Jamie’s focus shifted back to Lorna, and he realized he was smiling. He had the feeling his body was smiling, too, in places it shouldn’t be. Good thing she’d studied that interview material because he might just have to corner her a little later and give her a pop quiz.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NIGHTGOWN was trying to take her hostage. If it was a nightgown. Lorna should have left it on the dressmaker’s dummy where it belonged. Now that she’d slipped it on over her head, she couldn’t tell what went where. Or where she was. She couldn’t see anything, including a way out of the endless folds of gossamer and lace.
“Help,” she mumbled, turning in a circle.
She tugged and pulled, but very gingerly, trying not to damage the sheer material. She would love to have taken it off, but she didn’t have that option, either. She already had one arm through, but couldn’t get the other. It wouldn’t go past her shoulder. Possibly she was stuck in the leg hole. She’d forgotten about that strange panel sewn into the skirt. Thank God, it was a very long skirt. The rest of her body was covered, but barely.
She staggered around blindly, wondering if she should call for help. He would think she was developmentally challenged. She’d been hiding out in her room all afternoon and evening, avoiding Jamie and his pop quizzes. He’d wandered into the kitchen just after she finished pole dancing, and she’d been too winded to answer his questions. Plus, she’d been a little suspicious of his timing. It was also weird that he’d taken a sniff of the pole and said something about how it smelled of strawberries.
Hell, maybe she would just go to bed this way. She should be fine, as long as she didn’t smother. Of course, she would never find the switch to turn out the lights. And if the arm that was caught over her head went to sleep, she would probably have to have it amputated.
“Lorna, are you in there somewhere?”
She froze. It was Jamie. And he wasn’t calling from outside the door, he was right next to her. He’d let himself in, the sneak. He was probably going to be furious that she was messing around with his designer strait jacket, but she managed to sound indignant.
“Did you forget to knock?” she said, turning in the direction of his voice.
“I thought you were in trouble. You were talking to yourself in here.”
“We single women talk to ourselves,” she informed him. She could just make out a shadowy form through the layers of fabric. “It’s therapy, which we need because we share a planet with certain men who tend to confuse us with fast food.”
He hesitated, perhaps not sure how to argue with a person wearing a nightgown on her head. “Just as long as you don’t answer, I guess.”
“Oh, I’ve answered you many a time—and maybe you should count yourself lucky I did. I don’t think you playboys know how often women, who are much too compassionate for their own good, come up with ways to excuse your behavior. I’m sure you’ve had more free passes than you deserve, Mr. Baird, if you deserved any.”
“Really?”
He sounded ready to debate the point, but she had other plans for that discussion. She was saving her bullets for the interview. And he had actually explained himself to her on more than one occasion, even though he didn’t know it. In her fantasies he had begged her to forgive him and made extravagant promises, as he should have. She should have written up a transcript of that conversation and sent it to him. It might have been educational.
She made one more attempt to squirm her way into the gown—and gave up with a whimpering gasp. “Could you help me with this thing?”
“That depends. Are you putting it on or taking it off?”
“On.”
“May I ask why?”
Because she didn’t have the option of taking it off. She had nothing on underneath. It hadn’t made sense to try a nightgown like this on over clothing.
She gave the material a determined tug and heard a ripping sound. “Oh, sorry! Hope I didn’t ruin anything.”
“You ruin it, you buy it.” He laughed softly. “Now hold still, and let me help you.”
She was in no position to argue. When he told her to relax her shoulder muscles and let out all the air in her lungs, she did it, exhaling deeply. But the real obstacle seemed to be her breasts, and no amount of deflation was going to help there.
Jamie grumbled to himself. “I never thought I’d hear myself saying that a woman’s body was too much of a good thing. But something has to go.”
“My breasts aren’t going anywhere.”
“I wasn’t talking about your breasts, but that’s an idea. I suppose we could try cling wrap and butter.”
“What?” Lorna let out an astonished yelp. Her arms were restrained and she couldn’t stop him no matter what he did. “No cling wrap and no butter! And no touching, either.”
“You’re no fun. You’re probably going to say no kissing, too.”
“You kiss it, you buy it.”
Lorna heard a ripping sound, and the relief she felt was instant. She could breathe again. “What did you do?”
“Opened a seam. They’re just tacked together. Now, let’s get you dressed.”
She tried to work with him, but it required gyrating in some rather embarrassing ways as he eased the tightest part of the gown over the fullest part of her body. She’d said no touching, but that was impossible. His hands were all over her, touching, tickling, taking her breath away one startled gasp at a time. Worst of all, the sensations were annoyingly stimulating. Aiii.
Her breath was steamy hot against her face, and her heart was agitated, and even though she didn’t want to, she was making it worse by trying to anticipate where he would touch her next. Every time he did she started like a deer, but somewhere way down deep, she also melted just a little. Under protest, mind you, but she melted anyway.
What could she do? She needed his help, but this was a dangerous way to get it. Her resolve was slipping away, if she’d ever had any. They might both be turned on before it was over, and she was much more worried about herself than him.
Finally, between them, they coaxed the gown down until her head popped through the lacy collar. She pulled a deep breath, her panic easing a little. That was too much like nearly drowning in the pool last night. It took a few more minutes to get her arms in the sleeves and her legs in the right places. The gown was actually designed like a long skort, a combination of shorts and a skirt.
He laughed a little as she shook back her hair and looked up at him. She blushed and averted her eyes, laughing, too. Those hands of his were still hotly lingering on her breasts, at least in her mind, and it was hard to look him straight in the eye. Besides, she felt patently ridiculous for having gotten herself trapped in an article of clothing, even one this complicated.
“Thanks for not letting me smother,” she said. “What is this thing I’m wearing?”
“A work in progress. When it’s done it will be the sexiest piece in the winter collection. At least that’s the plan.”
“Sexy? This?” She hated to be the one to tell him, but—
She glanced down at the strange gown with all its lace flaps and pearl buttons, false pockets and seams. More than anything, it reminded her of a gossamer mousetrap. And by the way, where was that seam he’d opened? Was she exposed somewhere?
He stepped back to look at her. “Hot,” he said with a nod of approval.
“Warm,” she conceded, “but only from the wrestling match.”
“You haven’t seen what this baby can do.” His pride was evident. “It’s top secret. Not a word to anyone, especially Hudley Campbell.”
She had no idea what the secret was, so it shouldn’t be too hard to keep. And at the moment she was more interested in what Jamie was wearing. It looked like a kimono-type robe, loosely tied, and from the glimpses she got of the opening he didn’t seem to have anything on underneath.
Had she sighted bare skin? A ripple of inner thigh?
He looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed and thrown on th
e robe. His hair was all over his head, wonderfully dark and tousled. His legs were great, too. Long and brawny, the muscles softened by downy dark hair. He had some grooves there, too.
Why did he have to show up tonight, looking like a god awakened from his nap? It seemed the sillier she got, the sexier he got. But apparently what she really wanted was a penis sighting. And she was fascinated enough with the possibility to keep checking the way his robe was tied, wondering if it might come undone.
“I was just admiring your robe,” she explained when he caught her looking. “I don’t suppose you designed it.”
“I don’t suppose—and I doubt you’re going to like sleeping in that thing.” He was talking about the gown now. “Any time you’re ready to take it off, I’d be happy to help.”
“I can manage.” She touched one of the pocket flaps on the bodice. “What are these gizmos?”
“They’re peek holes.”
Her hand jumped back. “Let me guess. This is not a nursing gown.”
“When you’re right, you’re right.” An engaging grin. “It’s not for nursing babies, it’s for making them.”
“And you let me put it on? Without telling me?”
“You can’t get pregnant by wearing it.”
She glanced down cautiously. “You’re right about that.” She would have guessed it was for birth control, not fertility.
“It’s a Victorian wedding nightgown,” he explained. “The flaps and openings are there so the groom can avail himself of his bride’s naughty parts without her having to endure the indignity of undressing.”
“Really?” Her stomach dipped oddly, but she understood the part about indignity. “What’s this thing between my legs?”
“Now there’s a loaded question.” His gaze brushed over her like a smoldering torch. “If you’re talking about the nightgown, the chastity panel between your legs has an open seam in the crotch so the groom can please his bride with relative ease.”
“Never mind. I get the picture.”
Now Lorna felt as if she’d lost her stomach on a carnival ride. A swirling emptiness filled the pit of her belly, which was a total contradiction in terms. The smart move would have been to lose the gown and end this conversation, whichever way she had to do it. Nakedness seemed less dangerous than the steamy images he was painting in her mind. She’d already tried to block them out, but they were too damn sneaky and subversive.
A battle of wills was waging inside her, and the wrong side was winning. She gave in with a sharp little sigh, allowing herself to imagine what it would be like to be a Victorian bride, seduced in the dark through the openings in her gown. A man’s hands sliding through those openings, his lips and tongue…
She fingered one of the pearl buttons on the breast pocket, startled as it slipped through the buttonhole that held it. The flap fell open, capturing her creamy flesh in a lace frame, as if someone had just taken an erotic picture of her breast. Even the rosebud tip was exposed.
She covered herself with her hand and colored hotly. “Are these pockets rigged?”
He shrugged. “Absolutely. A sudden move will undo them. Can’t have anything dampening the wedding night fires.”
“God forbid she should want him urgently, and he wouldn’t be able to service her.” She said it with irony, but there was a throaty catch in her voice, and he must have heard it, too. She was not trying to entice him, however. This wasn’t calculated. It was just happening. His crazy gown had captured more than her breast. It had captured her imagination.
And his, too, it seemed. His voice was low and reverent as he took in the effect of her fiery modesty. “That is incredibly sexy.”
She glanced down and wished she hadn’t. There should be a law against Victorian nightgowns. She also stole a peek at the opening of his robe, this time hoping she wouldn’t see what she’d been looking for earlier. She wasn’t entirely sure what she would do if an erection presented itself. Hopefully, ask him to take his toys and leave, but then again, maybe not. The images of her naughty parts being revealed for his pleasure were doing crazy things to her breathing.
His robe was still tied, and everything seemed to be where it should be, except his gaze. It was hungry, restless, roving.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she said accusingly.
“Like what?”
“Lustfully.”
“No… No, this is business.” He pretended to be surprised at her claim, but his voice was thrillingly rough and grainy. “The way you look right now—it’s perfect for VLL’s catalog. I’ve never seen anything sexier, really. You’re ravishing. You could sell a million copies of this gown.”
Lorna could feel heartbeats thundering in her chest. He couldn’t mean her, could he? He must mean the ad, someone like her.
“Undo the other pocket, would you?” he said. “And then cover yourself, just so I can see if it enhances the effect.”
Both breasts exposed? Was it lingerie or porn he was selling?
“Please,” he said, “it’s business. This could put VLL on its feet, guarantee work for lots of people and help the economy.”
She could hardly resist that pitch, true or not. Had he said a million copies? If Helen of Troy could launch a thousand ships to help her country, why couldn’t Lorna Sutton sell lingerie?
She gave the other button a touch, and the flap fell open. Now she was cupping both breasts and her insides were in sweet turmoil. It was hard not to swoon. Her legs were weak, and her entire body felt tender to the touch, especially her breasts. Her flesh was hot and soft, aching. Her nipples burned for a firm touch, a man’s touch.
And Jamie Baird looked as though he wanted to have her for dinner, but not as his guest. His jaw flexed, as if he’d just had a taste of something so delicious it hurt.
“How does it feel with the gown open that way?” he asked. “Is it what you imagined? Is it arousing?”
She nodded, unable to confirm or deny. Her voice wouldn’t work right, and she didn’t want to think about the gown anyway. Still, it was hard not to wonder what the various other pockets and flaps were for.
She croaked, “Your customers will be very happy.”
“Not as happy as I am.”
“Shall I button up now?” she asked.
“We haven’t explored what else the gown can do.”
“I don’t have any more hands.”
“You’re not going to need them,” he said. “I’ll be your guide. This is business. It’s the perfect opportunity to see if the gown is going to work.”
“Absolutely, it will work.” It was working. She was breathless, perspiring and probably dampening his creation with a secret spring of intimate fluids.
Suddenly he was closer, speaking softly. “Did you find these?” he asked. “You have a false pocket here on either side.” He lifted one of the openings with his finger, letting cool air flow over her hot skin. “This is for hands, of course. The groom’s hands, if he wants to hold her by the waist or lift her hips. Hers, if she wants to touch herself or guide him.”
“Interesting,” she got out.
“Of course, they’re for foreplay, not sex,” he told her, “unless the groom were to get very creative.”
He stroked the mouth of the opening while she watched…and waited for him to stroke her. She would have turned to water vapor if he had touched her that way, with such sensual precision.
“Thanks for sharing,” she said quickly. “I think I can guess what the rest of it’s about.”
“Really? This?” There was an opening the size of a silver dollar over her midriff. He dipped a finger in there and caressed her belly button with a soft, circular motion. “Some women find this very arousing.”
“Mmm, tickles,” she said.
“Maybe this then?” He found openings under her arms that would have allowed him to stroke the sides of her breasts. She stared straight into his eyes, daring him to touch her there. He stared back, scorching her to her depths with the heat of
his sensuality. Her nipples hardened and tingled. Her nerves fired with alarm. Her juices flowed.
It was wrong what he did to her. Wrong.
His warm breath eddied in the valley of her throat. That was how close he was. He never did touch her, and her nerve endings were well aware of that. They were screaming for relief by the time it was over. Maybe that was the point.
“This is business, right?” She caught her breath, suddenly anguished. He seemed to arouse her so effortlessly.
“Oh, absolutely, this is business.”
His voice wasn’t any better than hers. He could hardly manage the words, but it sounded sexy coming from him.
“There’s more, but this is the best one,” he said, reaching around behind her to tug on a pocket on the back of the gown. It covered her derriere and was nearly as wide as her hips. She already knew what that had to be for, sex from behind. The Victorians were a pretty randy bunch, or so she’d heard. Now she knew why. They were being driven crazy by their clothing.
“This opening,” he said, playing with things behind her that neither one of them could see, “is so that he can guide her while they’re making love, positioning her body for…deeper penetration. It also allows him to caress her anterior cleavage, which I’ve heard can be very stimulating.”
“And I’ve heard enough.” She cleared her throat.
“Perfect timing. I’m done talking.”
Talking, maybe, but not walking. He moved around behind her and freed the “anterior cleavage” pocket, letting in another whisper of cool air. Her skin was ablaze. Again, she waited for his touch. Her buttocks tingled and stung, as aroused as her breasts. He did nothing, but she could feel the heat of his eyes, and that was almost as bad.
Eventually he came around to the front, and she realized that her hand had fallen away from her breast. She tried to shield herself, but he stopped her.
“Don’t,” he said. “You’re beautiful. This is what the gown was made for.”
Velvet, Leather & Lace: A Man's Gotta DoCalling the ShotsBaring It All Page 6