Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [50]
She looked over by the door to the mound of black-and-white fabric, and a sudden feeling of horror swept over her. “Oh, no,” she said. “You’re not dressing me up like one of those baby dolls.”
“Gothic Lolita,” he corrected.
“You couldn’t find a simple T-shirt and some baggy pants?” She kept the plaintive note out of her voice.
“The T-shirts in your size are for tourists and they’re very thin cotton. And while you’re almost as flat-chested as most Japanese women, the bras would still never fit you and your breasts would cause far too much attention.”
She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest. “Would you stop comparing me to Japanese women? I’ve spent my life towering over most people my age—I don’t need to be reminded what an oversize freak I am.”
He turned away from the screen for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. Reno was back. “Get over it.”
“You know, sometimes I think your mastery of American idioms is a little too good,” she said, scooping up the mounds of lace and fabric and heading for the bathroom.
But he was already staring at the computer screen again, dismissing her as easily as if she’d been a one-night stand.
Of which he probably had many, she thought. And she wasn’t going to be one of them. She wasn’t into masochism, and a night in bed with Reno wouldn’t be something she could just shrug off. Not to mention the family repercussions.
He was a snake. And she wasn’t getting anywhere near him again if she could help it. He could save her life, though why he felt it was his responsibility was beyond her, and then she wouldn’t have to see him again. Or at least, not until Summer and Taka had babies, and even then she could probably avoid him, given his dislike of American women.
The outfit was even worse than she’d imagined. First, a black lace thong that she was tempted to ignore. White, lace-trimmed bloomers. Fishnet stockings with a black lace garter belt. Billowing black skirts trimmed with lace, a corset and fingerless black lace gloves, charmingly accented with a little apron and a bonnet. She looked like a deranged French maid crossed with Morticia Addams. The shoes were the final touch.
“I’m not wearing them,” she said, storming out of the bathroom in her new rig, still in bare feet.
He didn’t bother to turn around. “They’re the only clothes Kyo could come up with. Don’t tell me they don’t fit.”
“The clothes fit. So do the shoes, but I’m not wearing them. They’re four-inch platform heels—if I don’t fall over and kill myself, I’ll still look like a basketball player.”
He turned then, his eyes drifting down over her absurd body. There was way too much leg showing, with the garters and the fishnet and the bloomers peeking out from beneath the ruffles, and the corset made her boobs look distressingly prominent. She stuck out her chin, just daring him to laugh.
He was wise enough not to. The corner of his mouth jerked for a second, in the faintest beginning of a smile, but he managed to look somber. “Maybe I can find some sandals,” he said. “Won’t go with the outfit, though.”
“I’m not that interested in accessorizing right now. I just need something I can walk in. And how the hell did your friend find shoes like that in my size? I have big feet.”
“Where I found the clothes. In a shop made for josohumisha.”
“What?” she echoed.
“Cross-dressers,” he said. “I thought if we put enough makeup on you you could pass for a man.”
She threw the shoes at him. He caught one before it hit his head, the other knocked his picture off the shelf. He rose, slowly, moving toward her with sinuous menace, and if Jilly had been any kind of coward, she would have backed up.
“I told you not to hit me again,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.
She wasn’t going to react. “I didn’t hit you. You caught it.”
“The intent was there.”
Okay, so she took a step back. A couple, as a matter of fact. But he just kept on coming, and the studio apartment was very small, and he was very big and there was nowhere to run.
She ended up against the wall, trapped,