“I’ll keep that in mind,” Brontë murmured.
The store was like something out of a movie, complete with marble floors and soft music piped in. They wandered through some of the racks, Audrey leading the way. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and Brontë was content to let her take charge.
As they walked, a pretty blouse with a delicate ruffle along the neckline caught her eye. All right. If she was going to be staying with Logan for a few weeks—maybe more, maybe less—she needed clothing that wouldn’t embarrass him. She paused and examined it, admiring the pale silky fabric, then flipped over the tag. Her breath seized in her lungs.
That blouse cost more than two months’ rent of her Kansas City apartment.
Brontë put it back on the rack, hoping desperately that her fingerprints hadn’t smudged anything, and followed Audrey with wide eyes.
The assistant began to pick through a rack of dresses. “You have such lovely dark hair and pale skin that I think you could probably look great in a nice jewel tone. Maybe blue? Green? Do you have a preference?” She glanced up at Brontë and noticed her expression. “What’s wrong?”
Brontë reached for a nearby tag and winced. “I really don’t feel comfortable with the prices here.”
Audrey gave her an exasperated look. “Are you still going on about this?” She shook her head and turned back to the rack of clothing, flipping through dresses. “You are dating a billionaire. Wearing T-shirts and jeans is fine for at home, if that’s your thing. But if you go out? People are going to look at what he’s wearing, and they’re going to look at what you’re wearing. You have to convey an image. The functions that Logan attends? They frequently make the society pages. The last thing you want is for someone to point out fabulously wealthy and handsome Logan Hawkings and his thrift store girlfriend. Understand?”
Brontë said nothing.
Audrey gave her another disappointed look. “Do I need to call Logan? Because if we don’t get you outfitted appropriately, I’m the one who’s going to be in trouble, Brontë. As his assistant, it’s my job to make him look good. And if you look good, he looks good. And I really like my job and would hate to lose it.”
“That is totally emotional blackmail.”
“Yes, it is.” Audrey pulled a dress off the rack and held it up to Brontë’s chest. “Now, green or blue?”
***
Several hours later, Brontë returned to Logan’s apartment with sixteen shopping bags. Once Brontë had caved in, Audrey had been a determined shopper, and Brontë now possessed several pairs of designer shoes, matching jewelry, four designer handbags, two clutch purses, four cocktail dresses (for starters, Audrey had said), and multiple sets of everyday clothing. Since Audrey had been determined that she be fashionably beautiful from the inside out, Brontë now had bags of designer unmentionables from Agent Provocateur and La Perla.
The lingerie, she admitted, she rather liked, since she knew Logan would appreciate them. The rest, though—well, it bothered her. But since she didn’t want to get Audrey in trouble, or embarrass Logan, she’d caved in to the pressure and bought it. She’d stopped looking at price tags since that just seemed to slow everything down, and she felt sick at the amount they’d spent on clothes that day.
All she kept thinking about was that it could have paid her rent for a year. Fed a family of four for a year. Purchased a small car or two. Instead, it was just sweaters and skirts and matching earrings. For the amount of money they’d spent on her shoes, they should have been gold-plated and given her a foot massage as she put them on.
She and Logan hadn’t discussed closets, and she didn’t want to be presumptuous, so she filled a closet in one of the spare rooms. Once her things were put away, she took a long, luxuriant bath, pulled her hair into what she hoped was an elegant upsweep, and began to apply her makeup.
A half hour later, she was ready, and anxious. Brontë examined her appearance in the mirror. The designer dress she’d chosen for that night was a deep wine shade. It was made of gathered jersey that clung to her curves and outlined her figure in an elegant drape. The back was a low, daring cowl that swooped all the way to the base of her spine and made her feel just a bit scandalous. She’d paired it with dangling silver earrings and nude Manolo Blahniks (since Audrey had insisted) and examined the final picture.
Not bad. She didn’t look a thing like herself, but she didn’t look bad.
Brontë slipped off her shoes and sat on the edge of one of the couches in the living room, waiting anxiously for Logan to return. When watching the door didn’t work, she moved to the window and watched the skyline slowly light up. She was fascinated by the city. It was more interesting viewing than TV.
The sun was setting behind the sea of buildings when she heard a click at the front door. She turned just as Logan entered, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
He stopped at the sight of her, his gaze sweeping up and down over her body. A grin crossed his face. “You look gorgeous, Brontë.”
She smiled at him. “I look expensive, you mean.”
“You do, but it’s perfect for the party tonight.” A slow smile curved his mouth, and his gaze again roamed over her body approvingly. “You’re perfect.”
Brontë flushed under his scrutiny, secretly pleased. Audrey had been right after all. She made a mental note to hint that his assistant needed a raise. “I didn’t know you were going to work so late,” she began, feeling awkward as he continued to admire her.
He grimaced and held the flowers out to her. “Note my apology. I had a few meetings that ran late. If I’d have known you were so incredibly gorgeous while waiting for me, though . . .” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her neck, his hand sliding down her naked back. “I like this part.”
She took the flowers and slunk out of his grasp. “What time does the party start?”
“About a half hour ago.”
Her eyes widened, and she gave him an anxious look. “So we’re late? Please tell me this isn’t a dinner party.”
He shook his head, moving to the bedroom. “Just a mixer,” he called back to her. “Some close friends and business associates. Nothing to worry about.”
It didn’t exactly sound like nothing to worry about. The whole “business associates” part was exactly what she was worried about.