Taking Control (Kerr Chronicles #2)(62)
Author: Jen Frederick

“You’ll just have to trust me,” he declared.

Tiny raises her eyebrows but gives herself into their care. I barricade myself in my office to make sure all of the details are taken care of for tonight. Tiny and I went over them this morning, but one more check can’t hurt.

Around noon, she sneaks into my office with a tray. Her hair is up in curlers, and she’s wearing a dressing gown and not much else.

“Tell me you’re not wearing Frank’s infamous underwear.”

“I’m not wearing that fancy underwear.”

“Is that a lie? No, don’t answer,” I laugh. “I’m sure that Frank would gut me if I came over and messed you up.”

“He would. I had to promise him I would stay at least six inches away from you.”

“I’m wounded.” I place a hand on my chest. “You’d have to stand farther away than that to avoid contact with me.”

She smirks. “What Frank doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

She places the tray on my desk and slides into my lap. “Whatever you do, don’t touch my hair.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, slipping my hand under her dressing gown. She’s wearing a pair of old boxers and a tank top. Easy access clothing, and I take all the advantage the loose-fitting garments afford me.

“Six inches!” Frank screeches as he slams open the door. “I knew I couldn’t leave you two alone for one second.”

My hand stills against her as Tiny freezes up.

“Don’t ever come barging into any room in my house again,” I say. The violence in my voice must be evident because Frank’s eyes flare. He opens his mouth to say something, but then his instincts kick in. He realizes he is a hairsbreadth away from me leaping over my desk and pounding him. Without another word, he turns and stomps out of the room.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” Tiny mutters against my neck.

“Now we know,” I say.

“What?”

“That you aren’t into being watched.”

“Too awkward,” she admits.

“Maybe it wasn’t anonymous enough,” I suggest. “We’ll test it out.”

“We will?” She arches a brow.

“Why not?”

“I’M IMPRESSED.”

“I’m terrified,” Tiny says, holding her hands out from her sides as if she is afraid to touch her dress. Over her right wrist is a heavy gold, red, and black bangle. The diamond engagement ring winks at me. The sight of it on her finger will never fail to thrill me. It’s a visible mark of my possession, and I can’t wait until I wear her ring so that I can declare to all the world that I belong to Victoria Kerr.

“It’s a vintage Charles James,” Frank says proudly, gesturing toward Tiny with his arms outstretched and both hands pointing toward the gown.

“I have no idea who that is, Frank,” I admit. Tiny gives me a grateful look. She doesn’t know either.

Frank huffs. “Charles James invented the sports bra, as well as the wrap dress cut on the bias—otherwise known as the taxi dress.”

“Taxi dress?” Tiny echoes.

“Yes. It was so simple you could slip it on and off in the backseat of a taxi.”

I give a wordless shrug in answer to Tiny’s raised eyebrow. My knowledge of fashion history is more shallow than a rain puddle.

“He was the subject of the Met Ball this year!”

At our blank stares, he throws up his hands and calls us uneducated cretins.

“That’s why we pay you, Frank. To make us look good.”

“No doubt. This is an amazing dress. I don’t even look like myself,” Tiny exclaims.

Our praise soothes his wounded feelings, and he perks up. “You do look amazing, Victoria. Simply amazing.”

Her blonde hair is parted in the middle but drapes lightly around the sides of her head before it is swept back in a sleek curve over her skull. The long strands are caught up in an intricate mass of curls that sit right at the nape of her neck.

The ball gown is tri-colored. The top portion is a severe black and sleeveless, with a neckline that cuts directly across her collarbone. The full coverage back dips into a vee right above the top of her ass. Around her waist, claret-red silk is draped and tucked and folded into a complicated structure that stands slightly proud of her hips. The side is drawn up as if it’s a curtain you’re peeking underneath. The underskirt is made of a straw-colored, tissue-thin silk folded into what seems like a thousand different pleats. Even though nearly every inch of Tiny is covered, the effect is shockingly erotic because it looks like she’s in a state of undress. Or perhaps like an exotic flower unfurling her petals.

Blood pulses through me, dark and hot.

“Stop right there,” Frank orders. “No touching, or she turns into a pumpkin.”

“Her jewelry is wrong,” I murmur. From my inside tux pocket I pull out a soft velvet bag. “Hand up, bunny.”

She holds out her palm with a questioning look. Frank falls silent and then gasps as the jewels fall into her hand.

Chandelier earrings made of rubies and diamonds are paired with a diamond and ruby bracelet. The bracelet is a three-inch wide flexible cuff with alternating circular and oval-cut rubies interspersed between baguette-cut diamonds. Cars are less expensive than this bracelet, but when Frank told me that I should buy her a bracelet to compliment a red dress, I knew I had to have it.

It’s a warrior’s cuff to be worn by a woman with strength and power. I affix it to her wrist and then lift her ringed hand to my mouth. “You look good in diamonds.”

“I’m doubly terrified now,” she says shakily.

“Don’t be.” I bend over and kiss her bared shoulder, reveling in her hiss as she swiftly draws a breath. “It has no value beyond that it looks good on you.”

Frank sighs. “I want one of you, Ian. Find me someone right now.”

Without removing my lips from Tiny’s shoulder, I respond, “I’m not a matchmaker, but if I find a wealthy guy tonight who looks unhappy I’ll be sure to slip him your phone number.”

“That’s all I can ask for, I guess,” he says grumpily.

In the car, Tiny asks quietly, “What’s this really for?” as she fingers the jeweled cuff.

“Tonight we go into battle. It’s just a weapon to show that you belong there as much as anyone. You may think of yourself as a dyslexic former bike courier, but I know you have the heart of a warrior. A warrior who will fight to the very end for the people she loves. Who will do anything—even go from a mansion to a fifth-floor walkup to be with the man she loves. A woman who means more than anything in the world to me. A woman beyond price.”