She opened her eyes and approached her closet again. She slid a hand between a black rayon blouse and white silk and encountered something exquisitely soft. Cashmere. Annabel drew the top out and smiled. Apricot-colored cashmere, wide neck, nearly off the shoulder, fairly tight fit.
Pair it with a slit-to-heaven, knee-length black wool skirt. Seductive without being obviously so, good to go out, good to stay in.
Yes.
She shed her sensible slim-fitting black gabardine pants and acrylic knit sweater, her skin and nerves enjoying the air and freedom. Stepped out of her Victoria’s Secret cotton panties, unhooked and pulled off her underwire bra, raced to the shower to soap off the kitchen smells, and came back into her room, too nervous to glance at the clock. Calm? Did she say she wanted to be calm?
Focus.
Underwear: black lace micro-bikini. Matching push-up bra. Sheer black thigh-high stockings.
Makeup: eyeliner, mascara, concealer, blush, the barest smear of deep rosy apricot color on her lips.
Before she put the skirt and top on, she stole to the mirror to check herself out. Would he see her this way tonight? Dressed only in black lace and nylon? Would he want to?
Oh, she hoped so. She very, very much hoped so. She looked good, her body slender, firm and strong. And suddenly she felt good, the way she looked, the way she wanted to appear—calm, confident and sexual.
A chuckle escaped her. He’d said to dress her mood. Well, this was pretty much it.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, someone she assumed was Quinn chose that exact moment to ring her front doorbell.
Annabel started and glanced at her clock.
Midnight. On the dot.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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