The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield by Ninya Tippett Read Free Book Online Page B

to that. Since meeting Brandon, I've been armed with ready comebacks and an inflamed temper. I wasn't prepare for any hint of kindness.
    "We're here," he announced as he pulled over in front of a magnificent building with a glass facade. Two sharply-dressed doormen came over to hold the car door open for us and escort us to the entrance.
    Standing by the doorway of the vast space richly appointed with luxurious, if a little gaudy interior, and the endless rows of glass cases showcasing a mind-boggling and literally blinding array of jewelry, I felt conscious.
    Maybe it wasn't really etiquette but I couldn't deny the wisdom that was in Brandon's advice earlier about maybe wearing something more than an old sundress and rubber flip-flops to a place like this.
    Don't feel small. No one can do that to you but yourself.
    "Are you okay?" Brandon murmured as he slipped an arm behind my waist.
    I tensed at the touch but saw a beaming man in a suit barreling toward us excitedly, his arms gesturing so grandly I swore he was about to take a deep bow in front of us.
    "Mr. Maxfield, welcome, welcome!" the man greeted as he shook Brandon's hand. He turned to me, his smile curling a little into a near-sneer as he did a quick appraisal of my appearance—like I'd somehow dragged in the mud across his pristine floors—and offered his hand. "You must be the lucky lady who snagged this equally lucky man here—one of our favorite customers! I'm Wilson Barford, at your service."
    I gripped his hand firmly, giving him a sunny smile as my shoulders squared. "Charlotte Samuels. Nice to meet you Mr. Barf-old, I mean, Barford."
    Brandon's hand squeezed my waist. I snuck up a glance at him, ready to glower at him for his quiet reprimand but I could see that he had a ghost of a smile on his lips and his hazel eyes were bright with humor.
    "Barford, we'd like to see those exclusive designs you mentioned on the phone," Brandon said in a business-like tone. "Bring the other item as well and maybe give us a moment before your staff brings in the designs."
    Barford's head went up and down like one of those bobble-head cats on a taxi's dashboard.
    "Of course, Mr. Maxfield," the man answered before stepping aside."Please follow me to the viewing room."
    We followed the man down a private hall, a good two feet away behind him.
    I grasped Brandon's elbow and leaned close to murmur, "You know who I feel like right now?"
    "Who?" he asked.
    "Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere went shopping with her," I said with a grin. "They were all fussing to please her so that he would be pleased in turn. The manager was so desperate to give her everything she liked, he even let her take his necktie."
    Brandon's lips curved into a slight smile. "I recall part of the movie where she waits for him to come home, wearing nothing but that tie. Will I be expecting anything like that today?"
    My cheeks instantly burned and I playfully jabbed him on the stomach, the hard muscles that came into contact with my elbow making me think of what would happen next if Brandon Maxfied walked in on me while I wore nothing but a tie.
    He'd probably tell you you're not adequately dressed as Mrs. Maxfield should always be. Then he'd turn around and walk out because he's probably got a hot model waiting for him somewhere, gloriously naked and perfectly toned—and not wearing flip-flops!
    "Pfft, dream on," I said in an attempt to get the ball back in my court. "That was Richard Gere, after all. Hollywood hunk trumps billionaire megalomaniac—always!"
    His eyes narrowed at me slightly. "Too bad for you, you're marrying the billionaire megalomaniac and not the old Hollywood hunk."
    Seriously. He couldn't have possibly gotten a bruised ego from that.
    I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please, pot, stop calling the kettle black. You're what? Forty?"
    His cheeks flushed and his shoulders stiffened and he grabbed my elbow just as we were about to step into the viewing room where Barford was