Mallorie picks up after three rings. “Hey, how’s it going?”
I glance down and my outfit and decide to spare her the details of my little dress-up session. “Well, I’ve managed to get seven mannequins but it seems the rest are jammed beneath an old piano in a box.
“Ah shit,” she hisses. “I told Phillippe to put that thing out of the way.”
I glance up at the offending instrument wedged in the box in a corner of the warehouse. “I mean, it kind of is,” I say.
“You’ll need to get someone from the port offices to help you.”
“They’ll do that?”
“Hate to say it, but if you push out your breasts and give them a smile they will.”
I arch a brow. “Will it help if I’m wearing, say, a… showgirl outfit?”
“Erin, you didn’t.” She giggles at the other end.
“I look freaking amazing, Mal.”
“Then absolutely. They might even send acrewdown to help you.”
Laughing, we hang up and I smooth my hands over the tight costume. There’s barely room in it to breath, but it might just make the next hour of my life a lot easier.
I jog in my sneakers back to the offices and knock.
“Yeah?” A deep voice invites me inside.
Carefully closing the door, I turn to face my audience, and my stomach almost hits the floor. Two unfamiliar men aresitting at a desk, while a third one is standing, his back leaning against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets, suit jacket rippling over a hard body. Dark hazel eyes turned toward me, a Roman nose I’m fast becoming familiar with and a mouth that I know first-hand is capable of issuing the filthiest of threats.
His eyes widen a touch when he recognizes me, then they drift down my body in a hot caress, whispering over the tops of my thighs to my very toes, then back to my beet red face.
He says nothing.
Meanwhile, the voices in my head havetoo muchto say.
How can this be happening to me?
Why did I decide to wear a showgirl outfit to seek help from a bunch of port workers?
What ishedoing here?
At what point do I get to die on the floor and put an end to this fresh hell?
“Um…I can explain,” I start, shakily.
One corner of his mouth twitches. “Please do.”
“I have a bit of an emergency, and I, um, I need some help.”
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Because when I imagine you handling a crisis, this is exactly what I picture.”
Embarrassment floods through me and I can’t help but fling a smart remark in his direction.
“You should have seen the other options. There were nipple tassels. I showed restraint.”
One of the two other men smirks and earns himself a shockingly fast, dark glare. When he turns back to me, his eyes soften.
“Where’s this emergency?”
