Page 89 of Hunted

A smile curved my freshly painted lips. Nodding enthusiastically, I turned to face Pyotr’s mirror. Instead of finding yet another version of myself, I caught the uncharacteristically open expression on Beckett’s face.

“What? Is it awful?” I asked, heart sinking.

He jerked his head to the side. “No. Not even remotely.”

Pyotr cackled. “Of course it isn’t awful, bitch—it’s my handiwork. I could make Commander fucking Varco catwalk-ready if given enough time and good, expensive products.”

I snorted at the visual.

“Well, go on then! Look at yourself!” He waved his hands at the gold-rimmed, vanity-lit mirror and did as I was told.

I froze, lips parted at the sight of the almost unrecognisable woman staring back. Her bright blue eyes shone beneath long, black lashes and winged liner so sharp it could cut a man. She possessed no dark hollows underneath her eyes, nor stress-induced pimple on her chin. Her skin was flawless, her lips a perfect, sultry red, and she looked like she’d be right at home on the A-list.

I didn’t know her, but Lord did I want to be her.

“Stanley’s going to have a heart attack when he sees you.” Pyotr smirked. “Actually, I’m done for the day now. Maybe I’ll come with. The more the merrier, right?” He extended a hand that I automatically grasped, then helped me to my feet and turned the vanity lights off with a hurried flick of his free hand.

“Come now honeybunch, Stan the man doesn't like to be kept waiting and you were already off to a bad start getting scheduled with Gina first.” He held the door open for Beckett and me, then led the way to the very end of the hall, where the narrow, black-and-white space opened up into an enormous lounge area. Dressing rooms sat to the right, fitted with sheer curtains that gave the illusion of privacy, and rows upon rows of couture clothing, footwear, and accessories lined the left.

Beck dropped unceremoniously onto an S-shaped sofa in the centre of the space—grey and rigid-looking—while Pyotr clapped, summoning Stanley from the dark recesses between racks.

“About bloody time,” Stanley grumbled in a sharp, aristocratic British accent. His bald head appeared before the rest of him, arms laden with an entire arsenal of women’s clothing. “Miss Sinclair, if you could be so kind as to accompany me into one of the dressing rooms to your right. I’ll take your measurements first, and then you can try some things on to take home while we create some custom garments for you.”

“Oh, I don’t need—” I began, cut off by the deep rumble of Beckett’s whisky tones.

“Thank you, Stanley. Adelaide appreciates the offer very much.” He shot me a pointed look, unbeknownst to the short, middling, glasses-wearing, fashion-savvy man.

I knew when to shut up. It was a necessary skill growing up where I did—learning to read people by the actions laced between their words. People said a whole host of things with their bodies that their mouths covered with pretty lies.

I stepped into the first room, displaced by the 1930s Steppin’ Out Barbie staring back at me. The urge to comb the waves out of my hair and scrub all the makeup from my skin rode me hard. My skin prickled, and again I locked eyes with the less-and-less ogreish man acting as my living shadow.

Beckett shot me a tiny smile, interrupted by Hurricane Stanley as he swept into the room with his bright yellow measuring tape.

“Strip down to your undergarments, please,” he instructed briskly but not unkindly.

Since I’d already been exposed to one person today, I mentally shrugged, wondering what harm another could do. Stanley whizzed around with his tape, muttering to himself as he jotted down numbers on a sheet of paper by the door. He left in a flurry once he was done, returning several minutes later with six hangers, informing me more were on the way.

“Those absolutely won’t do.” He scowled at my sports crop and cotton panties like they personally offended him, handing me a set of black lacy lingerie instead. “Might as well find out exactly what we’re working with.”

He stepped out, sliding the sheer curtains closed behind him. “Let me know when you’ve got those on and I’ll assess how accurate my guesswork was—though one can never tell what’s hidden beneath those hideous Academy standards.”

Chuckling softly to myself, I stripped, then stepped into the softest thong I’d ever slotted between my ass cheeks. It felt barely there, accentuating my waist and giving the illusion that my legs were a mile long. Excited at the prospect of an actual matching set—and not the man behind the curtain, waiting patiently on the couch, who might see me in it—and definitely not his brothers who might catch me in it as well—I did up the clasps, then spun the bra around my torso to loop my arms through the straps.

So I’d never learned to do up a bra the proper way. Sue me.

Objectively, I had to admit that Stanley knew exactly what he was doing. It fit perfectly. My peaked nipples pressed against the fabric in the most enticing of ways, and even I had to admit that they looked good enough to nibble on.

My gaze flicked over to the silhouette of Beck through the curtain again, and I couldn’t help but wonder how much he could see.

“I’m done,” I told Stanley, who wasted no time in flicking them open, exposing me to the entire dressing room. He flitted in like a sparrow, inspecting every inch of how the set fit. But I paid him no heed because my eyes were glued to the handler on the sofa, shifting forward, stark hunger written plainly across his features.

“Try these on, please.” Stanley snapped his fingers before my face, breaking the spell. “This one”—he raised a knee-length, black cashmere, turtle-neck dress—“underneath this”—he held up a grey tailored overcoat—“paired with those,” he finished, pointing one sassy finger to a pair of knee-high leather boots tucked away in the corner.

Exhaustion and frustration placed their heavy palms on my shoulders, and I eventually buckled under the weight. I did as Stanley asked, then exited the changeroom on tired feet, stumbling in the two-inch heels the boots possessed.

“Yes, that will do nicely. Pop those items in the bags by the door, then try on the red gown next, please, Miss Sinclair.”

I trudged back to the dressing room, unable to think of anything but the simmering burn of a certain pair of jade-green eyes. I didn’t bother to close the curtains behind me, letting him catch another eyeful.