Bona Fide Beauty: Bona Fide, Book One

by Landra Graf

“Whoa hermosa, you shouldn’t try to take off so fast if you’ve never worn heels before.”

  “They were comfortable. I got over confident.” Heat rose in her cheeks. Her feet went flat with the floor again, and Dev stepped away.

  “Homework for next week, breaking these, and any other shoes we get today, in. Let’s talk best ways to wear heels.” His gaze took in her stance, and she hated being under the microscope again, wondering if she lacked something essential to make her a wanted woman.

  Her foot in his hand had nearly undone him, and catching her when she fell had made it worse. Normally he’d call bullshit if anyone told him they felt sparks when touching someone else, but he swore there were sparks, or at least invisible tendrils of energy weaving through them when they connected. He’d look like an idiot if he asked her if she had the same experience. Then again, there would be no point in drawing attention to something he couldn’t act on anyway.

  So he gave her pointers instead, helping her find balance on the wedges with only a two-inch heel, like keeping her back straight and walking heel-to-toe to help her stay steady.

  “You sure know a lot about heels. Are you a cross-dresser?” Forthright and blunt, she had the effectiveness of a sharp knife, killing his libido as she stilted her way a few steps forward before turning and walking back toward him. Praise be for small favors.

  “No, I’m not a cross-dresser, but I’m paid a lot of money to understand all aspects of clothing and footwear as well as being able to tell what works best for each type of person.”

  “Hmm.” Her only response as she gazed down at another pair of one-inch heels, these with a cork-like heel on it and a navy-blue canvas upper. “What about plain, regular flats?”

  “They don’t make them here.”

  She sat back down in the chair. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Because...” He paused, leaning down and sliding his fingers around the back of her ankle, caressing her Achilles tendon in a way no one would consider business professional, gently and softly. He’d done it again, no rhyme or reason, and he had to stop. Sliding the one shoe off, he continued speaking while moving to the next foot without actually touching her, just the shoe. A Herculean task, but he was determined. “For some reason, flats don’t allow the shoe designer to put in the necessary adjustments for arch support and tendon support, There are a lot of extra things he can do with just an inch or so of a heel on the back end, at least that’s what he tells me. Do you like these?”

  Kat nodded.

  He set the box to the side and opened up another one. “One down. Twenty to go.”

  She let her head fall back and sighed. “This is going to take forever.”

  “You’ll be thankful you took time to try each pair on. Many of my clients used to shop for shoes by looks alone, which resulted in uncomfortable selections that wasted money.”

  Dev made it through nineteen pairs of shoes without a relapse of his momentary madness to hold Kat’s ankle again. He let her put the shoes on and take them off. Their conversation since that moment were limited to the shoes, the styles, and how each pair held up when she walked in them. So far, three pairs had made the cut to go to the register with them. Now he’d attempt to convince her to try the last one.

  Opening the box, he took out the three-inch-heeled nude pumps. “Last one.”

  “No way. I can’t wear anything with a heel like that. I like the wedges.”

  “If you enjoyed the wedges, you’ll enjoy this. It’s only another quarter inch or so higher than the others, and can you honestly tell me I’ve steered you wrong so far today?”

  She frowned. “No you haven’t, but this is my line in the sand. I’m not really the heel type. They hurt my arch and cause Kat-ccidents.”

  The word was made up and unique but said with a matter-of-fact tone, like other types of shoes weren’t meant to enter her realm of existence. A practical admission he also respected. Kat was simple, down-to-Earth, and different from nearly all of his previous clients. A tiny part of him jumped for joy at her rejection of the heels because on some level he knew if she found the courage to wear them, the beauty hiding beneath the surface would be visible to everyone.

  “All right then.” He put the pump back into the box as she sprang forward in her seat.

  “Really? That’s it; you gave up that easy?”

  “You said you had a line. I won’t cross it.” At least he wouldn’t bother attempting to right now. In a few days or another week, possibly. Clients always had lines they wouldn’t cross until the little changes got recognition from fellow peers, and then they wanted to know about the other alterations that could be made, anything to garner them more high praise or recognition.

  She scoffed. “My lines didn’t stop you before. In fact, I’ve tried on clothes I would’ve never given a second thought to if you hadn’t been there coaxing me along. So don’t even go there. Hand ’em over.” She extended her hands toward the pumps. The no-games expression she possessed had him doing a double take.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’ve never backed down from a challenge before, have you?” He tried not to find that part of her cute as well. Where in the hell did the word cute come from anyway?

  With no response, she merely slipped on the shoes and stood up. “Yes, I have, but I won’t fail tests. I know you’re testing me. So here I go.”

  Two steps forward proved the best she could muster before she exclaimed an expletive and started a sideways dive for the floor. Dev reached for her, attempting to get her upright, but somewhere in the motions, he found himself along for the ride. The last thing he thought before positioning himself underneath her was the horror of possibly having a broken bone or sprained ankle after everything they’d gone through today.

  The impact against carpet and concrete jarred him, and he tucked his head like any seasoned football player would to avoid a potential concussion. The result connected his forehead with Kat’s, and she let out an, “Ow!”

  “Are you okay?” Only after the question did he realize his arms had embraced her. Her legs were cushioned between his; her hands clutched the lapels of his jacket. His mind wandered to the heat of her body in relation to his own.

  “I’m fine.” Her words were a thready whisper. Then she added, “Can I kiss you?”

  He shook his head. “That would be a bad idea. You’re a client.”

  She wiggled her hips against him, as if trying to find the perfect spot, yet to him any spot where their bodies met was perfect. The look in her eyes, mischief and desire, made him long to be another man in another world. Someone else capable of sliding his hands around either side of her face and pulling those plump, pink lips to his, lips that reminded him of when kissing could simply be the only pleasurable thing you did all afternoon.

  “I’m not a client,” she whispered. Leaning in even closer, he caught a hint of coconut and shea butter from her skin. “I’m a pro bono case, remember? It’s completely different, off the books and under the table.”

  Her words were a pure temptation, and he’d already sinned in the past. So easy to fall right back down the rabbit hole. One taste, one moment to get lost in, and yet there would be no coming back. He knew giving in would be like an alcoholic accepting a beer. All it would take would be one moment and then another.

  Before he could tell her no, she leaned down and joined those tempting lips to his. He tried to fight it, the urge to open to her. But when her sweet tongue tentatively touched him, seeking entry, he lost control and drowned under the onslaught she unleashed upon him.

  His hand came up to her cheek, angling her face. He enjoyed the little whimper as her mouth opened to him. Entrance gained, their tongues danced in exploration and rising desire. Time and sound faded; all that existed was her body pressed against his, and the taste of her.

  Something sweet and a scent he couldn’t define—a maddening pheromone she possessed. She may have rubbed against hi
m, and he wrapped one leg around hers to still her. Any more friction and the semi-erection he already possessed would get much larger. They continued to mix and mingle their tastes, like slow-sipping on some delicious, fine wine. She embodied the very thing he could sup on for hours.

  She pulled back first, breaking the connection and, with it, the magic of the moment. A smile and she leaned back in.

  He moved his head to the side, the reality of where they were coming back to him. “We can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Kat removed her hands, which had slid down and fisted his suit jacket at some point, and placed them palm down on the floor beside each of his shoulders. “Don’t be. It was a moment of insanity. I—”

  “Mr. Esposito? Ms. Baum? Are you both okay? Let me help you up.” Baby’s Bottom’s loud exclamations effectively killed the moment. He helped Kat stand up first. Dev took the salesman’s offered hand a few moments later and rose, brushing off his suit jacket and pants. No amount of wiping away dirt specks on his pants would stop the replay of the kiss in his mind—nor prevent him from having to face Kat. Guilt gathered in every corner of his body, a cold-sweeping guilt capable of making his palms sweat in some cold, clammy fashion. He’d done the worst thing imaginable and broken the barrier separating them. Even worse, he didn’t regret it.

  “Well, floor adventures happen when you trip while wearing a pair of pumps.” Kat brushed at her pants and carefully held onto the row of chairs as she walked back to hers. “Thankfully, no puncture wounds and I had someone to break my fall, so no broken bones.”

  “Right, I think we’re good here, Bill. And even with the unfortunate fall, she’ll take the shoes on her feet along with the other three boxes in the chair next to her. Anything on the floor we don’t want.”

  He watched in silence as Kat slipped out of the heels and back into her flip flops, not wanting to meet her gaze again or see the injury he’d probably caused. What a culo. Mark would’ve slapped him across the head right now, and he certainly would’ve deserved it.

  “Dev, I—”

  A shake of his head and she stopped speaking. Any words out of his mouth now would no doubt make the situation worse. He needed a few minutes to collect himself and calm the storm inside him, the devil wanting him to grab her again to see if the second time would be as good as the first.

  “Are you ready to check out then, Mr. Esposito?”

  “Yes, we’re ready.” He had to let go of this moment, to tuck it away somehow and lump Kat into the group of women who only wanted him for one thing. Anything else was a figment of their imagination or his. He had to break the strange spell she’d started weaving around them. This was business, his future, not a game.

  Kat caught up to him at the register, and as he handed over his card to Bill, she asked, “What scent do you wear?”

  “Bergamot and orange.” He didn’t bother to add that it was specially made, nor that he’d come across it as the scent of a gentleman in some old school book he’d read. She didn’t say anything else. Not while he signed the credit card slip or when they each grabbed a bag containing her new shoes and started toward the door.

  Once on the sidewalk, he worked up the gumption to apologize. He could’ve stopped her at any time, prevented the whole incident by turning his head, but he’d fallen into the pit. “Kat, I’m sorry for my behavior in there. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”

  She shook her head before tossing her ponytail behind her shoulder. “What if I wanted you to?”

  10

  Kat had a big mouth. In fact, her mother had said the same thing to her on more than one occasion when she’d chose to criticize rather than offer her affection. Her dear mother may have also mentioned that having a big mouth is part of the reason her uncle had ended up in jail. Whereas her gran recalled plenty of times where Kat’s penchant for being a bit too verbal about her wants and desires had worked in her favor. When she’d told Dev she wanted him to take advantage of her, those words were out of anger. He’d apologized as if he didn’t enjoy or care that they’d both shared a kiss that was hotter than an egg in a frying pan. And she refused, no, viciously objected to him acting all chivalrous knight-like. The self-sacrifice on the pyre of guilty emotions could go without a burning.

  Besides, he’d said no. If anyone needed to step up for being an eager, wanton, bergamot-induced fool, it was her. She’d gotten caught up in his scent and the soft feel of his suit jacket in her hands. The eagerness to see if the whiskers of his goatee were soft. Note to self, they were— Jalapeño suppository—so soft and didn’t make her skin chafe when they’d kissed. His full lips were delicious to the touch and taste as well.

  The kiss rated up there as the best in her lifetime. At the moment they’d fused their mouths together, the room had melted away. People didn’t exist, only them. No other boyfriend or date had possessed the power to make people, locations, or fears disappear. She’d been musing over her clumsiness, her inability to walk in a pair of heels properly.

  One kiss from Dev had swept the fear away. The inadequacy she experienced had disappeared and been replaced with a sense of power. She, in all her plain, simple ways, aroused him, evidenced by the hard ridge she’d felt against her thighs when she’d rubbed against him. But she’d broken his rule and Mark’s. If anyone found out, no money for her. No saving Gran’s house. An earth-shattering kiss didn’t mean more than her house.

  In his car was where she let the guilt in. Let guilt sweep away all those good emotions she’d been riding high on. “It’s not your place to apologize. I need to be the one to do that. I took advantage of you, made you break a rule. You mentioned me being a client.”

  “Yes, but I took things further,” he replied. Fists balled against the steering wheel, he navigated a turn before speaking again. “I’m an adult as well. I could have been firmer in my objection, stopped you or held you at bay.”

  She’d be going to hell for being relieved he hadn’t. Maybe the environment played a role, the shoes. She noticed he’d enjoyed touching her feet. Dev might have a foot fetish, one she would not begrudge him because it had given her a chance at an experience she’d never expected. “It’s the shoes. Those fancy heels made us both a little insane. By the way, thank you for paying for them. I’ll reimburse you.”

  “Don’t bother. And what makes you say that? It’s the shoes?”

  Because any other reason meant the arrangement between them wouldn’t work. “I’m trying to find a logical explanation and make light of things.”

  “Or is it because you don’t believe I could be attracted to you? An attempt to downplay your beauty?”

  They were mere minutes from her house, and the air in the car seemed thinner. The conversation was turning rapidly towards scary territory, a place she’d rather avoid.

  “No. I’m sure I have some positives about my figure.”

  “Positives? Try maddening. Your lips, the shape of your face, your body, and curves— words like delicious and divine come to mind. I can probably come up with more and be even more inappropriate.”

  She blushed, the heat spreading from her face to her neck. The car’s interior was too hot. Backpedaling from her earlier actions seemed best. The house needed to come first, not her idiotic want to be desired, touched, or stripped physically. Her fingers tapped on the car door, a frantic, horse-racing sound echoing back into her ears. “Stop, please.”

  “No, I won’t let you hide from yourself anymore. You’re gorgeous when you don’t shove your smiles away or hide your body behind billowing clothes and combat boots. It’s like you’re afraid to let anyone see you. I want you to know I see you. Who you are and the potential you have. It’s not potential because I want to re-make you. It’s the possibilities of what a few different style choices can do. Then the whole world will see who you are.”

  His words—each sentence—sent a rising tide of panic through her body. She relished and hated each phrase pointing out, as he put it, the possibilities. She wante
d to hide, to shimmy away into herself to avoid being disappointed because people always found someone else. Each boyfriend had—her parents saw her for who she was and found no use for her. So instead of blossoming under Dev’s praise, she yelled, “I don’t want the world to see.”

  The car came to a halt at the stoplight, and she felt his gaze on her. She glanced up, allowed the look of concern he held to come into full view. She willed her body not to cry or start going into a meltdown. “What are you talking about?”

  “Seeing means attention, and I don’t want it. Attention brings feelings, which end in disappointment, being abandoned. I want to be forgettable—do my job, make the money, and go home each day. No praise, no effusive comments that bring notice from others or an inspiring style.”

  “You’ve been hurt.”

  “Too many times.”

  The light turned, and they both went silent as Dev navigated the remaining few blocks until they pulled up in front of her house.

  He turned the engine off first and turned to her. She didn’t want to face him or confess anymore, admitting her deep, dark fears about attention and abandonment, how she feared people getting to know her, caring for her, caring for them. There were things better left unsaid because he might stop helping her, might stop her chances at getting the rest of the money from Mark.

  “Kat, could you look at me, please?”

  She summoned her courage, the will to face him for the sake of her grandmother’s house, and lifted her gaze from her lap.

  He grabbed her hand. The warm, soothing heat made her feel comfortable and safe. Damn him. “I’m sorry your previous experiences with looking beautiful or dressing up may have ended with bad memories. My hope is that, with my help, we can make all the future ones good. That is, if you’re still willing to give me a chance?”

  The expression he held was so sincere and earnest. She wanted to believe, wanted to trust. It just never worked out for her. Not in her favor. Like at the homecoming dance, where she’d lost her virginity only to have her date ditch her the next day for someone with more experience. A sexy outfit for her prom had gotten her a boyfriend who didn’t want anything but for her to put out and be arm candy. As soon as she’d refused, he was gone. Her college years and early twenties had yielded similar results. The last guy, the one who’d met her with her armor on, eventually had left because she’d never be all the things he wanted. He preferred his women with a lot of money, evidenced by the debt he’d saddled her with.