Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
The town car pulls to a stop just past the Paris Theatre. A doorman rushes over to open our door and a lady dressed in a black dress is a step behind him with a big umbrella.
"Mr. Romero, Ms. Kaplan, this way."
Before I can blink, I'm ushered inside.
"I'm Callie." The lady snaps the umbrella shut and offers her hand to me. "I'll be your assistant today. Mr. Romero indicated that you had lost your luggage and are in need of a full wardrobe replacement."
"He did, did he?" What a silly lie, but apparently if you're rich enough you can tell any story and people will repeat it faithfully.
Con sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to appear innocent, which is impossible because Con's a predator and will never be able to pull off a harmless look.
"Shall we?" Callie asks, but it's not really a question because she starts walking down the long, wide hallway. Stacked boxes line the walls.
"I lost my luggage but miraculously have my skirt and shoes but no shirt?" I whisper.
"Airlines aren't worth shit these days," Con replies blandly.
Callie leads us to an elevator and presses the button for the fifth floor. "I've put a selection of items in a dressing room for you, but if you want anything different, please let me know."
There's a note in her voice that suggests I won't like what she's put together. I cast another look toward Con, whose face reveals nothing. What would Con want to see me in? All buttoned up in a power suit? Super stylish? My heart sinks. I'm not a power suit sort of girl. I like frilly bows and lace and lots and lots of tulle. Old-fashioned princess is my style, but that's not popular these days.
A man like Con would probably want someone as polished as he is. The kind of woman that looks good in a modern art museum.
My phone beeps for the hundredth time. I know it's my dad, but I've been avoiding it. I guess I can't do that for much longer. I'll have to answer it while I'm changing. While Con hasn't come out and said anything, I don't think he's a fan of my dad. Maybe he knows that Dad tried to plant me here in hopes of gaining some insider tips. My heart sinks. I hope not. I'm not telling Dad a thing so I figured that I could keep that from Con. But what if he suspects?
I mean, Con's not dumb. He probably knows that Dad uses me to get investors to soften up. Hell, Dad used me on Con.
I cast a worried glance in his direction. His hand comes up to settle at the base of my neck and nearly immediately my anxiety subsides.
"I've got you," he reassures me in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.
What's that mean?
I know that Con has wanted me, but I cautioned myself not to become too hopeful about any results. Whatever time I got to spend with Con was a win. Even if it was just one night. Or that's what I told myself before I had a taste of what it felt like to be held in his arms. What it felt like to have his dick deep inside me.
Now I don't know if I can give that up.
We ride the elevator to the fifth floor. The doors open onto a plushly decorated waiting room. Callie walks to a door and opens it with a key. “Here we are, Ms. Kaplan. Mr. Romano, would you like to sit here?” Inside is a brightly lit collection of rooms. Three in total, I count. There are a couple of chairs, a small raised pedestal and more mirrors than are necessary.
“Remember, just let me know if you’d like anything else to try on. I’m going to get you some refreshments, but I’ll be back in a minute.”
Con nods briefly. “Thank you, Callie.” He settles into one of the upholstered chairs and gestures for me to get started.
I take a deep breath and enter the adjoining room, braced for the worst. Instead I gasp, joy spreading through me. If I had any doubts that Con knows me and what I like, they are completely laid to rest. Around me are some of the most delicate, gorgeous outfits imaginable—silk dresses in pretty pastels with dainty ruffles, shirts made of lace and not much else, a gorgeous tulle tutu skirt that makes my mouth water. A selection of gossamer baby-doll nighties. Tears fill my eyes—Con doesn’t want to change me, he wants me exactly as I am.
I whirl around in glee and can’t decide where to even start before my eyes land on a shirt that’s similar to the one that Con ripped but is even more stunning. It’s all silk, lace and pearl buttons and I glance at the label: Chloé. My heart stutters a moment as I imagine the cost, but then I mentally shrug—Con did owe me a replacement, after all.