Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,7

was pretty much a thing of the past.

“Well, with accessories, of course. But a bit of vintage mixed with designer is always the way to go. You’ll look fab.”

“Is this a bad idea?” I asked as I unrolled the stockings over my legs, tweaking the fabric gently so that the intricate flower design lay correctly.

“Going to work for him and wasting your summer in an office building was a bad idea,” Leanna reminded me. I slid my arms through the holes of the purple dress and let it slide down my body. “Going on a date with the man? Too crazy an opportunity to pass up.”

“Right.” Left foot slid into four-inch platform heels, then right foot. I did my best imitation model walk over to the full-length mirror. Examined myself critically. Leanna’s face appeared over my left shoulder as she studied my reflection as well.

“I think you look more like an actress than a model. Even with the extra four inches.”

I knew what that meant. Actresses were pretty but models were stunning, freakish even in their beauty. Daniel dated models. This would never work.

“Do you think he asked me out because he’s suspicious?” I didn’t have to elaborate. Some drunken night in the first year of our friendship, I’d confided in Leanna about my entire complicated history. In typical Leanna fashion, she’d had a nonjudgmental perspective on the whole story.

Just as she did now.

“Suspicious of what?” Leanna returned, with her usual bluntness. “That you might ruin him via poorly done graphic design? I doubt it would even cross his mind that you could.”

History was filled with triumphs of those who had been underestimated. Only in this case, I suspected Leanna had the right of it. “I’m out of my league, aren’t I?”

“In business, yes.” But then Leanna turned serious. She lifted a few strands of my hair and slid a Swarovski crystal pin into place. “In art, he can’t touch you. Just imagine you’re Warhol deigning to have dinner with a suit. Hey, maybe he can be your muse or your benefactor or something.”

I smiled. Trust Leanna to say exactly the right thing.

• • •

I didn’t see his Porsche when I peered out the window at a minute to eight. However a black Bentley idled on the street, complete with chauffeur opening the door to the back seat. I watched, captivated, as one be-suited leg appeared and then the next, along with that glossy head of chestnut brown hair.

Hartmann straightened, looked up, and unerringly found me, peering out of a bay window three stories above. Heat flushed through me. How did he do that? I turned from the window, negligently, as if I had all the time in the world. Then I gathered my things—keys, mints, cell phone—and tossed them into my purse. I thought about condoms. Discarded the thought.

When I stepped out into the cool night air, he was leaning against the wall of the building. Ready to move to my side, to place a warm hand on my back.

“You look lovely,” he said, the deep tenor of his voice spreading the warmth from his touch throughout my body. It was silly, but I stood straighter at his words, felt lovely. “I’m so pleased you agreed to join me.”

Verbally, I’d agreed to nothing, but I didn’t say that, didn’t pierce the sweet fabric of the night with unnecessary truths.

I slid into the car. There was champagne chilling in a silver bucket of ice. I held my breath until he slipped in from the other side, until all the doors were closed around him.

He handed me a glass of champagne. It was like a movie: me, in borrowed stockings and shoes, sipping champagne in the back of a Bentley. With Daniel Hartmann.

If my dad only knew.

Even that dire thought wasn’t icy enough.

I couldn’t think, barely registered where the car was driving. Daniel was making everything so convenient for me, yet beneath it all I still had this utter disbelief that this worldly man could possibly find me interesting. Especially the sweater-set version of myself.

He had to know who I was. He had to be stringing me along, seducing me with all his famed charm, for some nefarious reason.

I had nothing to say to him. Except—

“Do you like art?” Which was an utterly and completely stupid thing for me to say.

“I’m on the board at the Museum of Fine Arts.”

Which I had known.

“Do you collect privately?”

I expected him to say yes. After all, I’d seen photographs of his architectural loft and