Devilishly Wicked (4 page)

“Oh, were you talking to that mutt?” he said, with a grin.

He didn’t look upset now. He looked gorgeous.

Georgia tried to answer with some kind of decorum, but instead only managed a croaked little “Yes.”

Tristan’s smile deepened, and she knew he was pleased by her flustered response. He did so enjoy torturing her.

“I don’t get it myself,” he said, leaning forward to peer over her desk at the dog.

Dippy growled as if he understood.

Tristan didn’t acknowledge the sound, instead focusing his intense green gaze on Georgia.

“Peaches, I’m going to need your help on a very important task today.”

Georgia automatically reached for the list, and again jumped when Tristan’s hand came out to stop her. His long, masculine fingers curled around her much smaller, much softer hand.

“This task isn’t on your list,” he said, and she could swear he actually purred the words. It was a deep, seductive purr that made every nerve ending in her body tingle.

Georgia’s eyes met his, and her heart threatened to beat right out of her chest.

“Okay,” she managed to say, proud the word came out normal, and not a sad little croak.

Then his hand, still holding hers, curled even tighter, and he tugged slightly.

“I need you to come with me.”

Georgia’s heart leapt again, painfully. Why was it everything this man said sounded flirty and seductive? He really hadn’t said anything forward, or even unusual, yet she felt like every word, every comment, was designed seduce her.

Of course, it had to be her own desires making her feel that way. Heaven knew, she wasn’t the type of woman Tristan McIntyre would want to seduce. He went for women as perfect and polished as himself. And he certainly had his pick of those at
HOT!
Models, actresses, every perfect woman in the world, right here for his choosing.

She was irritated with herself that she was even hopeful he was flirting with her. Let’s face it, if he was, it was just some egotistical game he was playing. “The watch your chubby assistant blush and look pathetically hopeful game.” And damned if she didn’t fall for it every time.

She cleared her throat and told herself to calm down. “What task do you need help with, sir?”

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, a gaze that seemed filled with silent innuendo; although she told herself she was imagining it. This man did not want her, not as anything other than a personal assistant. At his beck and call—only for work.

“I need you to come shopping with me.”

Georgia hadn’t expected that.

“Shopping?” Her gaze moved to his perfectly tailored, extremely expensive suit. “I don’t think you need me to help you shop. Besides, I don’t think I exactly share your taste.”

She gave a pointed look down at her vintage rockabilly ensemble.

Tristan smiled at that, his own gaze roaming over her. “No, you don’t. But I am quite fond of your taste.”

She could have sworn his gaze dropped, just for an instant, to her cleavage, but she decided that was also her own warped desire for him. Leave it to her to be longing for sexual harassment from her boss.

Ack. Get a grip, girl
.

“But I’m not talking about clothes shopping. I need you to come help me find new office furniture. All of this is going.”

“W
hich one would you pick?”

Georgia frowned at her boss, and then looked between the two desks. Both were large, made of heavy, dark wood and ornately carved with Chippendale legs and decorative knobs and drawer pulls.

They were both very cool, very gothic, and so not very Tristan McIntyre.

She looked back at him, perplexed. “They are both beautiful, but—”

“You’re right,” Tristan said, cutting her off. He waved to the sales clerk, who already hovered nearby, sensing a big sale.

Smart man.

“I’m going to take both of these.” Tristan pointed to the desks. “And the chairs, too, I think.” He looked at Georgia questioningly. “What do you think? Do you like the chairs, too?”

Georgia nodded, bemused. They were gorgeous, matching the desks perfectly with high backs and ornately carved armrests.

“Yes.” Tristan smiled. “We will take those, too.” He instantly began looking again. “I’m not done.”

“Yes, sir,” the salesman said, practically rubbing his hands together. Georgia knew he was mentally calculating his commission. She would be.

“Peaches,” Tristan called, moving on to another display, “look at this one.”

Georgia followed, knowing she probably looked like a bewildered child tagging along after him. Or a pathetically lovelorn employee.

“Isn’t this fabulous?” He smiled at her, and for a moment she forgot her confusion and could think about nothing but how beautiful his smile was. Was it really possible for a man to be that beautiful?

She had seen dozens of male models in the
HOT!
offices, and none of them were as stunning as Tristan. Maybe she was being overdramatic—she did have a bit of a flare for that—but his looks seemed almost otherworldly. Looks like his just didn’t happen in nature.

“Do you think I should get this one?”

Georgia’s dreamy appreciation disappeared, her confusion returning.

It took her a moment to comprehend what he asking her. She stared at the desk in question. This one was bigger than the last two, and truly medieval.

“It’s lovely—”

Tristan started to raise his hand to beckon the salesperson again, but she caught his wrist before he could call the man over.

“It’s lovely,” she repeated, determined to get her thought out this time. “But why are you buying all of this furniture? It isn’t your style.”

Tristan’s gaze moved over her; then he tilted his head, looking so damned adorable it had to be criminal. “What is my style, Peaches?”

Georgia pulled in a breath, bracing herself for more of his flirting, his torturous flirting. Okay, she could admit he did seem to be flirting with her, and maybe all of it wasn’t her imagination. Maybe it was such a part of his nature, he couldn’t help himself. She still couldn’t take it as genuine attraction to her. He just couldn’t help himself.

Still her body hummed at his attention.

Again, leave it to her to like the disingenuous flirtations of her boss. Talk about a crush that was doomed on every level. A therapist would have a field day with that one.

Because you never received affection from your father, you are desperate for any male attention you can get
. Or something to that effect, even though she and her dad had a wonderful relationship. Given that it had been just her father, her grandmother, and herself when she was growing up, she’d say she was probably closer to her father than most daughters. So she couldn’t blame that relationship.

Georgia was more inclined to think she was just a masochist.

Time to stop the fantasies, and remember that someone like Tristan McIntyre would never be interested in a quirky, chubby chick. He went for the size-two beauty queens. Georgia amused him, only because she reacted to his attention. If she didn’t, he’d get bored and leave her alone.

So remember, she told herself, his flirting is insulting, not flattering. Remember that, Georgia Louise Sullivan.

There was absolutely no reason for her heart to be thumping painfully against her ribcage. Except for disgust.

Yeah, that’s what she was feeling. Disgust.

“What’s my style?” he asked again, and Georgia realized she hadn’t answered him.

“Your style is expensive,” she said, managing to sound calm and businesslike. “It’s sleek and contemporary. Clean lines and exclusive designs.”

“Well, these pieces are definitely expensive,” he pointed out. Then his gaze dropped to his wrist. Her fingers still clung to the cuff of his shirtsleeve.

She instantly released him, and he smiled knowingly.

“Very true,” she said, surprised she sounded so unaffected, even though her fingers seemed to tingle where she’d touched him, “but it’s just not what I would have expected you to buy.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I love it. But this is
my
style. Of course, I’d love it.”

Tristan’s gaze moved over her, that slow roam that made her flushed and fidgety, despite her mental pep talk. “And I’ve told you repeatedly that I happen to like your style.”

Georgia gave him a skeptical look, even as a tiny part of her hoped he was being honest. So he might not be genuinely attracted to her, she rationally knew that, but surely it was okay to be flattered that he might honestly like her taste?

He tilted his head in that sexy way of his. “I don’t know why you won’t believe me.”

Her vintage versus his Versace?

Yeah, he was toying with her about this, too, and she was giving him the reaction he wanted.

She could be such a little fool. And curse her fair skin. She could feel the heat creeping into her cheeks, and knew that he could see her blushing.

“I do,” he repeated. “And I like this furniture. The
HOT!
offices need a makeover, and this is exactly the type of change I want.”

Well, if that’s what he wanted, then she certainly wasn’t going to stop him. She did love everything he’d chosen. But then again, her own apartment was decorated like a place stolen from the pages of a gothic novel—with a little old Hollywood and French bordello tossed in.

“Besides,” he mused aloud, turning back to study the latest desk that had captured his interest, “Finola will absolutely hate it.”

Ah, now the sudden shopping spree made sense. This was Tristan establishing for everyone to see, quite literally, that he was the one in control. He was the one making the decisions and calling the shots. Not Finola.

Frankly, Georgia could sort of understand that. She had found every moment of working for Finola White pure hell. She suspected it hadn’t been any better for him. Georgia would want to make it clear who was in charge, too, if she were him. Finola probably needed to be reminded of that on a daily basis.

“You know what?” he said almost to himself, and then gestured for the sales clerk to join them again. “I’m going to take everything in this section.”

“Ev—everything?” the salesman sputtered.

Georgia nearly choked, too. She looked around. He was talking about six full room sets with desks, chairs, settees, credenzas, rugs, lamps. She couldn’t image how many thousands of dollars that had to be.

“Yes,” Tristan said as if he was just buying a couple of pieces at a discount warehouse rather than an exclusive furniture store. Then again, Georgia supposed it wasn’t a big deal. He was the editor-in-chief of the most successful fashion magazine in the world.

“And let me get a half dozen of those suits of armor.”

“A—a half a dozen. Absolutely.” The clerk looked as if he was about to have an apoplectic seizure.

Tristan cast a look around the showroom, and then nodded his head, obviously satisfied with his work here.

To Georgia’s further surprise, he moved to her side and placed a hand on the small of her back, the action familiar and personal.

She told herself to move away, but her silly legs wouldn’t obey. His large hand felt so good, warm, and strong against her.

“Can you have all of this delivered the day after tomorrow? Thursday?”

The salesman nodded, and Georgia was certain this man would agree to anything to clinch the deal. Of course, she didn’t blame him.

“Excellent.”

Tristan and the clerk went over to the checkout counter to settle up the bill. Georgia wanted to follow, curious to hear what the grand total was, but her manners forced her to stay away. Not to mention, she’d probably see the receipt when the items were delivered. Most things went through her anyway.

Instead, she only half-attentively browsed. She was stopping here and there to look at a piece, when a lamp caught her attention. It was a sculpture of a voluptuous woman scantily clad, and over her head she held a glowing globe. Her eyes were closed and her face serene. There was a certain appealing strength in her serenity and her utterly feminine form.

Georgia looked at the tag. “The Goddess.”

That was a perfect name for her. Then she looked at the price. Yikes. Apparently, goddesses didn’t come cheap.

She lingered a moment longer, then moved on.

“Ready?”

She turned from looking at a set of bookends of two knights jousting, creating the illusion that the jousting sticks were piercing straight through the books.

“Yes.”

Again, Tristan placed a hand on the small of her back and directed her toward the exit. She debated whether she should move away, but decided there was no way to do so without it being obvious and awkward.

Besides, the touch was probably one of habit. She could see him walking like this with models and designers and other important females in the industry as they discussed business or entered an exclusive party. He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Unlike her, who felt, yet again, as if her heart was going to bounce out of her chest and onto the floor. Her toes curled in her platform dollies as she allowed herself to enjoy the heat and strength of his touch. Even though she’d just told herself she wasn’t going to let him affect her.

But good golly, his hand felt so good.

She stumbled slightly, focused more on the feeling of that large, masculine hand than actually walking. Said hand slid across her back and around her waist to steady her.

“Are you okay?”

Holy moly, no. No, she wasn’t, because now she was pressed directly against his side, and she could feel his lean muscles and even more heat.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say, “I’m a klutz on the best of days, and I suddenly felt a little dizzy.”

She expected a cocked eyebrow or knowing look. But instead, he just continued to keep her tucked against his side, and he stated, “Well, then we’d better get you something to eat.”

“I—I don’t think that’s it,” she told him, finding it hard to focus on anything but the movement of his body against hers.

“Did you have a decent breakfast?”

She thought about her pastry. It was a cheese Danish. Cheese was healthy, kinda, sorta, right?

“It wasn’t too bad,” she lied.

“Mm-hmm.”

She immediately felt a little insulted. Just because she was a little fluffy, or maybe a lot fluffy for the fashion world, didn’t give him the right to assume she’d had an unhealthy breakfast. And of course, he would also automatically assume she was hungry now.

“I’ve seen you eat before,” he said.

Oh, here we go. Here came the lecture about watching one’s weight, and he was probably going to go into some spiel about the benefits of a macrobiotic diet or some other diet that she could never do. She was a five-time Weight Watchers dropout. She sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to stick with a diet of tofu and wheatgrass. Or something equally unpleasant sounding.

“And I know you always eat on the go. Grabbing a bite here or there. And usually not enough of anything to even sustain a bird. You need to sit down and actually enjoy a meal.”

Oh. Her irritation instantly deflated. But a bird? Clearly, he could see that wasn’t true.

“So we are going to go to my favorite place.”