No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,30
What in blazes do you expect me to do?”
She shoved the list at him. “Ask a saleslady. Tell her there’re four, and they’re all fourteen. One’s plump, the others are average. And don’t forget underwear.”
Lucas winced, “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
She lifted her chin, her expression defiant. “Which part? Where I smell like a sewage-processing plant or get to marinate in a tub of cold vegetable juice?” She sniffed contemptuously. “You’re so clever to see through me. I’ve always had a secret urge to masquerade as a Swiss steak.”
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything else, just walked away and disappeared around a corner.
Jess eyed the spot where he’d been standing, and her lips twitched. “Actually—yes, Mr. Brand,” she whispered. “For your information, I am loving turning you into an errand boy!”
She then went upstairs to check on Bertha’s progress with the tomato-paste shampoo she was giving Suzy Clark. The whining Jess had heard wasn’t a good sign. Poor kids. Served Lucas right to go through the embarrassment of buying girl’s underwear. She found herself grinning, wishing she could be there to bask in his humiliation. Her attitude was harsh, she supposed. But she was only human—a human that smelled like rotten eggs. Small acts of revenge were probably forgivable under the circumstances.
It was another hour before Jess had a chance to bathe, for she insisted everyone else clean up first. Thirty minutes earlier, Jerry had returned with boxes and boxes of tomato juice, crushed tomatoes and tomato sauce, having cleaned out the local Super Grocery Circus’s complete stockpile of tomato products. It had turned out to be barely enough.
Now, Jess was dressed, but her hair was wrapped in a towel as she waited her turn at a blow dryer. She met Lucas in the kitchen where he dumped stacks of brown department-store sacks on the table.
“Good, you’re finally back. The girls are upstairs wrapped in blankets watching sitcom reruns,” she informed him. “How’d you do?”
He pursed his lips with annoyance, then ground out, “It was about as humiliating as you wanted it to be.”
She hid her amusement by bending to open a bag. In the midst of rummaging through jeans, socks and sweatshirts, she stopped, stunned. “What in heaven’s name…?”
Gingerly, she pulled out a scrap of black lace that turned out to be a skimpy, indecent excuse for a bra. Examining it more closely, she realized the garment was big enough for the most well-endowed exotic dancer in Las Vegas, let alone Oklahoma. She stared, tongue-tied, for a long moment.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “It’s underwear.”
“For who, Bumpers Bambi from the Exotic Striptease Inn on Highway 7?” She turned to stare at him. “This is your idea of what a fourteen-year-old girl wears under her Bart Simpson sweatshirt?”
“I told the saleslady to give me a bra in every size. Maybe this color was the only one in—”
“I see,” Jess interrupted, stuffing it back into the bag. “Well, we won’t be needing the industrial-strength model. These girls haven’t had the cosmetic surgery required to fit this one.” She scanned the rest of the contents of the black-and-gold sack, her eyes widening. “For heaven’s sake, Lucas. They’re all see-through black lace. Where did you buy these things, anyway?”
“The lingerie shop in the mall.”
“Damian’s Delightful Undies.” She shook her head, incredulous, then found herself struggling not to laugh. “Didn’t the red garter belts in the window give you any clues…?” She couldn’t go on. The situation was too crazy. He’d tried, she supposed, and had done as well as any bachelor—whose idea of women’s underwear probably didn’t even include the word serviceable.
Glancing back at him, she managed with an almost-straight face, “For future reference, try a JC Penney or Sears store, and get plain cotton in white or pink.”
He frowned, detecting her amusement. “On what frozen day in Hades do you anticipate I’ll need that information?”
She shook her head, grabbing up the sack. “Never mind.” She started out of the kitchen, then stopped. He’d made such an adorable human error—so utterly, ineptly male and out of character. Turning around, she said, “I was wrong to criticize, Lucas. You tried. I’ll tell the girls Damian’s was having a sale. They’ll understand the concept of buying something tasteless because it’s cheap and it was an emergency.”
“Tasteless?” he repeated, sounding hurt.
She nodded. “I’m afraid so.
He frowned, muttering, “And they weren’t cheap. I don’t see why you have to lie.”
She let out a small chuckle, unable to help herself. All of a sudden, Lucas Brand wasn’t