The Millionaire's Club: Jacob, Logan and Marc. Brenda Jackson
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had to change clothes. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you for everything. You’ve transformed the pumpkin into a fancy coach, Fairy Godmother. You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go on home now?”
“Yeah, right,” Alison said. “And give you a chance to change into something less revealing, less sexy and more conservative the minute I walk out the door? Uh-uh. Besides, it’s too late. Mr. Wonderful just pulled up.”
Well, yikes, Christine thought and tugged up the plunging neckline in a vain attempt to cover a little more skin.
“Go,” Alison said and gave her an encouraging squeeze. “Answer the door. And let the begging begin.”
Yeah. As if Jacob Thorne would ever beg for her.
On a deep breath she walked out of the bedroom. Her knees were wobbly as she headed down the hall and regarded the front door to her apartment as if Jack the Ripper were about to make an impromptu appearance.
Not Jack. Jacob. Jacob the Thorne. And his knock was solid and confident.
She wished she could say the same about her knees. This was so ridiculous. The way she looked. The way she’d dressed. The outrageous way her heart was hammering. All because the man on the other side of the door had orchestrated a pretend date to have a little more fun at her expense.
The reminder was all she needed to regain her composure. He wanted to make a joke of her? Fine. At least she was turned out in a way that might give him a twinge of regret.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt and immediately regretted that she may have soiled the delicate silk crepe. Regrouping, she pasted on a smile and opened the door.
“Hi,” she said and had the disarming experience of watching his arrogant hey-baby grin slowly deflate to be replaced by a look of complete and utter shock.
Chapter Four
“Um…hello?” Christine repeated again after several long, uncomfortable seconds had passed.
He hadn’t said a word. He just stood there. Looking her up and down. Slowly. Very slowly.
“Hello,” he said finally, his voice deep and gruff. Very, very gruff. “Hello, hello, hello,” he repeated slowly.
His smile had returned. A pleased, surprised, uniquely charming smile, and if she wasn’t careful, she might start to think he actually was happy to see her. And that he actually liked what he saw.
“You have legs,” he said, standing back to take another long, blatantly appreciative look. “Nice legs.”
“Um. Well.”
Sparkling response, Christine. Just sparkling.
“Nice, Chrissie,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “You look very, very nice.”
“Um. Well.”
Is there a really stupid echo in here? And why are my cheeks so hot?
“I’ll…I’ll, um, just go get my purse.”
“It will be my pleasure to wait here and watch you go get it,” he said, another grin in his voice that made her glance back over her shoulder—and get caught off guard by the heated look in his eye.
She turned her head back so fast, she made herself dizzy. At least, that’s why she thought she was dizzy. It had nothing to do with the way he looked in his rich cobalt-blue suit and expertly knotted silk tie. Or the way he smelled—like some pricey, seductive, masculine cologne that brought to mind mint and musk and the subtle undercurrents of testosterone.
And it definitely had nothing to do with the way he was looking at her. As if he wanted to gobble her up in one big, wolfish bite.
Wolfish? Get real. This wolf usually hunted for foxier game than her. He probably had indigestion or something.
She felt a hot river of self-consciousness trickle through her. Why was she putting herself through this? Maybe he did like what he saw—but what he saw was an illusion. A surprise in something other than drab mode.
She was still exactly what Jacob Thorne thought she was—a dowdy, inexperienced, pushing-thirty old maid trying to play dress-up. A woman who was so afraid of men because of what her father had done to her and her mother and so afraid of letting herself fall into that same horrible spiral of humiliation and pain that her M.O. was to make herself as plain and unappealing as possible so men wouldn’t notice her. And God forbid a man ever showed any interest in her, because she’d pop out her porcupine quills and warn him away with her bristles and barbs.
She felt chilled to the bone suddenly. And hot all over at the same time. Talk about self-discovery. Why did she have to experience this particular discovery now? And why did it have tears gathering in her throat?
“Chris?”
She turned her head to see Alison standing in the bedroom doorway holding her purse. The concern in her eyes had Christine blinking back tears again.
“Oh, sweetie. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I’m not the kind of woman who can go out to dinner with that kind of man.”
“The hell you can’t,” Alison said, intuitively sensing that Christine was in the midst of a monumental cold-feet moment. “Don’t you dare put yourself down that way.”
Alison shoved the little black clutch purse into Christine’s hand. “Now, you are not going to waste that dress and that hair and that makeup, do you understand me? You. Look. Incredible. Work it. Enjoy it. Feel the power, girl. You own it tonight. And the way you look, you’re gonna own him, too.”
Alison hugged her hard, then turned her around and literally shoved her into the hall.
“There you are,” her date said when she lurched into the living room. “Thought you’d decided to bail on me.”
Alison’s words bounced around in her head.
Feel the power. You own it…
As incredible as it seemed, when she looked and saw real interest—not just surprised curiosity—in Jacob’s eye, she did feel the power. At least, a little power surge. For all of his smooth words and sexy smiles, she’d never seen him quite the way he was tonight.
Off balance. Just a tad uncertain. As though maybe he really did like what he saw—and it had surprised him.
Maybe the balance of power had shifted in that moment when she’d opened her door and he’d seen her standing there. Not looking like Prissy Chrissie Travers, as even she had begun to think of herself. But looking like a woman. A vibrant, self-confident woman who recognized her burgeoning power—yes, power—over a man who had always had the upper hand.
Okay. Maybe that was overplaying it. But there was something. If not power, at least a measure of self-confidence she’d never felt before. With luck, it would last through the evening.
“Bail? No,” she said as a calm resolve descended over her. “I’m not going to bail.”
The stakes were suddenly too high. This was no longer just about acquiring Jess Golden’s things. This was about something bigger. Much bigger. And as soon as she figured out exactly what was happening to shake her and yet empower her, she’d know what she wanted to do about it.
Butterfly, Jake thought as they walked into Claire’s and he got a whiff of some exotic, flowery perfume. She’d definitely turned into a butterfly. Sleek, satiny and mysterious. And, man, had it been worth the hassle to witness the full effect of the metamorphosis.
Superserious, profoundly professional and supremely prickly Christine Travers with her sensible clothes and plain-Jane package was long gone. In her place was a sophisticated, sexy siren possessed of