body. The palm that had held the softness of her breast tingled.
