Dirty Scoundrel (Roughneck Billionaires 2)

I’m almost relieved when the limo pulls into the parking lot of the mall, because that means that it’s a change of scenery. I’ll be able to get away from Clay for a brief time while I find a dress, and that’ll let me get back into the right headspace for this. When the limo parks, I grab my purse and look over at Clay. “I promise I won’t take long and I’ll bring back a receipt. Any particular color I should keep in mind? How formal is the event?”

His brows furrow together as he gazes at me. “Just . . . fancy. I dunno.”

Well, that’s no help. “All right, then. I’ll go conservative.” The driver is at my door, so I get out, squinting into the sunshine. It only takes me about two seconds to realize that Clay’s right behind me, though. “What are you doing?”

Clay puts a hand to the small of my back, moving into step next to me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going in to get a dress,” I say pointedly. “At a women’s store.”

“I know. I can go with you.” He glances around, as if making sure no car is going to run me over, and then continues to lead me forward in a rather protective sort of manner.

“Uh, Clay, it’s a fat-lady store. Most men wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those.”

He scowls at me. “You gonna keep talking shit about yourself? Because I’m gonna have to change the contract if you do. That ain’t allowed.”

I stick my tongue out at him. “I’m just saying the truth. My butt can’t fit into a normal size anymore.”

“Your butt is pretty tasty if you ask me, normal or not.” The hand on my back slides down to caress the curve of my ass.

I yelp in surprise, stumbling forward on the sidewalk.

Clay only chuckles.

Face burning, I clutch my purse against my side and head into the mall. Clay moves back to my side again and I march through the shopping center, looking for the store I know will carry the size I need. I’ve always felt a little weird shopping in here in the past, but with a guy at my side? I feel really, really out of place.

I pretend to ignore Clay as I head to the back of the store, looking for cocktail dresses. Everything’s spangled and looks like something my grandmother would wear, but I suppose they would fall under “demure.” I find one in my size and turn toward the attendant. “Can I have a fitting room?”

“For that?” Clay drawls loudly, rubbing at his beard.

I can feel my cheeks burn with humiliation. “What’s wrong with this dress?”

He doesn’t answer me and instead turns to the sales clerk. “You got something with a bit more cleavage? And color?”

She looks at me, then at Clay. Her nose wrinkles slightly at him, as if she’s disgusted that this big, bearded guy is in her store, asking for cleavage. And for some reason, that irritates me. What, she thinks she’s too good for Clay because he’s got messy hair and a beard (despite an expensive suit)? She’s selling old-lady dresses. “No, those are our only plus-size formal dresses. You might go to the Nordstrom at the end of the mall.”

“This one’s fine, thank you.”

Clay gives me a surprised look. “We can go to Nordstrom. That’s fancier than here, right?”

“And probably more expensive,” I warn him. I haven’t shopped anywhere like that since my father started having money trouble. I’ve learned to be frugal. If we had time, I’d have preferred a secondhand store, or a thrift shop, if I could find one that carried clothes in my size, of course.

He just rolls his eyes and takes the plain dress out of my hands and puts it back on the rack. “Let’s get you something that doesn’t look like my granny got buried in it.”

And even though I should be offended, it takes everything I have to stifle my horrified giggle. “It’s hard to find plus-size stuff that’s sexy unless you shop online,” I admit to him as we leave the store.

“That’s fuckin’ stupid. You’re just as pretty now as you were when you were smaller.”

I glance up at him as we weave through the people in the mall. He’s got his hand on my back again, his stance protective and attentive at the same time, and he’s not looking over at me as he says it. It doesn’t sound like a line to him. It sounds like, well, he actually believes it. “I don’t know if you noticed,” I venture, “but I’m not the same size I was in high school.”

“I noticed.”

I can feel the shame creeping over me.

“Like your tits a lot more now, though.”

That . . . wasn’t the answer I was expecting to hear. But my pitiful, wounded self-esteem decides it has a little fight in it, after all. “Just my tits, huh?”

He glances over at me, and his white teeth flash in a grin. “Already told you that your ass was amazin’. Or do I need to shout it to a few people?” He cups a hand to his mouth.

Just as quickly, I grab his hand and haul it away. “Clay!”

He chuckles at me, shaking his head. “So prim and proper. That hasn’t changed.”

I guess not.

Clay moves closer to me as we enter the far pricier department store. He looks just as out of place here as he did at the smaller boutique, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he carries himself. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting a few stares from sales staff, or that shoppers are discreetly moving away from him. I study him as he steps ahead of me when the aisle grows narrow. There’s no denying that Clay hasn’t exactly put much care into his appearance. While his suit is impressive, his hair has always been a bit too long and right now it curls and waves around his ears and neck. His beard is long and thick and hides most of his face. He looks . . . mismatched. But there’s no denying that he’s handsome. Underneath all that, he’s tanned, built, and moves with a lithe grace that I’m envious of. If we weren’t in this ridiculous deal, I’d still be crazy over him.

It’s just that this deal changes everything, sadly.

Clay flags down a passing saleswoman and gestures at me. “We need a dress for my girl. Somethin’ sexy.”

“What’s your price range?” She asks immediately, all ears.

“Don’t got one,” he tells her, and pulls out his wallet, offering a black credit card. “I want her to have somethin’ with cleavage.”

She looks at me, then at the card, and a beaming smile crosses her face. “Won’t you both follow me?”

I’m of half a mind to tell Clay that we shouldn’t shop here, either. That these people are giving him funny looks and I don’t like it. But Clay looks back and winks at me. “Gotta love it when they work on commission.”

I lean in toward him. “I don’t like the way she was treating you—”

His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Which is what makes her change of heart twice as amusin’, now.”

I’m a little surprised by this. He knows he doesn’t fit in . . . and he just doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter to him what others think. I get a flashback of the boy I dated in high school, who didn’t care that everyone thought I was a snob. He was so secure in his own skin that he didn’t need the validation of others. Clay Price never did anything he didn’t want to.

My heart gives a funny little squeeze at that.

When we get to the dresses, there’s more than just one tiny rack situated in the back of the store. There are tons of racks of fancy, sparkly dresses, all of them beautiful and elegant—and twice as expensive as the last store. I know Clay has money, but I still feel a little anxious when I flip over the price tag on a pretty maroon sheath. Is all of this being carefully added to my tab?

As if he can read my thoughts, Clay leans in, voice a bare whisper. “Anything over five hundred and the anal’s back on the table.”

I give a startled choke of laughter and slap at his shoulder. “You’re terrible.”

He just grins at me.

“Now,” the saleswoman says. “You wanted cleavage, right?” She gestures at a rack of black and red dresses. “I think something like this will look fantastic, and it comes in a variety of sizes.”

* * *

A short time later, I step out of the fitting room in a tight black bodycon dress with spaghetti straps in place of sleeves, and a built in girdle. I have to admit that I look pretty damn good, even if I’m showing more skin than I normally do. I spin around in the mirror, checking everything, before I head out to the cash register.

I can tell by the way Clay’s eyes gleam at the sight of me that it looks exactly like he wanted. I’m feeling pretty sexy, though, and I give my hair a little toss. “This meet your approval?”

“Fuck yeah.” He looks me up and down again with a hungry gaze that makes me shiver. “If it was any better, I’d cancel dinner and tell Fred he’s on his own.”

“Don’t do that,” I blurt out. I forgot that “sexy” means things move ahead that much faster.

He just gives me a wink.

“Oh, but you need shoes,” she coos at us. “There are the cutest Louboutins that would look perfect with that.”

I’ll bet there are. They probably cost twice as much as my dress, though. Before I can protest, Clay nods. “We want ’em. Add it to the card.”

And ten minutes later, I slip a spike-heeled pair of black, peep-toe Louboutins on my feet. When I stand up, I feel beautiful and powerful, like I’m the one in control. I can tell from Clay’s expression that he approves, and it just increases the heady sensation. He offers me his arm and I take it, and we leave the store—and the mall—like the world’s most conspicuous couple ever. When we get into the limo, I adjust my skirt, cross my feet at the ankles, and then glance over at him. “So when do you change?”

“Hm?” He glances over at my face, then back down at my legs again.

All right, even though I’m hating this contract, I’m not hating the fact that he’s so distracted at the sight of my legs. I feel prettier now than I have in years. Maybe ever. I slowly recross them just to watch his expression grow more intense. “Are we heading straight to dinner?”