Wildly Inappropriate Read Online Free PDF

between the big brass hooks with lion's faces on the ends mounted on either side of the massive piece of furniture. Peeking into the rooms, she couldn't help but think this place looked like a movie set whose actors had gone on strike. Everything seemed in its rightful spot but the layer of dust was undisturbed.
    The sound of his tread on the stairs sent her heart pounding. He turned toward her at the bottom of the steps and she froze, trying to make sense of the white garment hanging from a padded satin hanger. A flowing skirt draped over his arm. The fabric was so sheer she could see the denim he wore through it.
    "Should fit," he stated, handing it to her. "I'll be in the office." He pointed behind him to the right. "Through that room. You'll see the open door."
    The bodice of the dress was covered in fine embroidery. The sheer fabric of the skirt was unadorned except for wide-spaced pin tucks that ended in satin-stitched arrows. More elaborate needlework banded the hem in a swath about eighteen inches wide.
    She'd never expected to wear something this fine, not even on her wedding day. A script "C" in the center of the bodice caught her eye. Her fingers shook as she carefully slipped the dress over her head. Mingled scents of cedar and some unknown but sweet perfume made her ache in a new way as she slipped it over her head. Every woman craved things this fine; few ever got them. Cynda's feminine soul delighted in the soft way the dress seemed to float around her. This was like wearing a cloud that had been decorated by angels.
    The hem stopped halfway down her calves. Her dark shape was clearly outlined beneath the filmy fabric. Cynda turned and twisted in front of the old hall tree, trying to see the entire effect, picturing her hair done as he'd described. Yet it felt somehow wrong to walk barefoot down the long corridor. The sheer cotton made her feel more naked than if she'd been bare and her heart began to ache more than her nipples. She could tell the dress was old, but it was the sort of old that only got better, a fairy-tale dress. Everyone knew there weren't any black girls in fairy tales. The portraits of stern-looking white people under bubbled glass hanging in the front room seemed to agree.
    "Who does this belong to?" she asked, stopping awkwardly in the doorway, rubbing the embroidered letter with one finger.
    "I'd guess it belonged to my grandmother Chapman." He shrugged. "The attic's full of chifferobes crammed with the things of the women who've been in my family. Sorry if it smells musty." He leaned back in the chair, interlocking his fingers on top of his head. His gaze traveled from her head to her bare feet. "That looks nice on you. Ready to discuss our contract?"
    She nodded, still tracing the letter, trying to sort out what she was feeling.
    "Other than telling me all the benefits of selling my land for one hour a day for the next two weeks, is there anything else you want?"
    "If you want my hair done and the like, I can't afford to pay for that," she blurted, still thinking of the image she'd seen in her head. The way he wanted to see her. "But I could do it myself if I had the beads."
    "No problem. I'm used to paying for what I want. A salon will be fine, that way I can describe exactly how I want it done. Did you bring any clothes?"
    "No." She'd expected to be thrown out on her ass.
    He seemed to take that in stride. "We'll get you a couple pairs of shoes. I'll pick those out. There are plenty of dresses in the attic. I hate pants on a woman, especially in summer. Anything else?"
    She smoothed her hands down the dress, trying to figure out the game he seemed to be playing. She knew why she was playing along, but why did he want to play? He was hot. Not just attractive, but downright fine. He could get any woman he wanted, so why did he want to play this game? This couldn't be about sex. He could get that by snapping his fingers.
    "No." That was all she wanted, to get him to sell that piece of