tripped over one of her own two feet. “What?”
“I’m bidding on a 1948 Jaguar.”
“Oh.” That shut her up. What? A good ninety thousand or so? Expensive hobby.
“And I’ve been thinking that if I draw the attention as the one interested in the auction, you can do your thing without anyone getting in your way.”
It sounded good anyway. At least until they reached the boutique and she saw the dresses and shoes the personal shopper had selected in advance and in her sizes—Georgia wasn’t sure how she felt about Harry snooping through her things—based on the event details he’d given when he’d called.
She glanced from the dresses hanging on the rolling rack to Harry. “These dresses are not going to do a damn thing to help you draw attention away from me.”
“Maybe not. But you’ll make for good arm candy.”
7:55 P.M.
Earlier this afternoon, when Georgia had walked out of the dressing room and made her way to where Harry had been sitting, showing off the first dress the boutique’s personal shopper had selected for her to try on, he’d come damn close to swallowing his tongue.
The two hours he’d spent in the salon flipping through the magazine had been bad enough. He was as clueless now as he had been then to the content of the pages he’d turned. All he knew was that he’d done a piss-poor job of focusing on the night ahead and working out a game plan.
Instead, he’d been consumed with the transformation of Georgia McLain.
He hadn’t paid her a whole lot of attention in the diner, but then all of them had been pretty busy back there. Based on the pictures he’d seen of her during his mission prep work, he’d known she was a looker. What he hadn’t known was that she was a looker.
She’d walked from the dressing room into the sitting area where he’d been waiting, and all he’d done was stare. He hadn’t known what to say; the woman in front of him was not the woman he’d expected to see. She had legs, bare legs, legs made even longer by the height of her heels and the thigh-high hem of the dress she’d chosen.
She’d turned in a circle, arms out to her sides, a smirk on her gorgeously made-up face. She’d enjoyed seeing him pinned to the cushy chair as if he’d been run through with a spike—an apropos comparison because he had not been able to move.
The neckline of the little black dress was scooped low, the back scooped even lower, leaving no doubt that she was wearing very little beneath. What sleeves there were fell off her shoulders, tiny caps of fabric barely hanging on and leaving her arms bare.
Sitting beside him now in the back of the cab for the ride to the gallery, she shifted forward and hiked up the lace wrap the boutique’s shopper had insisted on adding to the package of dress, shoes, and diamond drop pendant.
Hank Smithson was going to throw a cow when Harry turned in the receipts in his expense report, but if Hank could see Georgia…
“You never did tell me why we’re taking a taxi,” she said, cutting into his reverie.
He’d planned to, but somewhere between leaving the boutique and having the doorman call the cab, he’d lost his tongue—not to mention his entire command of the English language.
Glancing over at her now, seeing the way the streetlamps caught the colors in her hair as the car passed beneath, he wasn’t sure he’d found enough of either to reply.
He cleared his throat anyway. “The Buick isn’t exactly a car to lose on a crowded street. Just in case we need to hit the road in a hurry.”
She bobbed her head a couple of times. “Funny. Finn said something this morning about me needing a getaway car.”
“Yeah?” He heard the catch in her voice when she’d mentioned her brother’s name.
She looked his way briefly before dropping her gaze to her lap and twisting her fingers in the fringe of the wrap. “All I could think was that I was a Bonnie without a Clyde.”
He wondered if she was referring to
“I’m bidding on a 1948 Jaguar.”
“Oh.” That shut her up. What? A good ninety thousand or so? Expensive hobby.
“And I’ve been thinking that if I draw the attention as the one interested in the auction, you can do your thing without anyone getting in your way.”
It sounded good anyway. At least until they reached the boutique and she saw the dresses and shoes the personal shopper had selected in advance and in her sizes—Georgia wasn’t sure how she felt about Harry snooping through her things—based on the event details he’d given when he’d called.
She glanced from the dresses hanging on the rolling rack to Harry. “These dresses are not going to do a damn thing to help you draw attention away from me.”
“Maybe not. But you’ll make for good arm candy.”
7:55 P.M.
Earlier this afternoon, when Georgia had walked out of the dressing room and made her way to where Harry had been sitting, showing off the first dress the boutique’s personal shopper had selected for her to try on, he’d come damn close to swallowing his tongue.
The two hours he’d spent in the salon flipping through the magazine had been bad enough. He was as clueless now as he had been then to the content of the pages he’d turned. All he knew was that he’d done a piss-poor job of focusing on the night ahead and working out a game plan.
Instead, he’d been consumed with the transformation of Georgia McLain.
He hadn’t paid her a whole lot of attention in the diner, but then all of them had been pretty busy back there. Based on the pictures he’d seen of her during his mission prep work, he’d known she was a looker. What he hadn’t known was that she was a looker.
She’d walked from the dressing room into the sitting area where he’d been waiting, and all he’d done was stare. He hadn’t known what to say; the woman in front of him was not the woman he’d expected to see. She had legs, bare legs, legs made even longer by the height of her heels and the thigh-high hem of the dress she’d chosen.
She’d turned in a circle, arms out to her sides, a smirk on her gorgeously made-up face. She’d enjoyed seeing him pinned to the cushy chair as if he’d been run through with a spike—an apropos comparison because he had not been able to move.
The neckline of the little black dress was scooped low, the back scooped even lower, leaving no doubt that she was wearing very little beneath. What sleeves there were fell off her shoulders, tiny caps of fabric barely hanging on and leaving her arms bare.
Sitting beside him now in the back of the cab for the ride to the gallery, she shifted forward and hiked up the lace wrap the boutique’s shopper had insisted on adding to the package of dress, shoes, and diamond drop pendant.
Hank Smithson was going to throw a cow when Harry turned in the receipts in his expense report, but if Hank could see Georgia…
“You never did tell me why we’re taking a taxi,” she said, cutting into his reverie.
He’d planned to, but somewhere between leaving the boutique and having the doorman call the cab, he’d lost his tongue—not to mention his entire command of the English language.
Glancing over at her now, seeing the way the streetlamps caught the colors in her hair as the car passed beneath, he wasn’t sure he’d found enough of either to reply.
He cleared his throat anyway. “The Buick isn’t exactly a car to lose on a crowded street. Just in case we need to hit the road in a hurry.”
She bobbed her head a couple of times. “Funny. Finn said something this morning about me needing a getaway car.”
“Yeah?” He heard the catch in her voice when she’d mentioned her brother’s name.
She looked his way briefly before dropping her gaze to her lap and twisting her fingers in the fringe of the wrap. “All I could think was that I was a Bonnie without a Clyde.”
He wondered if she was referring to
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