I smile. The Kit effect fosters my defiance and my curiosity to probe just how deep his control goes. I won’t be put into a box, despite my body’s instant physical attraction to him.
‘I prefer full creative control of my work. We can discuss it further tonight.’
End of conversation.
I stand and he gives me his full attention. His energy leaves me jittery, vibrating, as if I’ve stepped into his force field and any minute now I’ll be reduced to a cloud of excited molecules. It’s more of an enticement than a deterrent and I step closer still.
His lip curls. ‘Do you own suitable attire for the theatre?’ He looks me over, heat back in those eyes, like the blue at the centre of a Bunsen flame. The haughty attitude says one thing, but his baby blues give him away.
I embed my feet in his impractical carpet, hoping the soles of my shoes are grubby from the wet streets outside. ‘It’s not a jeans kind of affair?’ I widen my stare, all innocence, biting the side of my tongue to prevent a smile escaping when he all but rolls his eyes. I’m certain he finds me lacking. Unlike the crisp, sophisticated women I met downstairs, I care little about make-up, manicures or fashion.
‘Sadly, no. Is that all you’ve travelled with?’
I shrug. ‘Most of my baggage allowance was taken up with my filming equipment.’ I live in clothes hardy enough to weather lying on the ground or climbing over fences, all in pursuit of the perfect shot.
His mouth tightens, and once more I have the crazy urge to kiss him. To push him back into his expensive chair and straddle him while ruining what’s left of his overlong hairstyle, just to prove that his body is interested in the woman wearing jeans currently cluttering up his immaculate but sterile workspace.
But I shelve my urges for the thrill of simple physics—opposite and opposing forces.
You push, I push, Mr Faulkner.
His next statement gives me pause, landing another well-aimed blow.
‘I’ll have something suitable sent over. Be ready by six p.m.’ He returns his focus to his laptop, his fingers moving over the keys with speed. Even his hands are sexy.
Damn.
Wait...suitable? Sent over? What the fuck...? This isn’t Pretty Woman. I won’t be playing Julia Roberts to his control-freak Richard Gere.
‘I don’t need your clothes. We do have theatres in New Zealand.’ Damn. Now I’ll have to waste my afternoon shopping, with jet lag, when I could be hanging out with Will. My fingers dance on my thigh. I press my hand flat. ‘It’s just a play. Are all Brits as snobby as you?’ Will’s hubby, Josh, is lovely...
Another snort. ‘It’s more than a play.’ Another hot but assessing look. ‘Our clients expect the five-star service they pay for and which we deliver. Anyone can buy the best seats in the house—Faulkner clients want the personal touch. To be schmoozed and personally escorted by me and, if you want this job, by you also. Temporarily.’ He licks his bottom lip, contemplating the expression I hope says unfazed.
‘Personally, I don’t care what you wear,’ he continues, his eyes sliding over me with enough heat he could be imagining me naked. ‘But you cannot schmooze two of my most valued clients in jeans. Consider it a uniform, if it upsets you, but if you want the job, that’s one of my rules.’
How many rules does he have? And how many can I break? I narrow my eyes while the prickle of a thousand ants covers my skin.
Rules? Uniforms? Schmoozing?
I’ve spent years growing comfortable with who I am and overcoming where I came from. Tonight, dressed up in some sort of fancy frock so Kit’s VIP can flaunt his wealth, won’t be the first time I’ve felt like I don’t belong.
But Kit’s next words cement my decision.
‘Unless Reid has miscalculated...now’s the time to back out, Mia.’ A small smile tugs at his decadent mouth. My own lips tingle, the urge to kiss him returning in full force. He’d love it if I caved that easily—a big suck it to his brother and a way to get rid of the inconvenient woman who doesn’t own a cocktail dress with one blow.
‘I’m a Kiwi, as New Zealanders are affectionately termed. I’m up to any job.’
Including him, his intriguing impenetrable guard and his ridiculous rules.
I offer a saccharine smile. ‘I look forward to receiving your couture. I’m a size six shoe and size ten dress.’
Another swipe of his brooding stare scrapes at my nipples. ‘I know what size you are.’
Oh, I bet he does. I bet he’s used to controlling everything, including the wardrobes of fawning females, before showing them the sheet-clawing night of their lives and then scarpering faster than I could say Not with this chick, buddy.
I stand taller, using my height to my advantage. In flats Kit can still peer down at me, but in heels, something I rarely wear, we’d be almost eye to eye. Now, despite the fact that I’m immune to fancy clothes, I have no idea how to put on eyeliner and don’t own hair straighteners, my breath hitches as I look forward to tonight, to challenging both his misconceptions and his rigid control.
With one last smirk I can’t help but deliver, I offer him my hand for a curt handshake, turn on my heel and head for the door. ‘See you at six, then.’
My palm tingles as I walk away, still resonating with his touch, while the hum of an electrical storm buzzes throughout my nervous system. This job just became a whole lot more interesting.
And Kit’s sheet-clawing ride of a lifetime...tempting. A chuckle escapes me as I press the button for the lift. I’m a film-maker after all. Perhaps I’ll film the experience.
Mia
PRIMPING AND PREENING is so time-consuming—no wonder I don’t have the patience for it under normal circumstances. The dresses, plural, arrive at my brother’s house from Harvey Nichols within the hour. Multiple extravagant garments draped in swanky bags and wrapped in delicate, monogrammed tissue paper.
I’m half tempted to cut off all the tags and then return them to Kit’s office claiming none of them fit. But Kit clearly knows his way around a woman’s body, because all but one could have been made specifically for me.
Will and Josh help me select one uniform from the exquisite, but over-the-top, creations on offer and then sit me down to watch a YouTube video on how to apply a minimal make-up look. Josh, a chartered accountant, plays make-up artist. A good thing—I’d have probably poked out my own eyeball with the mascara wand.
When I open their front door at the appointed hour, my gait unsteady in the ridiculous heels Kit sent, his tall frame fills the doorstep. Despite the stern lecture I gave myself, his appearance hits me square in the stomach, flooding my hyper-aware system with addictive adrenaline.
Fight or flight? Equally tempting with this sexy sod.
Mouthwatering, smelling divine and wearing the same dishevelled hair, facial scruff and dark stare as earlier, he swoops his eyes over me, a small smile kicking up one corner of his mouth to reveal a single, bracketing dimple.
The pad of my index finger tingles to trace the fine line left by that dimple. The made-for-me dress shrinks two sizes, squeezing my ribcage. That smile, even only a shadow of one...so not fair.
‘I see you found one that fits?’ he says.