Lingerie Wars (The Invertary books)

by henderson, janet elizabeth

  Instead, he used all of his self-control to turn away. He felt lightheaded as he made his way down the stairs and out of her home. Every instinct he had told him he shouldn't have left. It told him he should have crawled into bed and let her curl up against him. And wasn't that beyond twisted? She'd have screamed the place down. He was losing his mind. Invertary, Kirsty; all of it was robbing him of his senses.

  As he locked the doors behind him, he frowned grimly. He'd learned a lot more than he'd bargained for during his little break and entry. Kirsty not only covered herself from neck to toe during the day, but at night too. He let out a long, controlled breath. Kirsty wasn't hiding her scars from the world.

  She was hiding them from herself.

  "I'm going to kill him!"

  Kirsty shot up from her desk on Friday morning, grabbed her laptop then stormed through the shop and out into the street, leaving a grinning Magenta in her wake.

  Lake was standing in the street, in a T-shirt, oblivious to the icy wind coming off the loch.

  "You," she shouted as she strode towards him. "What the heck do you call this?"

  He turned as she thrust the laptop under his nose. His lip twitched when he saw the pop-up window with his name and photo—on her website.

  "Why Kirsty, how very neighbourly of you to help me out with my advertising," he drawled.

  She hefted the laptop.

  "I wouldn't use that to hit me," he told her. "You'll just have to find the money to replace it."

  Something stilled within her. It was the way he said it, as though he knew exactly how much money she had—or in this case, didn't have. Her eyes narrowed. Meanwhile his face was doing that thing where no emotion got through that thick skin of his. He couldn't fool her. His bloody eyes were laughing at her again.

  "You did this." She pointed at the screen.

  "To quote your own words back to you, I'm not responsible, but I may know who is."

  "This is wrong. It's mean. It's underhanded." She ran out of words.

  "And the stuff you've been throwing my way is all above board?" He cocked his damn eyebrow.

  "Stop that thing with the eyebrow. You're not James Bond. You're nothing like James Bond."

  "Funny you should mention that."

  He cocked his head towards the shop, where a work crew was putting up his new sign.

  "You have got to be kidding me," Kirsty said. "You named the shop after a Bond movie?"

  Silver letters on a black background said For Your Eyes Only.

  "Brilliant, eh? You'll have to wait for tomorrow to see the rest of it. No peeking."

  Kirsty flipped the lid of her laptop shut, swung it hard and hit him in the stomach. He barely flinched.

  "You're going to regret that," he told her.

  "I've regretted every single thing that's happened since I met you. This"—she pointed at the laptop—"is just the latest on the list."

  She lifted it to swing again.

  His arm sprang out and hooked her around the waist. He pulled her tight against him, making the men chuckle.

  "Stop it," she hissed at him.

  "There are better ways to get rid of that anger, Kirsty Campbell," he told her.

  "Like dynamite under your building."

  "I'd rather do this."

  Then the fool kissed her. And she stupidly let him. In the street. In front of the work crew, who didn't help by wolf whistling and applauding. And damn if her body didn't relax against him as his tongue slipped over her bottom lip. To make matters worse, he was the one to end the kiss and release her. Her eyes narrowed. Her leg shot out to kick him, but the tight ankle-length skirt made it impossible. Instead she almost fell over.

  "Stop kissing me," she told him.

  "No."

  Kirsty wanted to jump up and down like a toddler having a tantrum. The man was driving her crazy. Nothing she did had any effect on him.

  "I hate you," she said. "And I hate those damn lips of yours."

  Then she stormed back into the shop, past a laughing Magenta and upstairs to her flat to start a new list in a new cupboard.

  The day of the grand opening brought a clear blue sky. Perfect. Lake pushed up the old sash window in his living room and stuck his head out. Chilly, but beautiful. The hills that surrounded Invertary were gold in the early morning light and the loch glimmered like a diamond. He was about to go back inside when he spotted the curtain in Kirsty's bedroom twitch. He smiled. She was watching him. He waved. The curtain went suddenly still. She was trying to pretend he hadn't caught her. Funny. A moment later, the curtain pulled back, the window opened and Kirsty appeared.

  "Ready to pack up shop and leave yet?" he called across the empty street.

  For a minute, he thought she wouldn't reply. Then he saw a glint of steel in her eye that made him feel oddly proud.

  "A makeover isn't going to get you new business," she told him. "People don't buy lingerie because of the colour of your walls. They buy it because you know what you're doing. Which you don't."

  Man, she was beautiful. She made the scenery pale in comparison.

  "Good to see we've got you worried," he said.

  "I'm worried, all right. Worried about the influence you're having on Betty and worried about the sister you're trampling all over to prove a point. But there's no way I'm worried about you, soldier boy. You're no threat to me. I eat men like you for breakfast."

  There was a moment's silence. Lake's stomach clenched.

  "I take it that wasn't an offer," he said at last.

  Kirsty's eyes popped open in shock. Her cheeks flushed.

  "No, it wasn't an offer. Keep those lips to yourself."

  "Why is it everything you say sounds rude?"

  She glared at him before slamming the window shut.

  Lake whistled an old U2 song while he went through his pre-run stretching. It was a perfect morning for a run. The best way he knew to get ready for the day. Be fit, be on top of things. He was going to win the war. He cast a glance towards Kirsty's flat as he shut his front door behind him. Oh yeah, he was going to win the war and he was going to win over Kirsty too. He ran towards the loch feeling as though life was pretty much perfect.

  "Come on, Kirsty," her mum said. "Come across the road with us."

  Kirsty looked up from her laptop, which was still working, thank goodness.

  "No. I'm not giving him the satisfaction."

  "But it looks like fun," said Jean.

  Shona elbowed her in the ribs and told her off in a look.

  "We can scope the place out for future attacks," said Shona. "Maybe we can sabotage things while we're there."

  "I'm still not coming."

  "Kirsty Campbell, I didn't raise you to be a coward. You can face the man in good grace, compliment him on his opening and then tell everyone you have better underwear."

  Jean started to giggle.

  "What?" her mum demanded.

  "You said 'compliment him on his opening'. It sounds rude."

  Shona smacked Jean on the back of the head.

  "Grow up," she told her.

  Kirsty's head was beginning to hurt. Her office had officially become a three-ring circus.

  "I'll think about it, okay?" she said. "I need to get this finished first."

  Her mum reached out and ran a hand over Kirsty's hair. The look of love and worry on her face almost undid Kirsty.

  "I'll try—okay, Mum?" she said as her shoulders slumped.

  "That's all I ask."

  Her mother leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  "Come on, ladies," she told the rest of them. "Let's go see what the devil is up to now. Who's on Betty watch first?"

  Shona put up her hand.

  "Good, we're set."

  They waved goodbye and went out through the shop, like a group of excited schoolgirls instead of middle-aged women playing at being resistance fighters.

  Kirsty hung her head in her hands. She really didn't want to go over the road and see what Lake had
come up with. She had a sneaking suspicion that the man had taken her business and was doing better at it than she did.

  When it was silent she wandered through the shop and peeked out from behind the mannequins in the window. What she saw made her stomach sink. The crowd was huge. Huge and happy. They filled the shop and spilled out into the street. The servers from Dougal's pub were weaving through the crowd with platters of canapés. Folk held plastic champagne flutes with bubbly in them. She doubted it was more than cheap sparkling wine, but it looked good. She hadn't seen so many happy faces in Invertary since Morag McKay spent a month with her sister in Aberdeen. With a resigned sigh, she went to check it out.

  Things were going better than Lake had hoped. The place was jumping and the till was singing. Even Rainne had a smile on her face as she rang up people's purchases. And although he'd had to keep Betty's ratty old armchair, he'd managed to position it back by the changing room where it was hard to spot. She was currently sitting in it. Holding court and getting tipsy on one glass of cheap plonk.

  "I bet you're really pleased with yourself," a voice said behind him.

  Lake would have known it was Kirsty without the words—the hair on the back of his neck tingled whenever she was around, like some sort of in-built early warning system. He turned slowly towards her and watched as her eyes darkened with an appreciation that made him feel cocky. He wondered if she was even aware that she was licking her lips.

  "A tuxedo?" she said at last.

  "You gave me the idea. Who better to charm women out of their underwear than James Bond?"

  She looked towards the ceiling for a moment. Her arms were folded tightly over that black ribbed polo jumper that fit her so snugly it made him weak at the knees. The skinny jeans she had on made her legs seem impossibly long. She should have looked like she was dressed to clean out a garage. Instead she was his walking fantasy.

  "Please don't tell me that I'm the inspiration for your marketing plan. That makes me feel ill."

  "Sorry to hear that." He grabbed a glass of sparkling wine from a passing waitress. "Here, this might help."

  His eyes widened as she gulped back the drink without taking a breath.

  "Right," she said as she handed the glass back to him. "Are you going to show me around?"

  "Absolutely." He held out an elbow and was surprised when she took it.

  With a level of pride that surprised him, he showed off the silver walls with the black text printed across them—Licensed to Thrill, it said. Then he showed her the large cut-out photo of him in a tux beside the door. And last he took her to the corner where he stocked men's underwear, something he'd noticed Kirsty didn't do in her shop.

  She stilled beside him. Taking it all in. The racks were almost empty and women were posing with the cut-out of him in a tux.

  "Don't forget you get a discount if you put it on Facebook," he told them.

  "You're killing me here," Kirsty said beside him.

  "Killing you is not my intention," he said as he pulled her over to a quiet spot in the corner by the window.

  "No, wiping my business off the face of the earth is."

  "No. Making money is my intention." He paused. "It should be yours too."

  "I'm doing everything I can."

  "Are you? It's no fun if you don't fight back."

  Kirsty turned her head away from him to look out into the street.

  There was a flash. Three newspaper photographers were taking pictures of the front of the store.

  "You got the press?"

  "Just the Scottish," he said. It was no big deal. "I pulled a few strings."

  "And got the Scottish national papers to come to Invertary?"

  He shrugged. He was more interested in the fact Kirsty had suddenly paled than in the guy with the camera.

  "You've got to use everything you have, right?"

  Kirsty looked around her as her brow furrowed. Her eyes widened. She was standing so close that he could feel her breathing speed up. He ran a finger down her throat, making her jerk, but not before he felt it. Her pulse was picking up. He could see her eyes flick about the room. She was suddenly disorientated. Everything within Lake stilled.

  "Breathe," he told her.

  "I need to go." She turned in a panic.

  Lake grabbed her upper arm and spun her back towards him. He'd seen plenty of panic attacks over the years. Now wasn't the time to run.

  "No. Don't run. Fight. Use everything you have, Kirsty. You can beat me. You can win."

  "No, let me go. I can't breathe. My throat."

  Her hand moved to her neck.

  Lake held her shoulders. He made her look him in the eyes.

  "You can breathe. This will pass. Trust me."

  He saw a flicker of hope and relaxed slightly.

  "Whatever it is, don't think about it. Think about something else."

  "What?" she said, her eyes pleading with him.

  He hated the hopelessness in her voice.

  "This," he said.

  His kiss was soft, gentle. He wanted to give her his breath. To take her panic from her. He held her against him, firmly but gently. Slowly, he felt her relax, felt her breathing ease, felt her heartbeat slow. The panic attack hadn't come. She was fine. He slanted his lips and kissed her deeper, feeling, rather than hearing her moan against his mouth. She was more than fine. She was his.

  There was flashing. Reluctantly they pulled apart. The photographers outside had spotted them. Kirsty's face flushed.

  "Now I really need to go," she told him.

  He wouldn't release her.

  "You're okay, right?" he said, searching her eyes for the truth.

  She nodded, lowering her gaze, embarrassed.

  "Fine, go." He released her. "But come back fighting, Kirsty. No running. Fighting."

  He gave her a smile heavy with meaning.

  "I know you can take me," he said.

  She ducked her head and fled. But not before he saw a spark flash in her eyes.

  "That's my girl," he whispered with pride.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kirsty pushed her way through the crowd, blissfully unnoticed by the press, but then she didn't exactly look and act like the model she'd once been. There was no reason why anyone should recognise her. She shut her shop door behind her, leaned her head against the cool glass and concentrated on breathing slowly.

  Fight me, Lake had said. Use everything you have.

  The words fanned a flame of courage inside her. Instead of thinking about what she didn't have and couldn't do, she needed to start thinking about what she did have at her disposal. Her heart began to race. For the first time in years it was from excitement rather than anxiety. What did she have at her disposal? She had a shop full of lingerie, half a body and a scandalous past. And now she had a plan.

  Without taking time to analyse her decision, lest she chicken out, she marched through her shop, stopping only to pick up a tangerine satin corset set and sheer stockings. She ran up the steps to her flat and rummaged in the back of the wardrobe for the coat her mum had given her for Christmas two years earlier—it was white, ankle length and made of faux fur. It was one of the gaudiest things she'd ever seen. Poor Mum, she never did have any taste. Still, she was grateful for it now. In the bathroom she ran some mousse through her hair, giving it that tousled bedroom look. Thick black eyeliner, a brush of grey shadow and an extra set of eyelashes and her eyes were smoky and sexy. Pale pink lipstick and she was done.

  Back in the bedroom, she opened the closet door to reveal the full-length mirror she never looked in. Her eyes flicked to the window and the crowd down below in the street. They would be leaving soon.

  It was now or never.

  Her stomach clenched at the thought. She tried to calm it with logic. Telling it that this was nothing she hadn't spent years doing. Before her stomach could answer back, she stripped and pulled on the corset set. The satin material stretched across her body and hid the scar that curved round her right
side and onto her stomach. She smoothed on her stockings, clipping them into the suspenders. There were no scars on the few inches of skin that peeked out between the stocking and the lace edge of her panties.

  With great effort she looked at herself objectively. The coat would hide the scars on her shoulder and arm, but the scars on her neck worried her. She would have to make sure she held the collar up while she posed, otherwise the pictures would be all about the scars. With a deep and shaky breath, she pulled on the fur coat. "It's okay, it's okay," she repeated. She picked out a pair of designer shoes. They were several seasons out of date but she doubted anyone would notice.

  The voice in the back of her head told her she looked more like a cheap hooker than a once popular model. She ignored it. In her modelling days she'd made stuff a lot tackier than this look classy. She could do it again.

  Taking a deep and shaky breath, she headed for the stairs before she could stop herself, or before she passed out from thinking about what she was going to do. As her hand rested on the doorknob, a thought hit her. She turned and walked through to her office. She took the long strand of papier-mâché beads from the bowl on her desk and slipped them over her head. They didn't exactly go with the outfit, but they felt right. For some reason the fact she'd worn them on her last professional photo shoot, before the accident, made them seem like the perfect thing to wear now. Her hand trembled as she stroked the beads. She was literally half the woman she'd been the last time she wore them.

  "It's going to be okay," she whispered out loud.