Beau Evans tried to get comfortable in the ridiculously small chair. He swore beneath his breath, unable to stretch out his long legs because of the row of chairs in front of him. He finally gave up and vacated the chair, choosing to lean against the wall instead. The show would be over soon, anyway. He’d purposely arrived late. The last place he ever thought he’d find himself was a fashion show where plus size beauties strutted their stuff before an audience. And what made the show more interesting, they were show casing sexy under garments.
He released a heavy sigh, crossed his arms, and vaguely listened to the announcer at the podium. He glanced about the room, looking for something, or rather someone. Only he wasn’t sure who.
Is the killer in the room with us now? Looking for his next victim?
This was a target rich environment, considering he or she was singling out over weight models. In less than a month two had met with suspicious accidents. And he was there to keep it from happening to at least one model, and new client he’d picked up that morning. His uninterested gaze eventually came back to the runway. About the same time the curtain parted, and a model emerged through a thick cloud of white smoke. As she came into view and the crowd recognized her, they began to clap enthusiastically.
Beau narrowed his gaze to take a closer look at the woman causing so much fuss. It only took him a second to recognize that she was the very woman he was hired to protect. Even if her agent hadn’t faxed him a picture, he would have known who she was.
Four years ago Marissa Lambert had been Marissa Evans. His wife.
Beau’s libido went into overdrive when he saw what she was wearing, and he was instantly enveloped in a stifling heat. Marissa had always had that affect on him. She had a full figure. Only it wasn’t what Beau would ever consider plump, fat, voluptuous or anything else he could think of at the moment. His idea of plus size was his aunt Grace. Everything about her was round, soft, and slightly hanging in places it shouldn’t be.
There was nothing lumpy, bumpy or came close to resembling cottage cheese about Marissa. In fact, she looked like she’d lost a little weight since he’d seen her last. He figured she was about a fourteen now, maybe sixteen tops. Wasn’t Marilyn Monroe a size fourteen? And there’d been nothing wrong about her. Beau’s gaze remained riveted on his lovely ex, as she strutted with haughty assurance, and amazing grace, down the narrow runway.
She was wearing something a woman might slip into after her date brought her home, something more comfortable and, inspiring. The black silk chiffon shirt with long sleeves wasn’t meant to conceal, but showcase the alabaster curves beneath. The elegant garment fell to her smooth thighs, and had been left unbuttoned so that it flowed out behind her as she moved.