Page 21 of Break My Rules

“Really?” I feel a shock of anticipation. “That’s great.”

Saint doesn’t sound so enthusiastic, but he continues: “So, I’ll meet you at the house after work, and we’ll drive over to the restaurant together to meet them there.”

“It’s a plan,” I agree, my mind already racing over just how I can approach the topic.

“And I sent you a little something,” Saint adds cryptically. “Enjoy.”

He hangs up before I can ask more.Mysterious. I look around, wondering if he’s having more flowers delivered, but there’s no sign of anything. With a shrug, I get back to work, and spend the next hour drawing up next steps on the plans I presented. But when I pause for an afternoon coffee, I’m surprised to see a familiar face crossing the office floor.

“Tessa,” Saint’s cousin, Imogen, greets me with smooth air-kisses on both my cheeks.

I blink. “Hey,” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here? Planning a fundraising party with Hugh?”

Imogen is in her late twenties, polished and sophisticated, and runs a successful event-planning business. “No,” she replies bluntly, running a hand through her glossy blonde hair. “I thought it was high time we got to know each other a little better. Plus, Saint told me you were in town, and could probably use my expert shopping knowledge,” Imogen adds, already steering me to the exit. “He even gave me his credit card, so the sky’s the limit.”

“You’re joking.” I stop in my tracks, a little offended. Saint thinks I need to change the way I dress?

Imogen smiles. “Darling, I never joke about fashion.”

I shake my head, still weirded out. “I’m sorry, but… I can’t spend his money. That would be way tooPretty Womanfor me.”

Imogen arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “So, you have a cocktail dress for dinner tonight, and a tennis outfit, in case Max and Annabelle decide to put on a mixed-doubles this weekend, and another two, three formal ballgowns, because Lord knows, the St. Clairs have a packed social calendar, and then of course, there are the fundraising luncheons—?”

“OK, OK,” I interrupt her, getting the point. Maybe my dressed-down college student wardrobe isn’t going to cut it in Saint’s aristocratic world. And if I’m trying to blend in and stay under the radar for my investigation… “When you say sky high, just what kind of credit card limit are we talking?” I ask, curious.

Imogen smirks. “Now, that’s more like it!”

Imogen calls a car,and takes us to the chic, exclusive boutiques on Bond Street. I can tell from just glancing at the windows that they’re way out of my price range, with gleaming floors, luxurious furnishings, and snooty assistants. But, of course, Imogen is right at home. She just breezes in to the first store, eyes the displays, and beckons over a stylist to pull some looks—who, obviously, she already knows by name.

“Samantha, hi,” she coos, flipping through the racks. “Can we see some of the new collection for my friend here? Maybe those gorgeous silk separates, I’m thinking the navy will be great on her skin tone.”

“With pops of jewel tones, perhaps?” the girl eagerly adds.

“Yes, exactly!” Imogen beams. “Tessa, what are your sizes?”

“Umm, a US eight, but I’m not sure what that translates to,” I reply, a little dazed by the speed of their back-and-forth.

“Oh, don’t worry. Sam will figure it out. She’s a genius.” Imogen moves on, and soon, I’m cloistered in a lavish dressing room, trying on half-a-dozen outfits. I pause to take a peek at the price tags and feel faint. Just one of the blouses alone costs more than my entire stipend for the semester!

“How are you set for outerwear?” Imogen calls through the thick, velvet curtains.

“Umm, what do you mean?” I call back, taking a deep breath. Saint was the one who offered to pay for this wardrobe overhaul, I remind myself. Hell, he pretty much insisted on it.

“Coats, jackets, capes…” Imogen yanks the curtains open without ceremony, and eyes me in the pair of tailored pants I’m trying.

“Capes?” I repeat, amused.

“You know, for the opera, and formal events. Yes, and yes,” she adds, moving to fix the buttons on the back of my silk top. “Love it. Try the red next.”

“Woah,” I hold up a hand, stopping her. “Can we take a breath? Or, you know, just move at a human pace, instead of this super-speed you have going on?”

Imogen pauses and gives me a rueful smile. “Sorry. I know I can be a little… efficient sometimes. Habit of the trade. When you have sixteen rose arbors to construct, and a panicked bride in meltdown over her fiancé’s wayward dick, you tend to try and solve problems fast.”

I smile back. “Well, how about you sit down, and take advantage of the champagne and cookies?” I say, eyeing the spread some assistant has brought in. “And also, tell me about this wayward dick. I have half the store in here, it’s going to take a while,” I add.

Imogen laughs and goes to relax on the plush couch. “Well, it started at the rehearsal dinner,” she begins, and proceeds to tell me the story of her newest clients, who had a meltdown—and a threesome with the maid of honor—just days before the big event.

“They didn’t go through with it, did they?” I ask, wide-eyed, pulling back the curtain and emerging in another outfit. This one is a long silk column dress in an inky shade of blue. It shimmers like petrol under the lights, and I have to admit, I love it.

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