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I let that simmering resentment drive me out onto the curb with my planner tucked carefully under one arm. It could be just another trip to the office if it wasn’t for the heavy shopping bag dangling from my other hand. The implications of the past few hours finally sink in as my arm registers the weight—he is actually going to make me wear that dress.
He’s making me accompany him to a club, containing only god knows what.
Heis makingme—which simply isn’t how things typically work in the world of Graeme Bellamy and his dutiful assistant, Evelyn. I tellhimwhat to wear and how to wear it. I tell him what time of day to arrive. What events he has to attend. When. Where. Why.
It’s what he pays me to do, after all. Not this. I don’t likethis—him… bossingme. A nervous swallow contracts my throat, and I shake my head to combat the unease. Regardless of the feeling, Evelyn King doesn’t back down from anything or anyone—not anymore.
Ignoring the curious stares of those I pass, I take the elevator up to the top floor and barge straight into Graeme Bellamy’s office with my head held high—in theory. In reality, I creep through the doorway, my heart pounding with every step, only to find that the man himself is nowhere in sight.
Oh, thank god. I glance over my shoulder to find that Ann isn’t even in her usual spot in the waiting room outside his door, either. Rather than wonder why that might be, I close the door behind me and attempt to get my bearings. Unsurprisingly, his desk is a mess—papers scattered in a haphazard stack and his pens lying strewn across the polished surface. He must have been in a rush for his next meeting—which he wouldn’t have been if I were there. Dropping the shopping bag on a leather chair placed nearby, I run my fingers along the desk’s surface. I’ve only begun to reach for the nearest document when a trickle of cool air brushes my neck.
“I thought I told you to meet me once you’vechanged, Evelyn.”
I flinch and turn to find Graeme Bellamy standing a few feet behind me, his eyes a glacial shade of blue. Before I can compose myself, he nods toward the shopping bag and then jerks his chin to the door. “I suggest you do so. Now.”
Ignoring the command, I scan every inch of him. At a glance, I can tell that he’s skipped lunch, probably breakfast as well, judging from the alarming tilt of his chin. His jaw is clenched, his gaze honed and focused. But…
He’s looking at me wrong. All wrong. Well, he’s actuallystaring, for one. His eyes perform a slow crawl from the top of my head down to my chest, and an unfortunate feeling comes to life in their wake.
Maybe it’s residual shock? After all—even though it was under duress—I stripped for him and modeled a thong via images. Images that are still on his phone. Images that he could blackmail me with later.
Dear god, what had gotten into me?
“I hope you requested a smaller size,” he remarks while straightening his tie. His voice contains no inflection—he could have been commenting on the weather. Not my clothing size. Not mybreasts. Both of which he had become more than familiar with within the past hour. In an almost comical silence, he cocks his head and glances at the “smaller” items in question. I turn away as my cheeks catch fire. I willnotallow myself to regret what transpired in the dressing room. He asked. He received.
I complied…
Maybe the impulsiveness stemmed from the fact that he didn’t do things like this—challenge me. Order me around. I know how to react when he sulks. Or when he threatens, glowers, or simmers like the devil.
In this instance? I’m woefully out of my element.
But I won’t back down without a fight. “I did,” I say, hating how high-pitched my voice sounds. “But I think I may need them specifically tailored. To properly accommodate my size, I mean.”
Abruptly Bellamy clears his throat, and I don’t know why I relish my brief bit of triumph so much. I’ve knocked him off balance for once. Good.
“I’ll arrange it.”
“What?” It takes everything I have in me to face him again and not flinch.
“I’ll arrange to have the items tailored to you specifically.” His eyes are as steely as ever, narrowed with focus. “Change and freshen up. We’ll go to dinner, before…” He can’t seem to mention anything about a club. Instead, he shakes his head. “There, we can discuss things.”
Discuss. Things.Thingssuch as Adrian Riley, mysterious clubs, and his sudden demand for me to wear gowns worth more than my rent, maybe? Or perhaps that raise I’ve been dancing around? I try to bite back the questions as I snatch up the shopping bag. Jutting my chin into the air, I stroll past Graeme Bellamy, out into the hall, and enter the single bathroom at the edge of the adjacent waiting room.
With the door closed and locked, I fish the gown from the bag and hold it up to my chest. My scowling reflection reveals my feelings perfectly. Oddly enough, I don’t hate the dress, per se. It’s something I would never wear, though I’m familiar enough with Bellamy’s past girlfriends—many of whom had graced the society spread of magazines on Mr. Bellamy’s arm, wearing his precious designs—to know that it’s his style. Satin. Expensive. Well-tailored. The man has taste—even I can give him that.
Sighing, I strip off my blouse and skirt and tug on the dress. It’s halfway up my hips when I remember the goddamned underwear. Or lack thereof… I don’t know what possessed me to buy the set he chose anyway, tucked away at the bottom of the shopping bag. The thong taunts me, its silken tag gleaming in the artificial light. I’m sure he made me wear them as a joke—some chauvinistic way of proving that he, Graeme Bellamy, owns me, no matter how many breakfasts I might nag him to eat or closets I may organize.
He could only wish. I do cave, however, and wear the bra. Even in a smaller size, the straps hang loose on me. Unlike the bony, stick-thin but still well-endowed women Bellamy tends to date, some benevolent surgeon has never enhanced my chest with silicone. Not to mention the fabric is so damn thin that I can see my nipples through it. Dark. Erect.
An embarrassing reaction thatisn’tbecause of Graeme Bellamy.
That statement plays like a mantra as I pull the gown’s straps over my shoulders and zip it up one-handed. The one item I apparently had no say in is a pair of dangerously high black heels that the saleswoman had picked out without comment. Once I’ve touched up my makeup and finger-styled my hair, the outfit is complete—avant-gardehumiliation.
When I fold my clothes neatly into the shopping bag with the abandoned scrap of underwear, I do my best not to show fear as I exit the bathroom. Already awaiting my walk of shame, I find Bellamy in his office, his back turned to me, his eyes on the view of the city in that sleepy pre-rush-hour traffic.
He stiffens as I approach. “Well, Evelyn…” He turns. He continues to stare. He frowns.
In two strides, he’s crossed over to me, his jaw clenched so tightly it actually seems like polished marble. Without warning, he reaches out and snags the black bra strap intertwined with the dress’ red. “Seriously, Evelyn, it’s like you’retryingto be insufferable,” he grouses. “Lift your arms.”
