The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

“The most elegant loungewear I think I’ve ever seen.” He held up a robe, made out of what appeared to be the same silk as my dress, and a pair of boxers to match. “And there are slippers.”

“Of course there are slippers.” I carefully smoothed the dress across the bedspread and went to Neil. He handed me one black leather loafer. Apart from the woven design, it wasn’t ornate or fancy, but Neil knew his footwear.

“Recognize the pattern?” he asked. He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Bottega Veneta. Intrecciato. It’s exquisite.”

I shook my head fondly. “Look! Yours has a butterfly, too!”

Nestled on the inside sole of each slipper were intricately embroidered blue wings.

“He does love a theme, doesn’t he?” Neil mused. “I suppose we’re meant to put all of this on?”

“And do my hair and makeup,” I added.

He checked his imaginary watch. “He only gave us an hour. I don’t think you’ll have time.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Very funny. You of all people should know that you can’t just throw a dress like this over your head and go. It has to be worn as part of an overall look.”

“Well, mine is a bathrobe, so I can put it on and watch television,” he gloated as I headed to my vanity table.

Though we didn’t spend much time at Langhurst Court, Neil had at least gotten me a new—well, a new antique—vanity for the bedroom. There had been one before, but he’d given it to his ex-wife, Elizabeth, as a gift. I’d rarely objected to decorating schemes from his past, but I didn’t want to sit and put my makeup on at a table they had probably most definitely fucked on in the throes of marital romance.

I knew my husband pretty well.

Since the dress lent itself to drama, I went all out on my makeup at record speed. A smoky eye with black and indigo and shimmering silver, rose-taupe matte lips, and enough highlighter that I practically glowed. Keeping an eye on the clock, I fluffed up my hair as much as I could with a few boosts of root pump and my large-barrel curling iron.

“Darling, we will need to leave soon if we don’t want to keep him waiting,” Neil reminded me as I stripped out of my bra and panties.

“We could leave sooner if you would help me put this on.” I gestured to the gown, and he rose from the bed to come help me. As he stepped up behind me, I groused, “Some of us didn’t have to just throw on some undies and kick back, you know.”

“He never said you had to get this made up. Though he probably did assume you would. We all know you well enough.” Neil took the dress and carefully lifted it over my head. Sometimes our height difference—my teensy five-four compared to his six-two—was obnoxious. Others, it turned out to be pretty handy. “And you’re not wearing undies, so I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

“I know you both well enough,” I mimicked him sweetly. Smoothing the gown down my hips, I stepped back from the mirror, careful not to walk on the train. I plucked at the waist-deep Grecian-goddess style neckline. On first glance, I’d overlooked the black jeweled bars that gathered the sheer fabric into wide straps.

For the first time in…maybe ever, I didn’t want them to rip my clothes off.

“You really have no idea what he’s up to?” Neil asked again with a sort of anticipatory dread.

“I don’t think it’s anything bad. Even though you guys have been dicks all night trying to scare me,” I said, stepping into the pumps. The heels were just a little tricky; it had been a while since I’d worn stilettos so high. I was practically en pointe. That had to have been done for Neil’s benefit.

“You’re going to get tired of living together in a week,” he said with a chuckle.

Though I knew it was a joke, it struck something bittersweet in me. “You know...I don’t think I will.”

He put an arm around my waist, and we walked to the door. “I don’t think I will, either.”

It was a little strange to walk through such a massive house next to a guy in his boxers, but Neil had assured me that only four of the public rooms were under full-time surveillance, and those were all in the carriage house, which had been converted to a museum. Neil had found my questioning of the security measures a little odd. He’d said, “There are far fewer burglar murder mysteries in these houses than the movies would lead you to believe,” and left it at that.

The leaded-glass doors into the conservatory were closed. When Neil opened one, a sheet of heavy plastic strips immediately confronted us.

“What the devil...” Neil said, ducking through. “That had better not be permanent.”