But as soon as she sees my face, she jerks back.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else. My bad. Have a good one.”
I smile and nod, not trusting my voice right now, because the moment she called meLizzy, my British accent bubbled up in my throat, just like every time I used that alias.
With perfect timing, a dark-haired woman sweeps up to my side, and Mindy scurries out of earshot.
“Ms. Carson?”
I meet her clear gray gaze and force the British accent down. “Are you Sally or Britta?”
“Yes, I’m Britta. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I understand you need a dress for dinner at Per Se.”
I can only imagine what Cannon told her, but from the way she’s sizing me up, I have a feeling I’m not what she expected. This isn’t aRichard Gere sends Julia Roberts to Rodeo Drive because she has no decent dresssituation, and for some reason, I get the sense that’s the scene she was expecting to play out.
I shine my brightest smile on her as I shake my head in what I hope is an indulgent fashion. “He really does go overboard with wanting to spoil me sometimes.”
I don’t know why I make it sound like this is a normal occurrence for Cannon and me, but I’m following my instincts here. Something tells me Britta might want Cannon for herself.Or maybe she already had him.I brush the thought away as Britta’s smile falters.
“How lucky for you. Why don’t you come with me? I have a selection already pulled based on his comments, but now I’m wondering if you wouldn’t rather just pick your own.”
Yep, she was totally expecting Pretty Woman.Maybe even hoping for it?
I follow her trim figure, graceful in her Manhattan uniform of all black, toward the area where the couture gowns and dresses are displayed. “Simple and elegant. That’s all I need.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I don’t want to put it on his account either, because I have my own, but that would be the height of stupidity.It won’t be weird to wear something he paid for. Consider it a costume,I tell myself, but even I know that’s not true.
There’s something very alpha and dominant about a man clothing a woman, and therefore, I shall pretend it doesn’t affect me.And here I am, lying to myself.
In the lavish private dressing area, meant for personal shoppers and their clients, she shows me an array of dresses. Five of the six are ugly as sin. High fashion, expensive as hell, and proof once more that it doesn’t matter what label and price tag you put on things, some are just freaking hideous.
The last is a simple black A-line cocktail dress with a low-cut bodice and almost no ornamentation.
“If you don’t like any of these, I’m happy to bring in a selection more to your taste.”
I shake my head. “I’ll try the black one. I need a size—”
“Mr. Freeman provided your dress size. I just need your shoe size, and I can pull some heels for you to try on with it.”
“Eight,” I murmur, and she hands me the dress and disappears in search of shoes.
How the hell did he know what size I wear?A wave of heat washes over me as I close the door to the private dressing room and stare down at the tag. He was absolutely right about the size, though.Is he really watching me that closely?
As I slip out of my uniform, I’m utterly aware of the slide of fabric across my skin. It’s almost as if I can feel him watching me right now. Another unwelcome punch of arousal slams into me.
I am not attracted to him. I can’t be. This isn’t a real date. It’s a fact-finding mission. An interview. That’s it. That’s all.
But as soon as I have the black dress on, I can’t help but picture him taking it off of me.
Dammit.
I close my eyes, but I can’t get the vision out of my mind. Cannon’s wide, capable hands sliding the cap sleeves off my shoulders and letting the bodice slip over my bare skin.
Shit. Stop. No.
I flick open my eyes to bring me back to reality, because the liquid feeling low in my belly means nothing good for me and my investigation.
Giving the mirror one last quick glance, I can’t get out of the damn dressing room fast enough.