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Ten
Go big or go home.
That’d been Taylor’s mantra through drying off after her shower and refreshing her one-and-a-half-inch-barrel curls. From smoothing body oil over her legs and arms to letting the La Perla slip and slide over her smooth, sensitive skin. She’d dug through her underwear drawer and found the matching lace thong. She hadn’t worn the thong before either, having categorized it as something she’d wear “someday” like the lingerie.
But now that she was standing in Royce’s foyer wearing nothing but silk and lace, now that her hands were nervously tightening the belt on her trench coat, she worried that she’d gone too big. That maybe she should go home.
“Perfect timing. I had no one to celebrate with and here you are. Can I interest you in a glass of wine?” Royce asked casually as if her showing up at his residence at 10:00 p.m. in do-me heels and a very short trench was normal behavior.
“Sure.”
He took her clutch and keys from her shaking hands and gestured to the closet in the foyer. “You can hang your coat if you like.”
She worried for a hot second that he had X-ray vision and knew exactly what she wore beneath her coat—that he’d gleaned the real reason she’d come here.
“No. Thank you. I’m, uh...cold.”
He dipped his head in a short nod, his expression revealing none of his thoughts. “Red Zin should help with that.”
He moved to the kitchen and she walked into the living room. She’d been here once, shortly after he’d moved in five or six years ago. It’d been a great space then but lacked the warmth it exuded now. The cigar-colored leather couch and modern gas fireplace in the center of the wall made her want to curl up in her jammies with a good book.
“Your wine.” A balloon-shaped, stemless glass appeared in front of her and she took it, ignoring that her palms were starting to sweat.
Her previous roar of womanhood had turned into a kitten’s mew.
How disappointing.
Worse, her confidence was flagging. It was possible she’d read Royce’s reaction today wrong. Maybe he hadn’t been checking her out. Maybe for him, peeking at her cleavage was no more interesting than...than...the plant in his foyer. Was that so unbelievable? That he could resist her?
Ugh.
“Royce, listen...” Setting the wineglass down, she faced him, ready to excuse herself and apologize for barging in. She wasn’t prepared to confess the truth, but the excuse of work might be plausible enough to explain away her being here.
Maybe.
“Have you changed your mind about the coat?” His question startled her speechless. She’d never felt so vulnerable in her life.
If she said no, she could blather on about Lowell Olsen some more, saying how she wanted to discuss strategies. Royce would listen patiently, dole out advice and then she’d be on her way home no worse for wear.
But if she said yes... If she allowed Royce to peel her out of the coat and stood before him in her underwear, well... There’d be no explaining away why she was here, would there?
She was at the ultimate point of no return.
He might wrap her up in her coat—or hell, the nearest blanket—and command her to “go home, young lady.” Okay, probably he wouldn’t say that, but the sentiment would be implied. She was younger than him by six years, and hadn’t his age been trotted out as one of the reasons she wasn’t supposed to take an interest in him?
It was possible that, aside from the anomaly at the gala, he still saw her as his youngest sister’s best friend. Not a woman who wanted to strip him out of his suit and spend a good deal of time with him naked.
Fear pressed against the base of her throat as she considered the likelihood that she’d blown his behavior this week out of proportion. Maybe his slow glances weren’t interest, but mere curiosity.
“Taylor?” His eyebrows pinched in confusion. This was her chance to undo the potentially cataclysmic choice she’d made to come here. Possibly her last chance to escape unscathed.
But another deeply rooted desire shouted in protest. This was also her last chance to grab hold of what she wanted. She’d never had a rebellious streak. Why not start now?
Royce’s hand hovered in midair, poised to take her coat if she was brave enough to hand it over.
“So?” the horned devil on her shoulder whispered, “What’s it going to be?” Before Taylor could consult the angel on her other shoulder, the winged-and-haloed hussy nodded her encouragement.
Damned if she did... Damned if she didn’t.
