I smile despite myself. “Impressive.”
“They don’t pay me to stand around looking pretty.” There are sounds of fabric crumpling. “So, what happens now?” She asks, her voice muffled. I picture her with the dress over her head, and try to blink the image out of my mind. “You just follow me around until, what, exactly? The police aren’t going to help, so I don’t think the threat will just go away.”
“We’ve got people back at Angel HQ tracking X down. Since you have CCTV footage and a DNA sample, when we find the right guy, we can get him locked up. Then you’re free to go.”
“X?”
“Since it’s the name he’s apparently given himself, that’s what we’ll call him until we can prove his identity.”
She hums. “And how exactlyare you going to findX?”
I examine the wallpaper. “We’ve got the Stalkers on the case. They’ll come back to us in a few days with a list of potential suspects. We’ll work from there.”
I hear her freeze. “Excuse me?”
“That’s probably a bad choice of words,” I admit. “The Stalkers are our cyber-analyst team. They’ll be trawling through all of your social media messages and comments, selecting profiles that seem suspicious, and then finding out as much as they can about the person behind the account. You’d be amazed at the information they can get. Address. National Insurance number. Bank details.”
“Huh. All legal?”
I don’t deign to answer that. There’s movement in the courtyard outside. I frown, leaning forward for a closer look. I can’t see anything out of the ordinary, but there’s a sick, uneasy feeling in my stomach. I scan the bushes, trying to work out what’s wrong with the picture.
“Matt,” Briar calls. “Can you give Michel his pin cushion?”
“Not a butler,” I remind her.
“No, but you have two free hands, which is more than both of us.”
Sighing, I straighten, turning to face her. When I catch sight of Briar in the silver dress, I freeze. It looks incredible on her, hugging her chest and hips. The sparkly tassels flow down her slight figure like she’s dripping in water, and the zipper is open, showing off her smooth, white back. Both she and Michel are holding it up, pinching the fabric where it needs to be pinned. I scan the workstation for the pincushion, handing it to the man.
“Ta,” he says. “Hold the sleeve here, please.”
“Seriously?”
“Unless you want your poor girl having a serious nip-slip, yes, I’m serious. My assistant called in sick today.”
Cursing internally, I hold the fabric where he directs me to, pinching it in place. Briar’s breath hitches slightly as the pad of my finger brushes her collarbone. Her skin is impossibly soft, like warm silk. Michel hums. “Here on the waist too, please.”
Wordlessly, I pinch another few inches of fabric. Briar’s trim, but I can still feel the soft curve between her waist and her hip. My hand itches to spread out and fit that curve in my palm.
Great.
Michel steps back and slides the pin cushion onto his wrist. “Excellent. Let’s get started, love.”
The next hour feels like some perverted form of torture. I hold scraps of silk to Briar’s hot skin as she breathes softly against me, her chest rising and falling veryvisibly under the low neckline. Michel has me touch her all over. Waist. Hip. Back. Shoulder. Every time she changes position, I get a whiff of her candy-scented perfume.
I can’t stop thinking about how I found her this morning; lying in bed, a toy inside of her, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. It was like stepping straight into a sex dream. I swallow, shifting my hips away from her as my pants tighten.
As he works, Michel natters on about celebrity gossip. “Let’s see. Mario Vasquez says you’re starting a smear campaign against him. Is it true that you called him a slimy pig?”
Briar shrugs. “It sounds like something I would say, doesn’t it?” She purses her lips. “Maybe I will start a smear campaign. I really dohate that guy.”
“Go for it, girl,” Michel enthuses. “Oh! And Lola Snow landed a deal with Sosex Fashion.”
“Gross.” Briar wrinkles her nose. “Sorry, how come I get called a stuck-up whore when I wear a pair of designer sunglasses, but no one has any issue when she promotes a brand everyone knows uses sweatshops? This is like, the third time she’s done this.” She hisses as Michel’s finger slips, and he pricks her with a pin.
“Sorry,” he apologises when I glare at him. “Call her out, babe.”
She pulls out her phone and starts tapping at the screen. I look over her shoulder. She’s drafting a tweet to the other actress.
