This Year's Black (Killer Style 2)

Too bad it felt like the show was running him over. Exhaling a deep breath, he closed his eyes and counted to twenty. “Let’s check into our rooms at The Palm Inn. We have an hour before the opening celebration for Andol Fashion Week. It’s a traditional affair with costumes. Ours will be waiting at the hotel.”

He needed to get to the damn hotel, take his migraine medication, and figure out some fucking answers before another curveball hit him between the eyes.

God, he fucking hated surprises.

Chapter Six

“It’s pathetic to have regrets about fashion.”

— Simon LeBon

Gritting her teeth, Ryder turned sideways and checked herself out in the floor-to-ceiling mirror next to the huge sunken tub in the suite at The Palm Inn that was supposed to have two bedrooms, but instead held only one large bed. By the time they’d checked in, all of the other rooms had been taken.

She couldn’t deny it, her nipples looked like she’d spent the afternoon in the Siberian tundra instead of traipsing from one end of this tiny tropical island to the other. As president of the itty-bitty-titty committee, her idea of a boob support usually meant the little shelf bra in her tank tops, which she had in abundance in twelve shades of black. But the diaphanous, soft yellow sarong didn’t come with a built-in bra, and the feel of the silky material against her sensitive flesh had her headlights flashing. That had to be the reason. The only other explanation was because she’d spent the day with Devin, and she wasn’t willing even to contemplate the implications of that. She still wanted to smack herself for telling him about Heath, but couldn’t deny that the unburdening had left her feeling lighter.

However, she still wasn’t crazy enough to enjoy this outfit that was in another time zone from her comfort zone. For the billionth time in the past three minutes, she considered refusing to wear the damn thing that tied around her neck like a filmy halter dress. But that would only serve to tip off the fashionable elite gathering in the courtyard to celebrate the opening of Andol Fashion Week that something was amiss with Devin and his new personal assistant. They couldn’t afford to have the gossips talking about them when they needed to get them to talk about Sarah.

Staying in hiding while the fashionistas gathered had to be driving Sarah nuts. From what Ryder had read in the brief, the older woman’s ego wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d have to show up. Hell, she might even be downstairs right now.

She smoothed her palms down the filmy material as if she could iron out the jumbled turns her stomach was taking.

You can go out there like this. You don’t have a choice.

Capturing Sarah was the fastest way to get Devin Harris and his drool-inducing ass out of her life forever. And that was worth enduring the sarong, nipple hard-ons and all.

Resolve strengthening her spine, she ignored the mirror and strutted out of the safety of the bathroom. She made it three steps across the sand-colored tile floor before she came to a dead stop.

Devin lay in the middle of the king-sized bed. He’d flung one muscular arm across his eyes, highlighting his square jaw and lush lips. He wore a matching yellow sarong, but his was draped low on his narrow hips, leaving his tattooed chest on full display. The man was a brick house of painted muscle and power.

Her tongue turned to lust-flavored sawdust and an ache began to build in her core.

A series of sharp beeps sounded, and Devin rolled over and sat up with his back to her. A giant oak tree climbed up his spine, its branches covering his shoulder blades. A set of initials were carved into the finely-detailed bark near the bottom of the trunk: J.H. Whoever she was, J.H. obviously meant something to Devin.

Don’t care. Doesn’t matter.

“We gotta get rolling.” Devin stretched, his back muscles undulating the tree branches like a stiff breeze. “Although, I don’t know if I can face anyone I know wearing this outfit.” He shut off the phone’s alarm, grabbed the room key from the bedside table, and started to turn around. “I have no idea where I’m going to put this—”

His light brown eyes widened, and their black irises dilated. The muscles in his shoulders bunched, but the rest of him became as still as a statue—the kind that would put David to shame. His gaze dropped from her face, and he gulped audibly.

Tension snapped between them like a rubber band, stinging her already warm skin. Everything except for her damn nipples went soft and pliant. Like a lazy cat, she just wanted to curl around his thick thighs and rub against him.

“I don’t suppose I’m really going to need this.” He held up the phone, his hand shaking just a bit. “I’ll leave the key at the front desk.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Her plan needed to be ignoring the hard body in front of her.

Good luck with that one.

Devin locked his jaw and brushed past her, stopping only when he’d reached the suite’s door. His shoulders rose on a deep breath and he turned the knob, holding the door open.

Keeping her gaze on the diagonal pattern of the tile floor, she held her breath and hurried out into the hall speedily enough that her sarong’s train floated

behind her.

“Ryder.” Devin’s voice stopped her in her tracks and she turned. “You look really…pretty.”

Warmth rushed up her chest to her hairline. Men had called her hot or fine or sexy, but they’d never called her pretty. That descriptor was saved for sweeter girls than her. Emotional necessity after the Heath debacle had required her to create a hardened, bitch-please persona, and few people ever saw past it.

But Devin had. And she had no idea what to do with that bit of information.