Free Banshee Seduction (Montgomery's Sin Book 1) by Diane Saxon Page B

starting at faded to almost white through to deep royal blue. Yeah. Dark blue. He took a pair out, tucked them under his arm, and pressed another button on his remote control.
    Rows of hangers floated past until his neat white shirts appeared. First row—evening shirts, stiff collars. Second row, collarless. Third—meeting shirts, formal button-up. Fourth—yeah, the fourth, soft linen shirts, casual collars, sleeves turned over twice and stitched so they gave the impression of informal but cost the earth. He slipped one off its hanger and draped it over his finger. He turned to contemplate the rows of drawers.
    Underwear, or no underwear? Several ways to look at the situation. If he got lucky and it was a quickie, no underwear was ideal. If he got lucky and interrupted, he’d snag himself on his jeans if he had no underwear—ouch. His eyes almost watered at the thought. If he got lucky with Ginny and it took all night, she was going to think he was too presumptuous if he whipped his jeans off and—hey, commando!—and his luck might run out there and then. He really wanted to get lucky with Ginny, and it was going to last a hell of a lot longer than all night too. He was in it for the long haul. The rest of his natural life would do it for him. She was his mate. He just hadn’t quite gotten the knack of romancing a reluctant woman yet.
    His chest ached. So far, he’d been pretty useless in the schmoozing game. The fire in the pit of his stomach told him he needed to get a move on.
    He stabbed his finger on the remote control, and the second drawer slid open. White, plain white. He pressed the buttons, the drawer slid closed, and the top drawer opened—silk boxers. Nope. He needed plain white cotton, definitely. He couldn’t stand the feel of silk slipping into the crack of his ass because his jeans were too tight. They were fine beneath pants, but jeans, no.
    He stroked his hand over his clean-shaven face. He was starting to think like a girl. What the hell did it matter? Except if he got Ginny naked, he wanted her to stay that way, and he suspected she was more discerning than the women he’d known in his past. Besides, he didn’t want to put marks on her tender skin.
    He stared at himself in the mirror. Freshly shaven, smartly dressed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d consciously made an effort, and realized it was exactly what Emma had been talking about. And the penny dropped. She’d been right, it wasn’t her—it was him. He’d been completely disinterested in the woman and had made no effort whatsoever. She’d seen it, felt it, known it. Long before he had. He thought she’d dumped him, as did the rest of the world, when in fact, he’d moved her on well before she made the decision to leave. Not a stupid witch by any means. Just an evil one.
    He clicked his front door shut behind him, stepped up to the waiting car, and slipped in through the open door onto the wide, leather passenger seat. He slanted a glance at Daniel’s sullen face. “Stop sulking.”
    “I’m not.”
    Matt chuckled, settled himself back in the seat, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is it because of the gorgeous vamp? What was her name?”
    “Roni—and no, it’s not because of her.”
    “You remembered her name.”
    “The whole world knows her name, f-f-fuckwit.”
    “Except me, apparently…and your language is deteriorating. You stutter when you use the f-bomb, but you are definitely using it more frequently.” Amused instead of insulted by his friend’s obvious bad mood, Matt cast another glance over him. Role reversal. Today it was Daniel’s turn to dress like a down-and-out. Grubby cream T-shirt with a partially rubbed-out slogan Matt thought said, RUN IF YOU SEE ME SMILE—THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WRONG!
    “So, what happened with the model? Did she give you the brush-off?”
    “She did not. I wasn’t interested.”
    Matt squinted at his longtime friend and knew the statement for the lie it was.