Down & Dirty (Lightning 1)

“Oooh, this one first!” Alice says, refusing to relinquish her hold on the long, dress-shaped bag. And that’s when it hits me.

Hunter knew I probably didn’t have anything appropriate to wear to the charity thing tonight, so he sent me a dress. Of course.

The ball of tension that appeared in my stomach the second I realized these bags were for me loosens up. It doesn’t disappear completely—this is a lot of bags for a one-night party—but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s not that he thinks he needs to buy my affection with all this stuff. It’s that he doesn’t want me to be embarrassed about having nothing to wear tonight.

It’s the move of a nice guy and I feel the barriers I’d started reconstructing after last night begin to falter. He didn’t need to do this. I could have worn my standard black cocktail dress and been just fine. But, I have to admit, as I undo the knot at the bottom of the bag and reveal the midnight blue silk inside, this is so much better.

“Ooooooh,” Alice breathes as I slowly pull the bag up. “That color will look amazing with your eyes.”

I’m too busy staring at the gorgeous—and obviously couture—gown to answer her. It’s one of the most beautiful and most deceptively sexy dresses I have ever seen. At first glance, it doesn’t seem that risqué, but when I look at where the numerous cutouts are and figure out where they’re going to fall on my body, I can’t help being a little intimidated. I have a decent figure, but my boobs and my ass are just a little too big. I can only imagine what this gown, which is obviously designed for a six-foot model, is going to look like on five foot three, size eight, little ole me. But it’s not like I’ve got a better option.

“A dress like this is meant for going out,” Alice says, excited. “Why send it to you if he’s not planning something special?” The look she gives me tells me I’ve run out of wiggle room.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try…“It’s for a charity gala he has to go to tonight. He asked me as a kind of thank-you for finding him the house.”

Her look tells me I’m still a terrible liar, so I give up. At least for now. If Kerry comes sniffing around, though, all bets are off. It’s bad enough that she lost one and a half percent commission to me. The fact that she also lost her shot at one of the country’s most eligible bachelors is probably one strike more than she can bear.

“What else did he send?” Alice says, gesturing to the next bag.

I glance furtively behind me and am relieved to see that everyone else seems to have gone back to their own business now that we’re seated in front of the partition that separates the receptionist’s desk from the rest of the office.

Knowing she won’t go away until I open every single bag, I give in to Alice’s machinations. The next five bags I open hold shoes. And not just any shoes. Shoes by Christian Louboutin. The same pair in five different sizes.

Alice looks frustrated when she realizes what’s happening, but I’m amused. And also very, very relieved. Because, obviously, I get to send four of the pairs back and keep only the size six and a half that fits me perfectly.

As I put the rest of the boxes back into the bags, I can’t help being impressed with Hunter’s ingenuity. It wasn’t hard to figure out how he knew my size—he did go home with my panties still in his pocket last night. But the shoe thing? Totally genius. And obviously well thought out.

I like that in a man.

“Ooooh, Hunter Browning is a man after my own heart!” Alice suddenly squeals, holding another bag out to me. She’s given up on waiting for me to open the packages and has taken to peeking inside them.

I take it reluctantly—anything that makes her that excited is bound to be bad—then blush like crazy when I realize the bag is filled with Agent Provocateur underwear in midnight blue. Bra, panties, garter belt and stockings.

“A thank-you for the house, hmm?” Alice teases as I shove the small scraps of silk back into the bag. “He must really appreciate the seven and a half million dollars you’re saving him.”

“It’s a lot of money,” I answer primly.

“Okay, last package,” Alice says, holding out a tiny bag that has the bowling ball settling right back into the bottom of my stomach. “And it looks like jewelry.”

It’s too much. Even if it’s just costume jewelry—which I am praying with everything inside me that it is—it’s still too much. Dress, Loubis, expensive lingerie and now—“Fuck.”

“Fuck is right!” Alice whispers. She reaches out as if to touch the earrings, then pauses like she’s terrified she’s going to break them or something.

I get her reluctance, one, because the long, dangling earrings look so delicate, as if the stones are held together by air instead of the most slender platinum strands and two, because I’m pretty goddamn sure these earrings aren’t costume. I hold them up to the light, watch how the dark blue stones gleam in the sun. Nope, definitely not costume.

Hunter Browning just sent me several carats of sapphires and diamonds like some men send flowers.

What the hell am I supposed to think about that?

A dress is one thing. It’s understandable, reasonable—even if it is couture. The shoes are a bit much, but okay. I can even understand them. The underwear is a sexy statement of intention that has my heart beating too fast and my sex growing damp.

But the earrings? The earrings are a blatant statement of intention by a man who has the means to take care of a woman. They’re meant to be an enticement, a promise of what’s to come. And they make me feel dirty.

More, they make me feel like nothing.

Some women would be thrilled with them—Alice being one, considering she hasn’t stopped oohing and aahing over them since I opened the box they came in. My mother being another.

But I’ve been down this road before. I know how it ends. I’ve spent my life watching my mom move from well-off man to well-off man, taking presents and vacations and houses in lieu of love and affection. I’ve seen relationship after relationship of hers go bad, because men who like to pay women off tend to think of them as employees and not wives. Men who try to buy one woman eventually want to return her and try another one on for size. If they wait that long…