I don’t know what’s going on, but I hope Ryder isn’t buying me a new wardrobe. I already have decent clothes, collected over the years from clearance racks and eBay. Nothing in my closet comes close to the stuff that people in his social circle wear, but there’s nothing unacceptable. Certainly nobody’s complained about what I wear lately…not even Mira, who did criticize my outfit on my first day of work because she deemed my white cotton button-down shirt and khaki-colored skirt cheap and unbecoming.
At two thirty, four glossy black boxes with golden edges arrive in my office. They have no brand name or logo. A note written on a heavy ivory card is on the top of the pile, stuck to it with a diamond-tipped pin.
Wear the one that looks best on you. If you can’t decide, call me and I’ll decide.
–JM
I open them and gape at the jewel-toned clothing inside. Any one of the pieces has more silk, chiffon, satin and lace than my entire closet. My gaze falls on a deep garnet-colored dress and a sapphire blue vision in silk. The first has a V-neck and cute string straps and a flirty mid-thigh skirt. Priceless European lace wraps around the fitted bodice, creating an interesting contrast and texture. The blue one’s simpler, just the silk, but I like the off-the-shoulder look and the asymmetrical design that somehow makes it über-sophisticated.
They both come with matching shoes—classic strappy stiletto sandals with three-inch heels—and two sets of accessories complete with necklaces and chandelier earrings.
I lay both of them over the back of the couch in my office and move back, resting my hip on the edge of my desk. Was this Mira’s doing? She mentioned turning the whole farce into some kind of Cinderella publicity coup. If so, she might’ve decided to cast herself as the Fairy Godmother.
Pushing myself off the desk, I pick up the blue dress. The simplicity calls out to me, but beyond that the color is soothing. My nerves seem more frayed than usual, and I need a bit of calm.
I change, touch up my makeup and brush my hair until it’s shiny and tumbles down one shoulder in smooth waves. Ryder’s clearly planning something, and I don’t want to do anything that might end up being embarrassing.
I run clammy hands over the back of my chair. No need to worry. This is just us giving everyone a good show, to convince Julian that Ryder’s married for real, so he’ll have no choice but to hand over Thomas Reed’s painting.
But looking at the “props”, I can’t help but think that I’m in way over my head.
Chapter Twelve
Ryder
The way our conversation ended yesterday morning still chaps my ass. The idea that Paige thinks that I’m so shallow and fickle really bugs me. On the other hand, she does know all my habits…and vices. She was just making a logical assumption based on her observations, and I shouldn’t take it personally.
After all, I do want people to think of me as a carefree playboy who can’t be satisfied with one woman. That way no woman is going to think she can reform me, or make me fall in love with her, or any of that happy horseshit. And I like it that way. The girls don’t get hurt, and it gives me my freedom because nobody can get close enough to draw blood.
Once was enough.
I time everything so that dinner will be ready just as the shiny stretch limo pulls in to my Malibu place. I could’ve chosen a restaurant, but I really wanted something more private than that…although not so private that the news of our engagement doesn’t leak.
Two stories high, the structure has everything you could possibly want—all the modern amenities, including a massive climate-controlled wine cellar, an integrated audio system and a rooftop infinity pool—and most importantly the view. The walls fronting the ocean are all glass; they and the ridiculously large terrace have an unobstructed view of the Pacific, and the place is as private as it can be for the location.
The limo driver texts me—Five minutes. I check everything in the kitchen once more then go out to wait for her. On the other side of the street is a once-respectable Honda with mud spattered plates. It’s been there ever since I arrived, and I can see shadows on the other side of the dark, tinted windows. I roll my eyes. The paparazzi shouldn’t have bothered.
Within a minute the limo pulls up, and the driver steps out to open the door for Paige. When she emerges my chest tightens.
She is seriously stunning in that blue number. I wanted Josephine to send me pictures of the clothes she selected, but she refused, saying I needed to wait to see what Paige chose.
Well, the wait was worth it. Blue silk flows over her generous curves. One bare shoulder is practically begging to have a trail of hot kisses left along the collarbone. The breeze from the ocean teases her hair, blowing it around her head like a silken cloud. When she turns to thank the driver, I see the low back. There’s no way she’s wearing a bra underneath that dress, and the knowledge pulls all my blood downward.
She climbs the steps to the top where I’m standing. Her eyes shine as she looks up at me. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself,” I say with a smile.
“So. Malibu, huh? I thought this place was a myth.”
“A myth?”
I guide her across the front portico, putting a hand to the small of her back. She is unexpectedly soft under my palm, and her scent wraps around me. It has to be some kind of perfume because it’s too enticing to be natural. Not to mention it’s too complex, with layers and layers of different aromas. I could stand next to her and inhale all day long.
Which is completely not the role this situation calls for.
I unlock the door to the house and re-enter the security code.
“I’ve heard people talking about it,” she explains. “I know you pay property taxes, but I’ve never seen you do anything here.”