Chapter 9

In disbelief, Jasmine dangled a pair of silky panties up in the air. The material parted at the crotch, forming a butterfly. She’d never owned such a scandalous undergarment in her life, and she couldn’t believe Wiley would actually bring her such a thing. Yet here they were, several pairs of them. Yep, she could choose to be risqué in fire engine red, pink, black, white or midnight blue.

It got worse.

Jasmine had once seen a picture of some ancient Mediterranean pottery where the women wore a type of short-sleeved bustier/vest that had boosted their breasts. The garments had been cut out around the breast itself, leaving the naked breast lifted up and exposed as if held in two cupped hands, rather like an offering.

If she wasn’t holding an exact replica, it was dang close.

“Wiley!” she roared, “Get your butt in here!”

Wiley entered on the run. Jasmine held the offending garment up accusingly, and her friend blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. “Don’t blame me,” she said defensively. “They’re standard issue here.”

Jasmine’s eyes boggled, dropped to Wiley’s chest and then hurriedly away. She was not going to ask. “Fine,” she said, her voice strained. “I still can’t believe you brought them, though. As if I’m going to wear a bright red…” She dangled the garment on one finger. “What do you call this thing?”

Wiley crossed her arms. “I never actually asked, and for your information, I wasn’t the one who picked them out.” She paused a moment, letting the horror build. “Keilor got them for you after I mentioned you needed a change of clothes.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, “You let your cousin pick out my underwear?” She ended on a shout.

“He picked out your boots, too, and I don’t hear you complaining about them,” Wiley pointed out.

Jasmine shut up. Some humiliations in life were best not dwelt upon. Trying not to think about it, she put on some panties, socks and pants. At least the pants were comfortable, she consoled herself. That left the naughty tops to choose from and several long scarves of matching colors.

Still wearing her robe, Jasmine picked up a scarf and scowled at it. “What am I supposed to do with this, wrap it around my head and pretend I’m a pirate?”

Since Wiley didn’t know, they called in the maid for a consultation. It turned out that the scarf was made to be worn crossed over the breasts and tied at the back of the neck for a bandeau. Somehow the maid convinced Jasmine to put the bustier thing (which she called an overnji) over the bandeau and at least look at it.

“It’s very respectable,” the older woman reassured her. “My daughters wear it all the time.”

“I look like a harem girl,” Jasmine muttered, staring at the midnight blue overnji and white bandeau she’d been conned into.

Wiley smirked and grabbed the dark blue sash. She wound it low about Jasmine’s hips and knotted it. “There,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and standing back to look over her creation. “Now you look like a harem escapee turned pirate.”

“Why, thank you, Wiley,” Jasmine sneered, stalking out. “That is so much better.” She yanked open the armoire doors and extracted a brush she’d discovered there the night before. As she eyed the top in the mirrored doors while she worked the tangles from her hair, she decided that it wasn’t so bad. At least her stomach was flat. Heck, she’d worn crop tops in public that bared about the same amount of skin and never thought twice about it. Of course, none of those had ever been chosen for her by a man.

With effort she chased the image of Keilor holding her new panties in his hands, perhaps imagining her in them. It was swiftly replaced by the image of him looking over the overnji, trying to guess at the size of her…

She took a deep, deep breath and then expelled it slowly. Keilor wasn’t thinking about her breasts, or anything else for that matter. Men who looked like he did didn’t need to fantasize. Shoot, for all she knew, he was happily married and had three kids, not that she cared.

What she needed to be thinking about was getting Wiley and herself back home where men were manageable and the local police force didn’t look like the cast of Howling III.

They needed a plan.

***

Keilor shook his head as Knightin’s recording finished late that afternoon. “I think we can conclude that she’s cagey, disrespectful, and definitely up to no good.”

Jayems gave him a thoughtful look from where he sat, arms crossed, on the edge of his desk. He slanted a look at Knightin. “How did the charmer affect you?”

His captain frowned at the memory. “Like a panting boy with an armful of naked woman. It’s making me wish I’d fixed my interest elsewhere long before she ever showed up.”

Keilor snorted with agreement. “Ah, the bliss of a man already spoken for! Too bad our doctors can’t replicate that protective little brain chemical. It would save us all a lot of grief. Short of becoming a Haunt with no sex drive or falling in love, the rest of us are stuck.”

Jayems shook his head. “This is not good, Keilor. I don’t like my options.” He ticked them off grimly on his fingers. “I can send her back and pray she won’t cause trouble.” Their eyes met, and he closed that finger back into his fist. They both knew it wasn’t worth the risk. “I can lock her away from all but my wife, women, and mated males.”

“And have Rihlia resent you forever,” Keilor concluded.

Jayems withdrew that finger, clenching his fist. “Never,” he swore. “We will work past this. In the meanwhile…”

“Find her a lover, my lord,” Knightin suggested reasonably, and they looked at him in surprise. He’d made no secret that he disliked the presence of the charmer and her subversive essence, dreading the influence that it would have on his men. Knightin hated disorder, and a charmer was the definition of it.