Undressing Mr. Darcy Read Free

kittens. That much she did have in common with Austen lovers. The cat shelter proved to be her favorite client and they didn’t even pay her.
    Still, she couldn’t scratch out the name: Lexi. She turned her attention back to her aunt. But the young woman and Aunt Ella weren’t looking at her. They were beaming at a tall, dangerously good-looking man on the other side of the rope wearing a form-fitting Regency tailcoat, cravat, buff breeches, and black riding boots. He had an antique, leather-bound book tucked under his arm and didn’t carry suitcases but toted old leather trunks—leather trunks on a wheeled cart? A tumble of black hair spilled onto his forehead.
    How could he look so much better in person than in his author photo? She made a mental note to update that shot—it would increase their crowds. Pleased with his looks (for marketing purposes, of course), Vanessa cleared her throat, as if to clear her mind.
    He wore his Mr. Darcy garb on the plane? Then she found herself trying not to notice the slight tug of his breeches, the snug way they fit him—
    Huh? He was a
client
, after all, regardless of whether he was paying her or not.
    Even if he had been a prospect, she preferred a man in a well-tailored Italian suit or blue jeans and a button-down shirt, didn’t she? What woman, at thirty-five years old, with a condo, her own business, family ties, and a thing for modern American amenities, would consider a man from another continent—not to mention the nineteenth century? She didn’t understand it.
    And, let’s face it, Mr. Darcy’s skill set—chiefly, diving into a pond in his shirtsleeves—would get him nowhere in today’s job market.
    “Miss Ella Morgan and Miss Vanessa Roberts, I presume?” he asked in a bass-range voice that needed no emoticons to get attention. Then he bowed.
    He was none other than a very official-looking Mr. Darcy. On the big-screen TV above him, a bomb exploded on the news, and when Vanessa tucked her long brown hair behind her ear, her earbud popped right out.

Chapter 2

    T wo women materialized from the arrivals door and flanked him. They were dressed scantily for having just disembarked from an air-conditioned plane and looked extremely well made-up for having endured a seven-hour flight. They giggled and flirted and batted their fake eyelashes at him.
    All the women and even a gay guy in the crowd proceeded to fall under his spell.
    The young woman next to her squeezed Vanessa’s arm. “He’s so handsome and has such presence, just like Mr. Darcy.”
    No doubt about it, he carried himself well. Was it his posture?
    His posture reminded her of his rare e-mails and more usual posted, handwritten letters: stiff, formal, and polite. His formality worked for her, though, especially since he would be staying at her aunt’s condo, which happened to be right across the street from Vanessa’s. This was a first for a client. Her aunt had already informed her she hoped her niece would spend meals and evenings with them.
    “And that accent. I
love
British accents,” the young woman said.
    Was Vanessa the only American woman who didn’t swoon over men with British accents?
    She stepped out from behind the wheelchair to turn it around.
    For a brief moment his dark eyes darted from her eyes to her breasts, then down to her peep-toed sandals revealing her black pedicure. He lingered on the tattoo above her ankle, a small heart wrapped in barbed wire, and then his gaze shot back up to her face—stopping himself from giving her the complete once-over.
    Maybe he wasn’t as proper as he’d like to be. Was his attitude toward women as evolved as his nineteenth-century clothing? His expression soon revealed his determination not to let his eyes wander below her neckline, though, giving her a sense of relief.
    She nodded toward the back of the arrivals area. “We’ll meet you over by the elevator, okay?”
    “Absolutely. Thank you for taking the time to collect me.” He turned