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seemed to tingle where she’d touched him, “but it’s just not what I would have expected you to buy.”
    “Don’t you like it?”
    “I love it. But this is my style. Of course, I’d love it.”
    Tristan’s gaze moved over her, that slow roam that made her flushed and fidgety, despite her mental pep talk. “And I’ve told you repeatedly that I happen to like your style.”
    Georgia gave him a skeptical look, even as a tiny part of her hoped he was being honest. So he might not be genuinely attracted to her, she rationally knew that, but surely it was okay to be flattered that he might honestly like her taste?
    He tilted his head in that sexy way of his. “I don’t know why you won’t believe me.”
    Her vintage versus his Versace?
    Yeah, he was toying with her about this, too, and she was giving him the reaction he wanted.
    She could be such a little fool. And curse her fair skin. She could feel the heat creeping into her cheeks, and knew that he could see her blushing.
    “I do,” he repeated. “And I like this furniture. The HOT! offices need a makeover, and this is exactly the type of change I want.”
    Well, if that’s what he wanted, then she certainly wasn’t going to stop him. She did love everything he’d chosen. But then again, her own apartment was decorated like a place stolen from the pages of a gothic novel—with a little old Hollywood and French bordello tossed in.
    “Besides,” he mused aloud, turning back to study the latest desk that had captured his interest, “Finola will absolutely hate it.”
    Ah, now the sudden shopping spree made sense. This was Tristan establishing for everyone to see, quite literally, that he was the one in control. He was the one making the decisions and calling the shots. Not Finola.
    Frankly, Georgia could sort of understand that. She had found every moment of working for Finola White pure hell. She suspected it hadn’t been any better for him. Georgia would want to make it clear who was in charge, too, if she were him. Finola probably needed to be reminded of that on a daily basis.
    “You know what?” he said almost to himself, and then gestured for the sales clerk to join them again. “I’m going to take everything in this section.”
    “Ev—everything?” the salesman sputtered.
    Georgia nearly choked, too. She looked around. He was talking about six full room sets with desks, chairs, settees, credenzas, rugs, lamps. She couldn’t image how many thousands of dollars that had to be.
    “Yes,” Tristan said as if he was just buying a couple of pieces at a discount warehouse rather than an exclusive furniture store. Then again, Georgia supposed it wasn’t a big deal. He was the editor-in-chief of the most successful fashion magazine in the world.
    “And let me get a half dozen of those suits of armor.”
    “A—a half a dozen. Absolutely.” The clerk looked as if he was about to have an apoplectic seizure.
    Tristan cast a look around the showroom, and then nodded his head, obviously satisfied with his work here.
    To Georgia’s further surprise, he moved to her side and placed a hand on the small of her back, the action familiar and personal.
    She told herself to move away, but her silly legs wouldn’t obey. His large hand felt so good, warm, and strong against her.
    “Can you have all of this delivered the day after tomorrow? Thursday?”
    The salesman nodded, and Georgia was certain this man would agree to anything to clinch the deal. Of course, she didn’t blame him.
    “Excellent.”
    Tristan and the clerk went over to the checkout counter to settle up the bill. Georgia wanted to follow, curious to hear what the grand total was, but her manners forced her to stay away. Not to mention, she’d probably see the receipt when the items were delivered. Most things went through her anyway.
    Instead, she only half-attentively browsed. She was stopping here and there to look at a piece, when a lamp caught her attention. It was a sculpture of a