Emmaline opened her mouth as if to speak, but he cut her off by handing over the shirt. “Here. Wear this.”
She didn’t ask but he answered the unspoken question anyway. “You’re a hell of a lot bigger up top than she was.”
“Oh.” She flushed a little. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”
“I know.” He grinned, taking a long, leisurely glance over her breasts. “Still, kind of hard to avoid noticing when you wear corsets.”
“Mr. Taggart!”
He held up his hands. “It’s the truth. Their only job is to push up and...”
He trailed off when she shook her head. She started to undo the top buttons of her skirt but froze when she figured out that he wasn’t leaving the room.
Half a turn and all she’d see was his back. “I won’t look,” he promised.
“I’m not worried about that.” But her tone suggested otherwise.
“No?”
“Should I be?”
He ran a hand over his buzzed hair. “Shit,” he grumbled, knowing he’d walked into that one.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Taggart, but I couldn’t hear you well.”
“No,” he growled at her, accepting defeat gracelessly, “you don’t have to worry about that.”
This woman brings out the worst in me.
She just stood there, holding the pants and tank top to her chest. He jerked his head toward the door. “I guess I’ll be out there,” he said lamely.
He sank down on his ratty couch, mind reeling as he went over their conversation about Callie again. When he’d talked about her, he’d seen a flash of kinship in Emmaline’s eyes. The bone-deep pain she’d exposed bitch-slapped him. She was nothing like the woman he’d expected her to be.
That made things infinitely more complicated.
He groaned and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to like the woman. His job was to complete each mission to the letter, ensure his men’s safety and financial welfare, avoiding extraneous complications. He’d had jobs turn into clusters before; adapt and overcome was the lesson drilled into him over the years.
He’d adapted to this situation, made the smart choice for his men and ensured them a sweet payday. Once he met with Arthur Gregson and explained that the terms of the contract had been broken by sending in additional crews, his conscience would be clear. There would be no niggling ethical shit storms about working for Emmaline.
“Emma,” he mumbled under his breath,
feeling it fit her spunk better.
Oh, fuckity shit fuck. There was no way he’d crossed that line...had he?
“Mr. Taggart?”
He blinked slowly and looked over at the bedroom. His mouth dried and all he could croak out was, “Oh, gods.”
He hadn’t just crossed that line. He’d taken a flying leap over it and was sprinting forward without a glance back.
She looked like some kind of calendar pin-up girl. Callie’s cargo pants hung low on her full hips. His white tank top was too big on her but it clung across her breasts, dipping in the front. He tried to ignore her lack of a bra, although it required his greatest self-control. He might have peeked once—he was only human. She’d pulled her hair up and she was nibbling her lower lip and tugging to make sure the shirt was long enough.
He knew he was a goner when he saw her delicate toes curling on the concrete floor. That vulnerability was so damn wholesome, so unexpected after his years of service, he thought his cock would explode right then and there.
“I couldn’t find any shoes,” she said sheepishly, misreading his earlier oath.
He tried to recover. “I’ve got some extra. They’ll be huge on you though.” He tried to smile, but guessed it was probably more of a grimace. “You remembered to grab precious jewellery, but forgot practical shoes?”