Undressed by the Billionaire. Susanne James
for the England squad and your boss.
When he returned the man’s manner had changed. Perhaps he believed he had worn her down, Savannah concluded.
‘Madame Whatshername was pleased enough to wear it,’ he said with a sniff as he handed the official gown over to Savannah.
Savannah paled as she held up Madame de Silva’s gown. She should have known it would be fitted to the great singer. Madame was half her size, and wore the type of couture dress favoured by French salon-society. The closest Savannah had ever come to a salon was the local hairdresser’s, and her gowns were all geared towards comfort and big knickers. ‘I don’t think Madame’s gown will fit me,’ she muttered, losing all her confidence in a rush as she stared at the slim column of a dress with its fishtail train.
‘Whether it fits you or not,’ the man insisted, ‘You have to wear it. I can’t allow you onto the pitch wearing your dress when the sponsor is expecting to see his official gown worn. Putting his design in front of a worldwide television audience is the whole point of the exercise.’
With her in it? Savannah very much doubted that was what the designer had had in mind.
‘You have to look the part,’ the man insisted.
Of team jester? Savannah was starting to feel sick, and not just with pre-concert nerves. In farming lingo she would be classified as ‘healthy breeding stock’, whereas Madame de Silva was a slender greyhound, all sleek and toned. There was no chance the gown would fit her, or suit her freckled skin. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised as her throat constricted.
‘Good girl,’ the man said approvingly.
Savannah’s chin wobbled as she surveyed the garish gown. She was going to look like a fool, and beyond her little drama in the tunnel she could hear that the mood of the crowd had escalated to fever pitch in anticipation of the kick-off.
Where was she? Ethan frowned as he flashed another glance at his wristwatch. A hush of expectancy had swept the capacity crowd. It was almost time for the match to start, and he was more on edge than he had ever been. He had promised the squad a replacement singer, and now it looked as if Savannah Ross was going to let him down. In minutes the England team would be lining up in the tunnel, and the brass band was already out on the pitch. The portly tenor who had been booked to sing the anthem for Italy was busily accepting the plaudits of an adoring crowd, but where the hell was Savannah Ross?
Anxious glances shot Ethan’s way. If the Bear was unhappy, everyone was unhappy, and Ethan was unusually tense.
Madame’s fabulous form-fitting gown had a sash in bleakest white and ink-blot blue, which like a royal order was supposed to be worn over one naked shoulder.
Fabulous for Madame’s slender frame, maybe, Savannah thought anxiously as she struggled to put the sash to better use. If she could just bite out these stitches, maybe, just maybe, she could spread out the fabric to cover the impending boob explosion—though up until now she had to admit her frantic plucking and gnawing had achieved nothing; try as she might, the sash refused to conceal any part of her bosom.
And as for the zip at the back …
Contorting her arms into a position that would have given Houdini a run for his money, she still couldn’t do it up. Poking her head out of the curtain, she tried calling out again, but even the creepy man had deserted her. She peered anxiously down the tunnel. The crowd had grown quiet, which was a very bad sign. It meant the announcements were over and the match was about to start—and before that could happen she had to sing the national anthem! ‘Hello! Is anyone—?’
‘Hello,’ a girl interrupted brightly, seemingly coming out of nowhere. ‘Can I help you?’
After jumping about three feet in the air with shock, Savannah felt like kissing the ground the girl was about to walk on. ‘If you could just get me into this dress …’ Savannah knew it was a lost cause, but she had to try.
‘Don’t panic,’ the girl soothed.
Savannah’s saviour turned out to be a physiotherapist and was using the tones Savannah guessed she must have used a thousand times before, and in far more serious situations to reassure the injured players. ‘I’m trying not to panic,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m so late, and the fact remains you can’t fit a quart into a pint pot.’
The girl laughed with her. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’
The physio certainly knew all there was to know about manipulation, Savannah acknowledged gratefully when she was finally secured inside the dress. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine now,’ she said, wiping her nose. ‘That’s if I don’t burst out of it—!’
‘You’ll have a fair sized audience if you do,’ the girl reminded her with a smile.
Yes, the crowd was wound up like a drum, and Savannah knew she would be in for a rough ride if anything went wrong out on the pitch.
As the physio collected up her things and wished her good luck, Savannah stared down in dismay at the acres of blood-red taffeta. It was just a shame every single one of those acres was in the wrong place. Madame was a lot taller than she was, and how she longed for the fabric collecting around her feet to be redistributed over her fuller figure. But it was too late to worry about that now.
‘You’d better get out there,’ the girl said, echoing these thoughts, ‘Before you miss your cue.’
Don’t tempt me! Savannah thought, testing whether it was possible to breathe, let alone sing, now she was pinned in. Barely, she concluded. She was trapped in a vice of couture stitching from which there was only one escape, and she didn’t fancy risking that in front of the worldwide television audience. She’d much rather be safely back at home dreaming about Ethan Alexander rather than here on the pitch where he would almost certainly look at her and laugh.
But …
She braced herself.
The fact that she could hardly move, let alone breathe, didn’t mean she couldn’t use her legs, Savannah told herself fiercely as she tottered determinedly down the tunnel in a gown secured with safety pins, made for someone half her size.
Here goes nothing!
CHAPTER TWO
SHE had forgotten how much her diaphragm expanded when she let herself go and really raised the rafters. How could she have forgotten something as rudimentary as that?
Maybe because the massive crowd was a blur and all she was aware of was the dark, menacing shape of the biggest man on the benches behind the England sin bin, the area England players sat in when they were sent off the pitch for misdemeanours.
Sin.
She had to shake that thought off too, Savannah realised as she lifted her ribcage in preparation for commencing the rousing chorus. But how was she supposed to do that when she could feel Ethan’s gaze in every fibre of her being? The moment she had walked onto the pitch she had known exactly where he was sitting, and who he was looking at. By the time she’d got over that, and the ear-splitting cheer that had greeted her, even the fear of singing in front of such a vast audience had paled into insignificance. And now she was trapped in a laser gaze that wouldn’t let her go.
She really must shake off this presentiment of disaster, Savannah warned herself. Nervously moistening her lips, she took a deep breath. A very deep breath …
The first of several safety pins pinged free, and as the dress fell away it became obvious that the physio’s pins were designed to hold bandages in place rather than acres of pneumatic flesh.
His mood had undergone a radical change from impatient to entranced, and all in a matter of seconds. The ruthless billionaire, as people liked to think of him, became a fan of his new young singing-sensation after hearing just a few bars of her music. The crowd agreed with him, judging by the way Savannah Ross had it gripped. When she had first stumbled onto the pitch, she had been greeted