I waited impatiently for Ben to show up at the men's wear boutique clothing store. After all, if he was going to pretend to be my boyfriend, and maybe something a little bit more, depending on my parent's reaction, he needed to look the part. An acceptable new wardrobe that would be more fitting to his role wouldn't come cheap, but I was willing to pay.

He showed up ten minutes late. Now, that might have just been because he hadn't found a taxi, or he was doing it just to bug me, to show me that just because I had broached this plan and bribed him, that he wasn't going to be at my beck and call. But for all the trouble I was going to, he'd better not give me any trouble or I'd drop him so fast his head would spin. There were plenty of men who would jump at the chance to pretend to be my boyfriend.

While waiting for him, I had already picked through some clothes, found a couple of pairs of slacks and dark blue denim jeans. Some of the clothes were stylish, some casual, and the same applied to shirts and a couple of different jacket styles. When he finally walked in the door, my irritation faded. For a moment. I couldn't help but admire his looks. He wore faded jeans, tennis shoes sans socks, and a forest green polo that accented his eyes to a disturbing degree. As he paused in the doorway, gazing through the interior of the store looking for me, I couldn't stop from staring at those eyes. His hair looked a bit ruffled, giving him an even more rugged look. I got the urge to slide my fingers through that hair again…

Dammit!

I could not allow myself to be attracted to him. Even my memories of my drunken night of sex with him were conspiring against me, causing my nipples to tingle with an odd thrill at the sight of him. He caught my eye and offered a half wave, grinning as he approached. He gave me the once over as his eyes slid from my hair down along my neckline, to the cleavage that just peeked out of my emerald green silk blouse and the dark skirt beneath, then down to my high heels and back again. I couldn't help but feel that tingle extending from behind my nipples all the way down my spine to warm the depths of my belly.

He took one look at the clothes draped over my arm, heaved a put-upon sigh, and then looked at me. I extended my arm without small talk. "Dressing rooms are in the back."

He lifted an eyebrow, grinned again, and took the clothes, heading for the dressing room in the rear corner of the store without a backward glance. I did see him lifting the hangar with the slacks, shaking his head slightly. Did he even own a decent pair of slacks? Of course he did! He worked for a commodities trader. He had to wear suits or at least dress slacks with a button-down shirt, but surely none as fine as what was found in this store. When I had seen him at the coffee shop the other day, he'd been wearing an off the rack suit and hum-drum white dress shirt. He'd filled it out nicely, but it was what it was. What he needed was some custom-tailored clothes, and this was the place.

I strolled toward the upholstered loveseat tucked into a narrow alcove near the dressing rooms and sat down. I tugged my skirt a little lower as I crossed my legs, more out of something to do than stare at the dressing room stall door, waiting impatiently for him to change. When he emerged from the dressing room, more than a slight scowl on his face, eyebrow lifted in question, I barely managed to keep a straight expression. Oh my God, what a difference just a couple of articles of clothing made.

He'd gone from a humdrum commodities trader to billboard model status. My mouth grew dry and my gaze took him in from top to toe and back again. His first outfit was a pair of skinny jeans, which I was sure he wouldn't ever have chosen for himself, but I had to say, accentuated that gorgeous ass of his, his strong thighs, and fit tightly over the bulge in his crotch. If one looked closely, one would almost be able to discern the outline of his cock along the inside of his thigh. A casual, short-sleeved and collared shirt was tucked into the jeans, and the designer sports jacket that he had just finished shrugging into fit the broad spread of his shoulders just so. Not bad. Not bad at all. It was amazing what a pair of pants and sports jacket could do.

I eyed him critically, my gaze lingering on his hair. We would have to get him a stylish fade haircut, but at this moment, all I wanted to do – again - was slide my fingers through that lush, dark brown hair of his.

"Well, what do you think?"

"Not bad," I commented. "Not bad at all."

"I think I look ridiculous," he commented. "Does anyone have a problem with regular boot cut jeans? I feel silly wearing these."

I was about to tell him that what he thought didn't matter, but then I changed my mind. If I wanted him to act the part he needed to feel comfortable in his own clothes. I offered a slight shrug, flicked my hand, and then nodded. "Feel free to browse and find something you like," I said.

He quickly retreated into the dressing room and emerged several moments later - much faster than it had taken him to don my choice of clothing for him – in his own clothes. He made his way past me, examining the racks with a dubious expression. I turned back toward the dressing rooms, closing my eyes and counting to five. Patience. I would need patience. I had to be careful. Yes, this was my idea, and yes, I had bribed him to go along with that, but my instincts were telling me that the more freedom in his supposed role that I gave him, the more it would be he who was determining boundaries. I couldn't let that happen. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only. To pretend to be my boyfriend. Nothing more, nothing less.

He breezed past me, a pair of black jeans slung over his shoulder, a couple of earth-toned shirts on hangers dangling from his fingers, and draped over his arm I barely caught a glimpse of a dark charcoal-colored sports jacket.

The door of the dressing room slammed shut and I stared at it, somewhere between amusement and total annoyance. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. Maybe this was going to mean more trouble than it was worth. Maybe the guy would take sadistic pleasure in annoying the hell out of me, just because he found it amusing. In between second-guessing myself, bemoaning the fact that I was avoiding the truth of the entire matter, which was, bottom line, that I was afraid that my parents would cut me off if I didn't do what they said, Ben walked out of the dressing room for the second time.

This time, I couldn't hide the admiration and attraction I felt. I felt a couple of heart palpitations as I barely stopped by mouth from dropping open as I managed to regain control. Definitely billboard model, and he was right in his choices of the clothing. The black jeans he wore cupped his ass like nobody's business. The bulge of his genitals was only vaguely discernible, and the pant legs crumpled slightly along his calves. Those jeans would look great with a pair of boots. He looked so dammed masculine, like a cowboy or something, that I couldn't help but stare. He had donned a rust colored short-sleeved, button-down shirt that fit him like a glove. The fabric of the shirt accentuated his build, those broad shoulders, the outline of his pecs, fitting close to his torso, but not overly tight. The buttons didn't bulge one iota and yet I could still see the faint marks of his nipples, the hint of abdominal musculature beneath.

While I stared, speechless for several seconds, he offered a grin and then shrugged into a sport coat, a neutral, charcoal gray which set off the jeans. The pop of color offered by his shirt was perfect. I kicked myself for not having chosen those clothes myself.

"Well?"

"You…" I paused and cleared my throat. "Those are good on you." I tried to inflect a bored tone into my comment, but I could tell I hadn't fooled him a bit. He stared at the pulse throbbing in my neck as my gaze kept returning again and again to the way those pants hugged his ass and waistline, then as my eyes drifted up and latched onto his muscular chest.

He watched me for a moment, and then the grin slightly faded. He approached and sat down on the sofa and placed a hand on my thigh, just above my knee. I barely kept myself from jerking as heat slowly made its way up my leg to my pussy. The warmth flooded my lower regions and made its way up my body and into my breasts. Of their own accord, my nipples tightened. Again, I cleared my throat, unable to pull my eyes from his.

"Karen, is all this really necessary?"

It took me a moment to process the question. "Necessary?"

He gestured toward the clothes, the boutique, and then the air. "Why not just tell your parents that you'll find your own boyfriend and someday, your own husband, all by yourself?" He gave a slight shake of his head. "So again, is all this really necessary?"

I went to my go-to response. "You don't know my parents."

He said nothing for a moment, glanced down at his hand on my thigh, gave it a slight squeeze, then readjusted his position, now turned more toward me, one knee up on the couch, the other draping loosely around the back. I felt his fingers playing with the back of my blouse.

"You're worried that they'll cut you out of their inheritance or take away your allowance, or whatever it is that rich parents give their kids. Am I right?"

I said nothing although I did feel the heat of a blush burn my cheeks. Was I that obvious? Besides, no way in hell was I going to tell him the truth, that my parents were desperate to set me up with someone with money because they were running out of money. They had unobtrusively sold off several properties in the northern part of the state, including our summer home by the lake up in Maine. I certainly wasn't going to tell him that I was worried that one of these days, my father would no longer pick up the tab for my expenses, and that, even worse, my trust fund would not be available.

The knowledge of my parent’s financial difficulties always made me feel sick to my stomach. I had never lived without money, without being able to buy anything I wanted, to travel anywhere I wanted to go, or to surround myself with the nicer things in life.

I would find a rich man to marry, I would! But I wanted to be the one doing the picking and making the choice. The fiasco with Daniel was only one reason. The other, the one that I hardly even dared to admit to myself, was that maybe, just maybe, there was not only a rich man out there for me, but one that I had respect for and could love. And more importantly, one that could love me in return. I wanted—

"Money isn't everything, Karen," he said quietly. "Oh, sure, we all want it and it's nice to have, but… there's a limit to what a person should be willing to do for money."

"Coming from someone who hasn't got any." I snapped. I saw the look flash across his face and felt immediately sorry for my harsh words. "I'm sorry… really," I said. I must sound like a bitch. He said nothing.

I had a feeling that he had been talking more about himself than about me but I couldn't help but feel… I don't know, defensive? I turned to him again. "You don't know anything about my life, Ben, and I don't know anything about yours. It's easy for a stranger to tell another how to live, isn't it?"

He appeared surprised. "I'm not telling you anything," he said, leaning back. "I'm just saying… I'm doing this, aren't I? For you? And it's not just for the money, it's—" He glanced down at the clothes he wore. "I could pay for these, you know, if I really wanted to. Should I?"

A sudden surge of annoyance swept through me. "You're not sticking to the agreement. Besides, we both know that it would take months for you to pay for what I intend to be your upgraded wardrobe."

"And that's just it, isn't it? You have more money than me, so you're better than me?"

"No… no, that's not what I meant at all—"

"It is and we both know it."

He stood, staring down at me with what I could only describe as a look of pity. Now I went beyond annoyance to anger. Who did he think he was, looking down his nose at me—

"It makes no nevermind to me, Karen." He shrugged, turning toward the dressing room. Before he disappeared inside, he glanced over his shoulder. "Just remember who's doing who the favor, okay?"

The dressing room door closed firmly behind him. I glowered at it for several moments. How dare he? By the time we were finished with this makeover, I will have spent thousands of dollars on new clothes, and, if he allowed it, a new, stylish haircut… if he allowed it? I shook my head. What was happening here? I was the one leading the way. I was the one that would tell him how to dress, what haircut would look good, and how to act. He wasn't in control of any of it.

Or was he?

What startled me the most, in addition to the things he had said to me, was how he made me feel. My body burned with renewed desire. Not with anger, not really. He was getting to me, and I'd barely spent an hour with him today. I had to maintain a cool exterior, had to maintain control. No doubt the guy cleaned up nicely, but if I were to be completely honest with myself, I rather liked his "old" self. That devil-may-care, casual appearance that he had shown me in the cafe. At any rate…

The door to the dressing room opened and he stepped out wearing the clothes he had worn to the boutique. With a slight bow, he handed me his outfit. "You can take the cost of these close out of the ten grand you promised me. Fair enough?"

I frowned, but was beginning to realize that Ben Reynolds was going to be a force to be reckoned with. This was not how I envisioned this. I had mainly chosen him for his appearance and his convenience, and of course, the fact that I knew that he didn't make the kind of money he wanted to make. And yet, somehow, I felt like I was losing my power over him. I stood, offered a cool smile, then deliberately brushed up against him, my nipples caressing his chest as I took the clothes and headed for the front desk clerk standing in front of the register, watching us.

Problem was, while Ben merely chuckled softly behind me, I once again felt the tingle in my breasts, the surge of heat in my groin, thinking about the way those strong fingers of his had pleasured me… and, dammit, that I wanted to feel his hand there again.

I placed the clothes on the counter, ignoring Ben as he approached, standing close behind me, so close that I felt the heat emanating from his skin, got a whiff of his aftershave, which didn't help the tingling in my breasts one iota, and dug into my handbag for my wallet. I pulled out my credit card and handed it to the clerk and gave her instructions to have the clothing delivered to my apartment.

After the transaction, Ben turned to me with a lifted eyebrow. "What now?"

I turned to him. "We finish putting together your wardrobe," I said, pushing open the door to the boutique and emerging onto the sidewalk, the sounds of New York City surrounding me, restoring my sense of equilibrium. "Then, we go get a drink and discuss your background story and how we met, and all that other stuff."

To my surprise, he grinned. "Anything you say, Karen." He purred. "After all, you're the boss, aren't you?"

I held back a sigh, lifting my hand to catch a taxi. Was I?