A reed-thin saleswoman appeared and whisked the garments out of Rosie's hands. "Let me ring this up for you."
"Do you have a similar set in black?" Rosie asked. She leaned over to whisper in a low voice to Amanda. "Some men only go for black."
The saleswoman smiled at Rosie. "Of course. I'll just get the black set from the back."
When she returned, Rosie had added a transparent silk robe and a lavender feather boa to the heap of clothing.
"I'm sure you want the matching stockings," the saleswoman said, holding up the black lingerie. "How many pairs of each? A half dozen? A dozen?"
"I don't think—" Amanda gestured to the growing pile.
"A half dozen," Rosie said, interrupting.
"Rosie! You can't charge this stuff to Logan."
"He'll never notice." She grinned. "Unless, of course, you wear it for him."
"No." Amanda shook her head firmly. "This type of clothing is not part of the deal."
"Of course it is. He told me I was free to spend whatever I liked to showcase my talent and make you happy."
"This is not going to showcase your talent because no one will ever see it."
Rosie slapped a credit card on the counter. "It works subtly. You'll see. You'll feel much sexier when you know you're wearing this stuff. Feeling sexy will increase your confidence." Rosie laughed. "Listen to me. Shrink of the day."
When Rosie suggested going out for dinner, Amanda had to plead exhaustion. She couldn't think of anything but getting undressed and crawling into bed. Even the new clothes seemed a burden when she realized she'd have to carry them all home.
She splurged on a taxi, fell into bed, and when she woke up on Sunday, she knew she was sick. Sore throat, fever and headache.
On Monday, she had no choice but to call in absent.
"I'm going to come over at lunchtime and make you some chicken soup," Rosie said. "I'm an excellent cook, you know."
"Thanks, Rosie, but that's not necessary." Amanda took a sip of her lukewarm tea. "I'm calling the doctor next and I don't know when I'll get an appointment. I might not even be here at lunchtime."
"Call me when you know," Rosie ordered.
Amanda was grateful to get an early appointment due to a cancellation. She was in and out by noon, with a diagnosis of strep. The thought of trudging to the drugstore to fill her prescription was daunting, but it had to be done.
She checked her cell when it rang, and Logan's name popped up. Sighing, she answered. He was her boss.
"I heard you're sick." His deep voice caressed her ear.
"Rosie has a big mouth."
"She knows who signs her check." Logan's voice was amused.
"I'm on my way to get my drugs. I'll be in tomorrow."
"No," Logan said in his calm way. "Change of plans. Where are you?"
"A couple blocks from home. Why?" He couldn't make her go into the office. Her brain was mush, her throat burned like it was being carved with a knife, and work would be impossible.
"Felipe is on his way down there. He'll pick up the prescription, and bring it to your apartment."
"That's not necessary." Her protest was weak, but that was due to the fact that she was weak.
"You sound hoarse." In typical Logan fashion, he didn't argue, but merely carried on with his plans.
"I have strep. The drugs will clear it up."
"Hmmm…" He managed to make the murmur sound sexy. "I think you should stay at my place."
Her stupid heart leaped with excitement until he added, "Mrs. MacDonald can take care of you."
Her heart thudded back into an unhappy place. Why did she persist in hoping that he might care about her?
"I am perfectly able to take care of myself." She leaned against a storefront. She really did not feel well.
"You don't have to worry about me." Logan's tone was very dry. "I'm going to Paris this afternoon."
Okay. Time to face facts. He'd taken her words to heart, and he was done with her. Why didn't she feel happier about that?
"Thanks for the offer," she managed. "I'll be fine."
"Mrs. MacDonald likes to be busy. I know she'd be happy to have someone to fuss over." There was a faint intonation in his tone that suggested Amanda would be quite selfish to deny Mrs. MacDonald this opportunity.
"Slick," she said dryly. "But no."
"I know you think I'm a self-centered son of a bitch." Logan paused for a long moment. "But January 20th is the anniversary of the day that Mrs. MacDonald's husband died. I really would