Free Angel at Dawn by Emma Holly Page B

dwell on how very much she wanted to reach over and squeeze his crotch.
     
     
    M attson’s wasn’t one of Nim Wei’s vampire-run firms. It was a regular human business, with human employees. Once there, Christian was peered at, measured all over with tailor’s tape, and alternately clucked and cooed over by the store’s manager.
    What seemed like hundreds of garments were thrust at him through the curtain in the dressing room. Trying them on was a tiresome process when forced to restrict himself to more or less human speed. His one consolation was that Grace’s poker-stiff spine gradually unbent. Doing her job relaxed her, a fact for which he was grateful. It wasn’t to his advantage to have her stay mad at him, no matter what he eventually decided to do with her.
    Christian was in front of the central mirror, resignedly presenting the latest outfit, when the painfully stylish manager had an epiphany.
    “Black,” he declared to his assistant, one hand tapping at his lips. “Or navy. Take all the things I put in the ‘yes’ pile and pull them off the racks in those colors. Neckties, too,” he added, snapping his fingers to speed his subordinate up.
    He turned a marginally less peremptory look to Christian. “Don’t wear the ties unless you absolutely have to. I mean, if your mother dies, all right. Otherwise, they don’t exactly scream rebel . Stick to silk shirts with the collar open. One button. No cotton. No light colors.” He squinted at the Stetson Christian was still wearing. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to lose that monstrosity.”
    “Miss Wei likes the hat,” Grace broke in as Christian’s neck stiffened. “She thinks it’s part of his signature. Because he’s from Texas.”
    The manager looked unsurely from Grace to him. “It’s brown. ”
    “It’s him, Damon,” Grace insisted. “It’s a real man’s hat that a real man has worn. If he didn’t have it, he’d just be another pretty-faced young actor.”
    Christian was no more a real Texan than he was a young man. All the same, he was glad to hang on to his headgear. Given his aura’s preserving powers, he’d had to work to get it this broken-in. Childishly, perhaps, he smirked at the clothier.
    “Fine,” the manager surrendered. “Far be it from me to second-guess a beautiful woman.”
    “They’re the ones who’ll be buying tickets,” Grace said pragmatically. “Though, of course, we appreciate your expertise. Christian looks great in your selections. As always, you’ve got the eye.”
    “And you, Miss Michaels,” the flattered manager simpered back, “are always welcome to borrow it.”
    The rest of their transaction unfolded smoothly. Now that the manager had decided what Christian ought to purchase, all that remained was totaling the damage.
    “Send the bill to Miss Wei,” Grace said, giving Christian a start.
    They were at the front counter, and Grace was scribbling on a store notepad. The motion of her hand, the way she bit her lip in concentration, momentarily enchanted him. She wasn’t his Grace then, but she attracted him all the same. She was a modern woman, more so than the female from Snacks R Us. Her own thoughts ran through her head, her own private dreams. Christian was a part of them, but not romantically, not if he accepted her earlier reaction as genuine. That made him shake his head. He hardly knew how to find his place in this scheme of things.
    “Here,” Grace said, handing the manager what she’d written. “When your staff has finished the alterations, this address will take delivery.”
    Christian felt uncustomarily off balance as they exited the store, as if he’d been bought and paid for. The sun hadn’t set. Even with his hat and despite the thin layer of car exhaust, it was bright out for him. Eyes stinging, he slipped his aviator sunglasses on. At least he wasn’t woozy. The Coppertone had done its job on that front.
    “Naomi doesn’t have to buy my clothes,” he