Читать книгу His by Design - Dani Wade, Dani Wade - Страница 9

Four

The next few days went by relatively smoothly as Ziara discovered the ins and outs of working for Sloan Creighton.

He liked his coffee black with just a touch of sugar for sweetness, but he only drank it in the morning. After eleven, he switched to Mountain Dew. He came into the office around nine-thirty every morning, smelling of citrus and a spicy undertone after his daily game of racquetball. He paced while he dictated letters, his long legs performing for her benefit alone. While dreaming up new show ideas, he liked to lean back in his chair with his Gucci-clad feet propped on the edge of the desk.

She often caught a glimpse of him standing at those floor-to-ceiling windows watching people walk by five stories below, deep enough in thought that she’d close the door behind her with extra force to remind him of her presence.

She was getting to know him way too well.

This new knowledge was uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the suspicion that he was cataloging some things about her, as well. Those damn eyes! Not to mention the occasional spicy remark, like that spanking comment, that she pretended to ignore no matter how outrageous he got. The last thing he needed was encouragement.

Today shattered the routine when Sloan hit the outer door like a bull. She hadn’t seen that controlled anger since his first day, that contained heat he’d wielded against Vivian like a fine-tuned weapon.

“I’ve got a lot of calls to make, Ziara. Don’t bother me.”

“Yes, Mr. Creighton,” she said reverting to formality in her confusion. She watched those long strides carry him into his office, the door slamming behind him. Definitely a good day to keep her head down and work on clearing the clutter from her desk.

A few hours of muffled yelling and banging later, she decided now was probably a good time to escape. She made her way through the corridors to the design floor. Anthony met her a few feet in with a quick and quiet hug. He knew exactly why she was here. Leading her across the room, he showed her the new shipment of sample materials scattered across a large table.

“Robert is very upset with me,” he said. “He thinks I’m a sellout.”

Ziara glanced over his shoulder at the normally boisterous man now sitting quietly at a drafting table. “Why would he think that?” she asked, keeping her voice low to match Anthony’s.

He gestured toward the materials. “Because I ordered these.”

Ziara took in the mixtures of cream, pinks, barely there blues and an almost yellow color on a display table that was normally white, white and white. “Hmm. I can see where that would be a problem.”

“I’ve tried to move Robert in new directions for years now, especially as grumblings surfaced from the buyers. But he just won’t listen.”

“I don’t think Mr. Creighton will give him that option.”

“Well, maybe he will succeed where I have failed.” With a sad smile, he wandered back across the room, leaving Ziara alone for what he knew was her favorite pastime.

Picking up the nearby invoices, she started matching the materials on the table with the names and prices on the sheets of paper. She studied the fresh array of colors, the textures, drape and a myriad of other things.

In an ideal world—where she would have had a supportive family, scholarships and no need to be her own sole support immediately after getting her GED—she would have been a supplier, searching out the finest materials, the best deals for the entire company in accessories, gemstones, beading, lining, everything. As it was, she could spend hours immersed in the research but allowed herself only small windows here and there. Luckily Anthony wasn’t threatened by her presence or interest, so he’d spent many a minute teaching her bits and pieces. Bless his heart.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Ziara froze, her hand buried in a pile of pink-tinged satin. To her knowledge, Vivian didn’t know about her little visits here. Yet it hadn’t taken Sloan a week to uncover her secret.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Creigh—um, Sloan. Did you need me for something?”

When he squeezed the back of his neck as if to relieve the tension gathered there, she couldn’t help but sympathize.

“I definitely need you, Ziara. Don’t you know that?”

Her gaze zeroed in on his face, searching for the intention behind the words. His bright blue eyes were now tired, but a shiver of awareness still snuck down her spine. No matter how he looked, no matter what he said, she felt he was bringing her to an awareness of him as a man—and herself as a woman.

She murmured, “I’m happy to oblige.” Then cringed inside at the many ways her words could be misinterpreted. She straightened as he moved closer. He reached toward her stomach, which tightened in anticipation—but his hand bypassed her to explore the materials on the table beyond.

A smoky-blue chiffon, almost gray, held his attention. “Very nice,” he murmured, the sound almost seductive, as though he was encouraging...something. He lifted the material, testing the feel, weight and drape.

His hands fascinated her, the long fingers with their neatly clipped nails a sharp contrast to the fragile-looking material. But his eyes drew her, too. Those bright blues had darkened as if he were looking inward rather than at the material he handled so skillfully.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It’s a light chiffon, mostly used for accents and layering,” she said.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he glanced at her in surprise. “Been studying your materials, have you?”

Warmth flooded into her cheeks and chest. “Anthony has been teaching me.”

Rather than the condemnation she’d expected, his eyes softened in appreciation. “Show me.”

* * *

Sloan found himself entranced as Ziara explained the contrasts between silks, chiffons, satins and numerous other materials used in dressmaking. Not over the information itself, even though it was appreciated, but the unguarded spark in her eyes.

Then there was the show: her slender arms lifting each material to demonstrate its ability to drape, the thickness and what it might be used for.

“You could have been a supplier,” he said, drawn in by her enthusiasm.

The stillness that invaded her body told him he’d hit a sore spot, even though her lowered lashes hid her expression from him. Not quite understanding, he asked, “Why didn’t you? This stuff obviously interests you.”

The muscles around her mouth tightened, then she raised her guarded gaze. “Fashion production and supply chain management degrees don’t come cheap.” She started sorting the material by color. “Tuition was nonexistent for me, so that type of dream wasn’t even on the table. I looked at my options and chose what worked with my skills. It wasn’t until I came here that I realized how interesting this side of the business could be.”

“Your parents weren’t able to help?”

Her mouth twisted. “Not even close. It was just my mother and me, anyway. She didn’t think school was worth much.”

“What about your guidance counselor? If your grades were good, scholarships could have helped.”

“Maybe in another life.”

The spark of curiosity that ran through his body was exciting but dangerous. He took the leap, anyway. “Why?”

Finally she stopped rearranging the material so she could glare at him. “Look. I came from a really small town, even more southern than Atlanta, with not enough money and very few options. I worked my way through secretarial school with two jobs, eating peanut butter from a spoon every night. Not everyone needs a high salary and trust fund to be successful.”

That should have stung—and it did, but not in the personal way he expected. He could see how hard she must have worked to attain her level of success at such a young age—which meant this wasn’t just a job to her.

She wasn’t just Vivian’s pet.

He couldn’t think about what that meant to his plans. So he let his mind conjure pictures of her caressing the fabric. Within seconds, he began to visualize designs: a sleek gown of pale pink satin, almost bright against her dark skin, drifting low over her naked back, accented with white diamonds and silver thread. The smoky chiffon shaped into three-dimensional flowers at the shoulders of a structured gray, almost silver, silk dress. The creamy yellow draped tight across her torso in tiny pleats that met at the curve of her hip, then released into a waterfall of softly lilting, creamy white feathers.

All of them made exclusively for the incredible body before him.

His horrible morning dissolved under the rush of creative energy.

“What are you thinking?” he heard her say, her voice echoing slightly as she pulled him from his own head, that place where he created all the things he needed, wanted, with the easy strokes of his mind.

It didn’t matter whether it was building plans, an office design, extensive renovations...or, apparently, wedding dresses. He had only to envision it and the lines appeared in the forefront of his mind. It was very helpful, incredibly productive and totally intoxicating.

Which was the only explanation he had for what he did next. Reaching around her to the desk, he snagged paper and a drawing pencil. The move brought him flush with her side, prompting a surge of heat wherever their bodies met, though he forced himself to move away quickly.

He could tell she felt it, too, by the widening of her eyes and the way she held her breath. He shoved the materials on the table aside and started to draw. Within minutes, he had a simple outline of the pink satin dress he’d imagined, though he kept the distinctive characteristics of the model vague.

“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you.”

Her smile warmed him, intoxicating in its sincerity. He often had the feeling that she simply responded to him the way she should, the way an assistant was expected to respond to her boss. Not this time.