Page 32 of Damaged Billionaire Daddy
Please try this on and let me know if it needs alterations or if you dislike it. There is still plenty of time to get a different one or to have this altered if you would rather have something different.”
It was signed, “Richard,” and a phone number was written across the bottom of the sheet.
Of all the arrogant jackasses! Did he think he could buy me off with a dress? And what kind of thing was he taking me to that I would need a get-up like this one?
But . . . my eyes were drawn back to the dress. It was gorgeous. It was dramatic, and over-blown, and probably cost more than I’d make in a year. I was tempted to try it on, but I was hot and sweaty. Suddenly I was afraid to even touch it before showering. I’d put a permanent stain on it, tear the draperies or pop one of the beads off the bodice.
What were those beads anyway? They weren’t glass, that was for sure. They had a density to them, and each one had a natural gradation of color, almost like water, shifting from a pale green to a deeper green, and sometimes almost into a dark blue. They didn’t sparkle, but they seemed to glow with their own personal energy.
Upon closer inspection, I realized the slightly larger beads that went down the front were actually buttons. The wearer would be able to get in and out of this gown without requiring help.
Before I could talk myself into trying on that marvelous confection, I pulled my phone out of my purse and punched in the number.
It was picked up on the third ring. “Richard Lane,” came the rich, deep voice on the other end. I felt as if I was melting just from the sound of it.
No man had the right to sound that sexy over the phone, especially one that was as big an asshole as Richie. It made me feel irritable, prickly, and . . . and . . . just . . . and that dress was fabric temptation, just looking at it I could imagine how it would feel on my skin.
“What is this?” I demanded in the most aggravating, strident tone I could manage.
“What is what?” he asked innocently.
I thought my head would explode. I could just imaginethe self-satisfied smirk on his face. “This dress! It is absolutely too much.”
“Oh, no,” he assured her. “Compared to what everyone else will be wearing, that is just a simple little frock. But I didn’t want you to show up in your last year’s prom dress and be embarrassed.”
“In my what?” I nearly shouted. “I didn’t even go to my prom. I went to my college entrance exam that day and the test center was too far away to get back for anything so silly.”
“Well, now,” he crooned in a Bostonian imitation of a Texas drawl, “I’m right sorry to hear that. I bet you were cute as a button when you were a senior in high school. The men in your graduating class have no idea what they missed out on.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I put as much snark in my voice as I could manage, “but for all you know, I was skinny and gawky, and had spavined knees like a foundered old cow.”
He laughed. It was a genuine laugh, not a put-on throaty chuckle such as I might have imagined. And what he said next melted my heart like butter in the sun. “I can’t imagine you as gawky, and I bet your knees were just fine. But even if you had been, those boys missed out on something — and it is my good luck that they didn’t have a clue.”
“I bet you say that to all the women you take on mystery dates,” I said. It was a lame come-back, but right then, that was all I had.
“Nope,” he said in his regular voice. “Only to the lovely ladies who used to be skinny little girls. Or plump little girls. Or athletic little girls or . . .”
“All right, all right,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “You’ve made your point. But I can’t accept this dress.”
“Sure you can,” he said. “It’s rented. I’ll send it back afterward. I wish I could buy it for you to keep, because I bet youare going to make it look like a million bucks. But I really can’t. My budget is big, but not big enough to buy something like that for a one-time gig.”
“Rented?” Now I was terrified to even touch the thing. “What if I spill something on it? Or tear it?”
“It’s more durable than it looks,” he said. “And anyway, it’s insured. If something happens, I won’t get all of my deposit back, but that’s only a tiny sum compared to buying it.”
I sat down on the bed, dumbfounded. Then I hopped right back up because I nearly sat on one of the sleeves. “Insured?” I gasped. “What is it made of, cloth of gold?”
“Not hardly,” he chuckled, and this time it was the put-on sexy male laugh that was supposed to melt feminine hearts but mostly made you want to hit the bozo making the sound. “The fabric is silk velvet and silk chiffon, but the expensive part is the jade buttons and beads. Try not to lose one of them, ok?”
I drew in a sharp breath. So that’s why the color was so beautifully nuanced. No wonder the dress was insured. “Mr. Lane,” I said firmly, “I cannot possibly be responsible for a dress like this. I’ll spill something on it, or catch the hem on something, or lose one of those expensive buttons. Right now, I’m afraid to even touch it after sitting at the Ice Cream Emporium. Who knows what kind of crud I have on my hands?”
“Miss Quinn,” he replied with equal firmness, “I need a plus one who can wear that dress. You are the only woman I know who can even remotely pull it off.”
I thought furiously. He had to have some kind of special motive. “Are you still trying to use me to get my grandfather’s business?”
“Kandis,” he said, sounding a little desperate now. “Please. Just go shower or whatever you need to do to feel comfortable touching the dress and try it on. The designer will beglad to work on it if it needs adjusting. I need a bit of arm candy to show off at this shindig, and I think you will be perfect.”
“All right,” I said. “But don’t blame me if you lose your deposit.”
