3. Jane
CHAPTER 3
JANE
“How much is this?” I whisper to the blond saleswoman next to me, and it takes all my willpower not to complain about how annoying the lack of price tags really is.
I know Mom would chastise me for being thrifty even when someone else is paying, but I can’t help it.
The woman names a number.
Gaping, I wait for her to chuckle and say that she’s just made a joke.
She doesn’t.
“I can’t let him pay that,” I hiss at her. “The clothes his dog got dirty are one-hundredth of this price.”
“He won’t care,” she whispers confidently.
“How could you know that?” I ask, eyes narrowing.
Now she looks at me like I’m making a joke. “That’s Adrian Westfield.”
“How do you know him?”
Did he sleep with her? When it comes to rakes, that’s the default assumption.
She furrows her perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “He’s a billionaire and the most eligible bachelor in?—”
I tune out the rest.
A billionaire.
The most eligible bachelor.
Now that she’s said it, it seems like I should’ve seen it. There’s just something ineffable about Adrian, something besides his out-of-this-world looks. If this were Victorian England, I would’ve guessed him to be a duke or some other member of the upper echelon of the ton, so it makes sense that he’s a modern American equivalent. Add to that the fact that he’s walking his dog so close to Billionaires’ Row and buying me clothes at a place that seems to randomly add zeroes to prices, and it seems elementary.
“—don’t you read any tabloids?” the saleswoman asks me, bringing me back to boutique reality.
I shake my head. “Why read tabloids when I can read books?”
She shrugs. “Do you want to try on anything else?”
I dart a glance at Adrian. “What’s your least expensive suit?”
Even if he can afford this, I don’t feel right accepting something that costs this much.
Miss Miller approves. A lavish gift from a gentleman is indelicate because it has the appearance of a bribe upon the lady’s affections. If he insists on a gift, it should be something perishable, and thus not leave any obligation upon the receiver. Things like flowers are good, or fruits and vegetables—so long as they’re not of an indiscreet shape, such as cucumbers.
“That is one of the cheapest suits we have,” the saleslady says. “All I can do is show you another one that’s in a similar price range.”
Wow. The rich do live in their own little world.
I walk up to Adrian. “We have to go to another store.”
“Why?” he asks. “You look amazing in that.”
I bat my eyelashes at him. The phrase “flattery will get you everywhere” is about panties, isn’t it?
Miss Miller considers the warmth in her loins a breach of etiquette.
“This is too much,” I say. “I can’t accept it.”
He sighs. “I don’t feel right about what happened to your clothes. You’d be doing me a favor by accepting.”
Even though my resolve is wavering, I shake my head. “Your conscience will have to manage.”
“How about dinner then?” he asks. “And a chance to launder your suit?”
Dinner involves perishable items, so it would be okay, even in Victorian times, right? And now that I know he’s famous, I don’t have to fear for my safety… as much.
Miss Miller thinks the safety of a lady’s virtue is something she should very much worry about. An unchaperoned dinner is a lot more wicked than a lavish gift.
“Okay,” I surprise myself by saying. “I’ll go to dinner with you, but no laundry. For all I know, you might be a dirty-clothes-smelling pervert.”
I bet the saleslady from earlier overheard that last comment, and it’s taking all her willpower not to chime in—probably in his defense.
“Just dinner,” he says. “Any preferences?”
I shrug. “I’m not too picky.”
His eyes gleam with silver. “What do you think of sushi?”
“That could work,” I say. Truth is, I’m actually excited about that choice. I’ve been craving sushi, but because my mom isn’t a fan, I haven’t eaten it in a while.
“There’s a great place nearby,” he says and names it, but it doesn’t ring a bell. Nor would it, since my sushi restaurant of choice is near my house on Staten Island.
“And you’re sure about the clothes?” he asks, looking me up and down appreciatively.
“Positive.” My rags have dried by now, right?
“Can I at least get you a car to take you home?” he asks.
“Bad idea. Then you’d know where I live.”
He frowns. “Won’t I find that out when I pick you up for our dinner?”
“Not if I meet you at the place.”
He looks down at Leo, as though asking for his help. “I don’t like the idea of you walking around dirty.”
I certainly feel dirty right now, but not in the way he means. “Fine. You can get me an Uber. Economy. Not a limo. Not a carriage with horses—or whatever else you probably have in mind.”
He takes out his phone and presses the screen a few times. “Uber. Right. Heard great things about that app.”
It doesn’t surprise me that a billionaire has never used Uber. What is surprising is that he’s walking his dog on his own. Shouldn’t he have a fancy dog walker for that?
“The app needs your address for this to work,” he says.
Hmm. He’s got an annoyingly good point, so I tell him what my address is. “But I’m still meeting you at the restaurant.”
“Fine, but let’s at least exchange numbers.”
“Smooth,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “I guess you’ve left me little choice.” I snatch the phone from his hands, text a smiley emoji to myself, and reply with:
This is Jane, the woman you strong-armed into dinner.
When he takes the phone back, he grins, which causes all sorts of flutters in the pit of my stomach.
Miss Miller would’ve slapped the rake’s cheek before giving in.
I go to change, and when I put on the soiled clothing, bits of dried dirt chip away and land on the spotless fitting room floor.
Grr. I almost regret not accepting the gift.
When I come out, I spot Adrian pulling his credit card away from a reading device one of the saleswomen must have handed to him.
“What did you just buy?” I demand.
He turns to me. “The outfit you tried on.”
“Why?” I squint at him disapprovingly. “It’s not like I wore it long enough for you to enjoy sniffing.” At least, I hope not.
His smirk is cocky. “There’s always a chance you’ll accept the gift after dinner.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s also a chance that a winning lottery ticket will fall on my head, but the probability of that is pretty low.”
“We’ll see,” he says just as his phone makes a sound. After checking it, he says, “Your Uber is here.”
Yep. A car pulls to the curb outside.
“Let me get the door,” Adrian says, and before I can stop him, he plays the doorman, first letting me out of the boutique, then getting the car’s door.
How dastardly. It’s like he knows that enjoying gentlemanly gestures is Miss Miller’s only vice.
“Thanks,” I say, for some reason hesitant to enter the car.
He bends over, as if to take a bow, but stays there, with his lips only a very short distance from mine. “No problem,” he murmurs.
I stare at those lips, my heartbeat quickening.
He gazes at mine.
Some otherworldly force seems to pull us toward each other. I can see the sensual curves of his lips, so roguish yet so strangely appealing, the silver striations in his eyes, the strong, aquiline line of his nose… Our lips are but a hair’s width apart when there’s a loud bark inside the boutique, followed by the sound of something big clattering to the floor.
“Fuck.” Adrian straightens abruptly. “I shouldn’t have left Leo in there alone.”
My face burns and my heart pounds like the drums at Waterloo as I take a shaky step back, then turn and stumble into the car. With an unsteady hand, I slam the door behind me and watch as Adrian rushes to the store to deal with the aftermath of whatever Leo’s done.
The car pulls away as I drag in air, willing my frantic pulse to slow.
Did I imagine it, or did we almost kiss?
If we did, was it him kissing me or I him? Does it matter?
Miss Miller thinks it matters very much—as it is the difference between a proper lady and a woman of ill repute.
I lean back against the car seat and close my eyes.
I think I made a horrible mistake agreeing to this dinner.