Everlasting Desire
Willing her hands not to shake, she slipped his purchases into one of the dark blue garment bags inscribed with the silver Shore’s logo.
When she handed him the bag, she was careful not to touch him. “Thank you, Mr. Costain. Please come again.”
His gaze, as potent as a shot of Irish whiskey, bored into hers. “Count on it,” he said, and whistling softly, he turned and headed for the door.
Taking a deep breath, Megan held onto the edge of the counter as she watched him walk away. Lordy, she didn’t know who Rhys Costain was, but that voice, those eyes…She fanned herself with her hand as she willed her heartbeat to slow down, and fervently hoped never to see him again.
Standing in the shadows outside the store, Rhys watched the woman as she straightened a shelf here, rearranged a display of silk ties there, answered the phone. She was a remarkably pretty woman, probably thirtyish, with hair the bright reddish gold of autumn leaves and warm brown eyes. He usually preferred blondes in their early twenties, but in this case, he was willing to make an exception.
Was it luck, coincidence, or fate that had sent him into the store that night? Most likely it had been fate, now having a good laugh at his expense due to the fact that not more than twenty-four hours ago he had renewed his vow never to get involved with a mortal woman again; like it or not, he had become involved the minute he laid eyes on her.
Whistling softly, he headed for home. Time to clean out his closet, he mused, since he suspected he would be buying a whole new wardrobe in the next few weeks.
Megan was ringing up a sale for the lead guitarist in a popular rock band when she felt an odd sensation skitter down her spine. Looking up, she felt a nervous flurry in the pit of her stomach when she saw the young man who had come into the shop late last night. Rhys Costain.
Her smile was forced as she bid good night to her customer, then quickly turned away, pretending to check something on the computer, all the while hoping Mr. Parker would come forward to assist their customer.
But Mr. Parker remained in his office, with the door closed.
Megan didn’t hear Costain’s footsteps come up behind her, but she knew he was there. She could sense his presence, feel the intensity of his gaze on her back as he waited for her to acknowledge him.
Megan took a deep breath, counted to three, and turned around. “Good evening, Mr. Costain,” she said coolly. “How may I help you?”
“How, indeed?” he murmured.
His voice was smooth and soft, yet she detected a sharp edge underneath, like satin over steel. “Excuse me?”
“I’m looking for a black leather jacket.”
“What length?”
He shrugged, a graceful, unhurried movement. “Mid-thigh?”
“We have a few back here you might like.” Without waiting to see if he followed, she walked toward the back of the store. Pulling their most expensive coat from the rack, she held it up. “How about this one?”
He ran his hand lightly over the supple leather.
Watching him, Megan couldn’t help imagining that pale, graceful hand stroking her bare skin.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Y…yes, very much.”
“Do you mind if I try it on?”
“Of course not.”
His hand brushed hers as he took the coat from the hanger. His skin was cool, yet a rush of heat flowed through her at his touch.
The coat fit as if it had been made for him, emphasizing his fair hair and broad shoulders.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. What was there about this man that made her feel like a tongue-tied teenager?
She felt her cheeks grow hot when he looked at her and smiled, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“So, you like it?”
Striving for calm, she said, “It looks very nice. There’s a mirror over there. See for yourself.”
“No need.” Still smiling, he turned away, heading for the other side of the store.
Megan felt her blush deepen when he picked up several pairs of silk briefs, all black. Why was she acting so foolish? Men came in here and bought underwear all the time.
Frowning, she watched him pick up a dozen wife-beater T-shirts before moving to the checkout counter.
Regaining her senses, Megan stepped up to the register. “Are you going to wear the coat?”
With a nod, he removed the price tag and handed it to her.
She quickly rang up the sale, dropped his briefs and T-shirts in a bag, and offered it to him, careful, once again, to avoid his touch.
Again, his lips curved in that knowing smile.
“Good night, Mr. Costain,” she said, her voice tight.
“Good night, Miss DeLacey.”
The way he said her name made her insides curl with pleasure.
And then she frowned. “How did you know my name?”
He shrugged. “You must have mentioned it.”
She stared after him as he left the store. She was certain she hadn’t told him her name. The fact that he knew it left her feeling violated somehow.
He returned to the store every night just after midnight for the next week, and he always bought something: a dark pinstriped suit; a dozen dress shirts—black, brown, navy, and dark gray—all silk. He bought four pairs of Armani slacks in varying shades of brown, as well as three pairs of black slacks, two belts, three ties, a pair of black slippers, a black silk dressing gown.
Tonight he picked out a Trafalgar American Alligator wallet priced at $550.
He gave her a long, lingering look that made her insides curl with pleasure before he left the store.
“He’s a big spender, that one,” Parker said, coming up behind Megan. “I wonder what he does for a living.”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I hope he sticks around. We haven’t had a week like this since Bono came in to do his Christmas shopping.”
Megan nodded, though secretly she hoped that Mr. Rhys Costain would go back to wherever he had come from. His mere presence flustered her, and she didn’t like it. She was far past the age to come unglued in the presence of a handsome man, especially when that man was at least ten years younger than she was.
It was close to three A.M. when Megan arrived at the small, two-story house she shared with her best friend, Shirley Mansfield. Shirl was a fashion model, which sounded a lot more glamorous than it was. Being a model involved dedication and self-denial, especially for Shirl, who was older than most of the popular models and had to work harder to keep fit. Of course, as far as anyone in the business knew, she was seven years younger than her actual twenty-eight years. Shirl rose every weekday at six and headed to the gym for a thirty-minute workout. Then she came home, took a shower, and ate a calorie-controlled breakfast. Then she was off to casting appointments and fittings, and, because she was extremely popular, more often than not she had a fashion shoot in the afternoon. She didn’t usually make it home before five. Of course, the pay was excellent.