Lingerie on the Floor (The Londonaire Brothers Series Book 1)
Page 1
Table of Contents
ONE- Kate
TWO- Drew
THREE- Kate
FOUR- Drew
FIVE- Kate
SIX- Drew
SEVEN- Kate
EIGHT- Drew
NINE- Kate
TEN- Drew
ELEVEN- Kate
TWELVE- Drew
THIRTEEN- Kate
FOURTEEN- Drew
EPILOGUE- Kate
LINGERIE
ON THE FLOOR
AMANDA AKSEL
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Also by Amanda Aksel
The Marin Test Series
The Man Test
The Commitment Test
The Pregnancy Test
The Londonaire Brothers Series
Lingerie on the Floor
Lose Your Shirt- Coming September 2017- Pre-order now!
French Kiss for Hire
About Lingerie on the Floor
I have a passion for lacy designs. But my lingerie business is in trouble. If I don’t find an investor before I return to L.A., I’ll be forced to close my London boutique. The good news is the top fashion magazine wants to feature Kate Golden Lingerie in a double page spread. The bad news—they want me to model my lacy thong.
How can I say no? I care way more about sexy lingerie than I do about love, until him . . .
Drew, the insanely hot photographer I keep crashing into. I can’t help myself. He drove me wild during our boudoir photo shoot. Those eyes. That delicious mouth. The way he feels between my legs when I’m riding on the back of his motorcycle. I know, he’s a rich, bad boy, who only dates models. Sooo not my type. I’m not his either. But we can’t keep away from each other, even when we try . . .
Copyright© 2017 Amanda Aksel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by the author or publisher (except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages and/or show brief video clips in a review)
Lingerie on the Floor is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, businesses, establishments, or localities is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Sabrina Marks
Cover Art by Mayhem Cover Creations
For Stacie
CONTENTS
ONE- Kate
TWO- Drew
THREE- Kate
FOUR- Drew
FIVE- Kate
SIX- Drew
SEVEN- Kate
EIGHT- Drew
NINE- Kate
TEN- Drew
ELEVEN- Kate
TWELVE- Drew
THIRTEEN- Kate
FOURTEEN- Drew
EPILOGUE- Kate
One
KATE
Lingerie is delicate. But it’s also bold and fiercely sexy. I believed that simply wearing it could bestow those qualities on any woman, including me. Unfortunately, I’ve worn and even designed hundreds of pieces of lingerie, and still, I’ve never been able to unlock that fiercely sexy part of myself.
Some might consider me a bold woman. Entrepreneurship isn’t for the fainthearted. I started my company with nothing but a small loan and grew it to become one of the top twenty lingerie brands in the world. For a time. Kate Golden Lingerie seems to have hit its peak because lingerie sales have fallen. A lot. And as a result, so have my tendencies to be brave. Maybe if I could get some of it back and find a way to tap into my own “sexy,” I wouldn’t have had to fly over five thousand miles across the Atlantic in a last-chance attempt to resuscitate my brand and save my London boutique.
I gaze out the window of the black town car. Some of England’s most famous historical structures pass within plain view, almost greeting me with a polite tilt of a hat. The evening clouds color them all in a gray tint. Prim and proper London with its dreary weather doesn’t seem like the place to rediscover courage or find sexy. But here I am.
The car slows down and pulls over in front of Cornwall Terrace. The Roman-style, three-story building stands tall as the city’s most stylish partygoers make their way toward the entrance in twos and threes, strutting in a runway fashion. Tonight, the editor-in-chief of Lux Magazine, the most popular style magazine in the world, is hosting a soiree for all of London’s fashion elite, and I snagged an invite.
A cool breeze sweeps around my bare legs as I step out of the car. Who knew that London in June was more like December in Santa Monica? I adjust the fine, soft fabric around my bust, praying I haven’t made a mistake wearing a too-tight dress to a too-snooty fashion party. When I laid eyes on this strapless designer dress two weeks ago, I had to have it, even though it’s technically a size too small. It matches my siren-red lipstick to a tee, providing that boost of confidence that I desperately need right now.
My publicist and friend, Garret, texted a few minutes ago that he had arrived, but now that I’m looking for him, he is nowhere in sight. I walk, not strut, quickly toward the main gate, adjusting my dress as it pinches the skin beneath my arms again. Yeah, I definitely should’ve worn a floor-length evening gown. At least it would’ve covered the growing number of goose bumps on my legs. So much for silky smooth skin.
“Kate!” Garret calls, waving with his phone in hand. Despite the eleven-hour flight, his skin appears flawless. But as I get closer, it’s clear that he’s been freshly airbrushed with his chestnut blond, undercut hair slicked back. He returns his attention to the tiny screen, not even looking up to say, “Girl, you look hot. Nice updo.” I give him a quick once-over and shake my head. With his seriously loud, black-and-gold silk shirt buttoned up to his collar, he’s the one who’ll be “hot.”
I hold my arms close against my body. “Thanks, I’m actually freezing.”
Garret tucks his phone in his pants pocket, gawking at my bust. He raises his impeccably shaped eyebrow. “I can tell. Let’s get you inside.”
I quickly cover my chest with my silver-studded clutch. “Good idea.”
He ushers me in front of him, and I lead the way inside the gates. “Oh, wait,” he says, stepping off to the side, pulling me with him. “Your zipper’s falling.”
“It is?” I crane my neck. “Crap. I couldn’t get the damn clasp to close.”
“I got it.” Garret pulls the fabric tighter, zipping me in. “There. We don’t need the Little Katie’s making an appearance at the party. Then again, it could be good publicity for Kate Golden Lingerie.” He winks.
I grit my teeth. “I don’t think so,” I mutter just loud enough for him to hear. “It’s bad enough you’ve got me posing in my panties for Lux Magazine, now you want me showing off all my goods too?”
He gives an innocent shrug. “It was just an idea. And speaking of Lux Magazine, what are the chances we’ll encounter The Nina Savoy?”
The famous editor-in-chief with her platinum, perfectly angled, bobbed haircut is almost always a no-show among the glitterati crowd. “Slim. I heard she never comes out at her parties. It’s very Jay Gatsby.”
Garret’s gray-blue eyes widen. “Really? How have I never heard this?” He taps his finger on his chin. “What do you think she does while the rest of us drink a
ll her booze?”
I purse my red lips. “I dunno. Probably hangs out in her chandelier-lit, temperature-controlled closet deciding which of us designers live and which of us die.” Yes, that woman has the power to make or break a designer’s career.
We turn the corner, finding ourselves on a picturesque stone terrace overlooking a magnificent courtyard, skirted by a palace-like double-grand staircase. Waiters in black ties balance champagne flutes on trays. Also very Jay Gatsby. I do a quick once-over of the crowd milling around. By the looks of it, all of Lux’s style-section models and designers are here, chitchatting throughout the terrace and down into the courtyard with their pinkies raised high.
“This place is killer, right?” Garret asks as we proceed through the French doors, entering the hopefully warm house.
“Gorgeous.” Though the property is stunning, I’m more interested in the killer couture until I spot a familiar abstract drip painting. “Do you think that’s a real Jackson Pollock?” I ask, pointing in its direction.
Garret squints. “Looks real to me. What do you think it’s worth?”
I shoot him a cynical glance. “Enough to save my store.”
He frowns, crinkling his brow. “Is the investor still coming to the runway show?”
“Potential investor,” I correct. “If all goes well, I’ll close the deal before I go back to L.A. If not, bye-bye boutique.”
“Don’t worry, Kate. As soon as he sees those models in your lacy thongs, he’ll be begging to invest.”
“I hope you’re right.” I sigh. Just the thought of having to close my London store ties double knots in my stomach.
The temperature seems to rise as we walk through the crowd of fashion rock stars. London fashionites are a bit different than their Los Angeles counterparts. More fabulous hats in the U.K.
A waiter carrying a few filled champagne flutes comes our way. I do my best to make eye contact and get his attention, but he either doesn’t see me or completely ignores me. The alcohol is within arm’s reach and I extend my arm and manage to grab a drink as he passes by.
Snap!
The sound of ripped seams is closer than desired. I squeeze my arms in against my sides, holding my flute, and wait for my dress to unravel and fall on the floor.
“Oh, my God,” I say, stiffening my shoulders and planting my feet.
“What happened?” Garret asks.
I shift my eyes, nodding behind me. “I think the clasp just broke.”
Garret peeks around, returning with a cringe. “Yes, it did.”
My jaw clenches. “Shit.”
“It’s fine, the zipper is fully intact.” He waves a dismissive hand. “No one will even notice.”
“Ugh. I should probably just go,” I say, dropping my shoulders along with my eager smile.
“What? Why?” Garret whines.
“I’m jet-lagged, my dress is literally falling apart, and I’m just not in a party mood. I should go back to the hotel and get some sleep.” I lift my glass. “Cheers,” I say in a tone as bleak as the London sky, then down the whole drink.
He pops his hip, resting his fist on it. “Are you serious? How many times in your life will you get to attend a party at Nina Savoy’s house? At least stay for . . . another drink.” The guy makes a good point. It’s a rare event, even in my crazy, Hollywood-centric world.
“Fine. One more drink. And you’re on zipper watch until I leave here.” I jab my finger into his chest and it nearly slips against the silky fabric.
He reaches for his phone. “Ooh, can I tweet that? Hashtag zipper watch.”
I narrow my eyes. “Very funny. Does that mean I can tweet hashtag silky pit stains? It’s twenty degrees warmer in here. I bet it’s getting hot under that silk.”
“Oh, honey, don’t waste your time. When you do as many events as me, you gotta get Botox. In the pits.” He points to the crook under his arms. “This shirt will stay dry all night. Totally worth the cash.”
I shake my head, cracking a smile. “Grab me a cosmopolitan and I’ll think about letting you tweet my potential wardrobe malfunction.”
“You got a deal, Ms.-Golden-if-you’re-nasty.” He swivels his neck, then glances around the room.
“The bar’s that way,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction.
Garret tilts his head. “I wasn’t looking for the bar.”
“You scopin’ out eligible bachelors?” I give him a devilish smirk. I’m a way better wing-woman than I am at picking up guys myself. Maybe it’s because so few intrigue me. For me, it’s all about the guy’s shoes. I’m sick of suede hipster boots, sequined high-tops, and designer dress shoes. I want something unexpected but not eccentric.
He turns his attention back to the crowd. “I am,” he sings, “and you should too. We’re on vacation.”
“This is not a vacation. It’s work. I cannot get distracted. Plus, I’ve been too nervous to date ever since I went out with that guy who turned out to have a lingerie fetish.”
“Lingerie fetish . . .? Like he was into you wearing lingerie or he was into wearing your lingerie?”
I shift my stare, wishing I didn’t have to say, “Yeah, that one.”
“Yikes,” he says. “I’ll get you a drink. Stay here.”
Garret waltzes toward the bar while I survey the black and white backdrop of the room. The crowd and the Pollock are the only decorative pops of color but the contrast is fabulous. It’s too bad Nina Savoy skipped out on the party. I want to thank her for the invitation and the upcoming spotlight spread for my lingerie line in Lux Magazine. And perhaps talk her out of making me do the photo shoot myself. When we spoke on the phone last month, she had insisted that I model the lingerie. And when Nina Savoy asks for something, she gets it. The thought of being half naked in a room full of judgy magazine staff makes me want to barf up my airplane peanuts. I constantly have to remind myself that it’s Lux Magazine. They’ll make me look ten years younger and ten pounds lighter. Besides, I’m desperate to do any and everything to keep my brand alive.
Garret returns carrying twin classic martinis and hands me one. “Do they not have cranberry juice?” I ask, frowning at the glass.
He shoots me a sympathetic look. “Sorry, they only serve clear liquid.”
“What?” I glance around the room, peering right through every stemmed and short glass.
“We wouldn’t want to stain the white sofa or the white rug or the white arm chair or anything else, now would we?” He leans his head side to side, mocking the rule. Garret’s not much for rules, but I am. And I totally get why she would want to protect her upholstered, white antique bench from an appalling red-wine stain. I shrug and sip my dirty martini, and even though it’s not a cosmo, it’s a damn good cocktail. I let out a long exhale, feeling my body relax and loosen. Must be the champagne on a nearly empty stomach kicking in.
Garret and I stand quietly watching waify models strut in backless dresses and men swagger in tightly tailored suits. One guy even sports a glistening diamond tarantula brooch on his lapel. And then I spy something less couture but just as appealing. Or should I say someone . . .
The guy looks less like he stepped off the catwalk and more like he walked off the set of Rebel Without A Cause, the twenty-first century remake. Definitely has that James Dean, bad-boy thing going, with dark hair that curls around the back of his ears and just a hint of a beard. He leans against the bar, sipping from a short glass of some clear liquor. His brown eyes glance my way. I want to turn my head, pretend that I’m not totally eye fondling him from afar. But it’s as if he’s caught me in a trance. I’m breathless and can’t escape until he lets me go.
The mystery man lifts his glass, sending me a nod. I return the gesture. His mouth draws up in a suggestive smirk, while those rich-colored eyes penetrate more deeply into me. And for a moment, I imagine what it might feel like if he . . .
Garret gasps, pointing across the room. “Oh, my God, is that Miranda Kerr?”
I snap out
of it and force myself to follow Garrett’s gaze. I lift up on my toes, peering through the crowd. With my heels, I’m barely five seven. Then I spot the woman he’s eye-stalking. “No, that’s not her.”
“Damn!” He snaps his fingers.
I turn back toward the bar, but my modern James Dean has disappeared. Where did he go? He isn’t like anyone else in the room. Or, I’m so tired that I made him up.
Then, a strong hand slips right above my hip as my dress tightens around my bust.
Zip!
“Is that better?” A deep British voice vibrates next to my ear.
I whip around with a gasp, my martini swishing from my glass, over the rim, and spilling down onto the stranger’s black jeans. Oh. My. God.
“I’m so sorry!” I say, dropping to my knees and pulling a silk handkerchief from my clutch. He’s soaked from his zipper to his muscular thigh. Awkwardly, I dab my hankie against his pants.
“It’s all right,” the guy says.
“No, I’m so embarrassed.” I shake my head, keeping up the cleaning routine until I realize that I am blotting more than just his wet jeans with my hankie. And right smack in front of the London glitterati too. A prickling heat crawls up my cheeks, probably turning fifty shades pinker as his dark denim bulges more, growing stiff. If I keep it up any longer, he’ll bust out of his zipper too. I freeze for a moment, then ball up the damp silk in my hand and jump to my feet, meeting eyes with my leather-jacket-wearing James Dean wannabe. I can’t think of a more embarrassing way to meet the hottest guy I’ve seen in . . . well, ages. Will he think I’m crazy if I run out of the room screaming and flailing my arms in the air?
“I am so sorry,” I say.
He brushes his pants with a stiff hand. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have startled you like that, but your dress looked like it was about to hit the floor.”