Ricca sucked in a deep breath, or rather as deep a breath as the corseted blouse would allow. Looking down at herself, she almost chickened out. The red, Betsy Johnson, corseted wrap blouse strained against her breasts, and her cups damn near runneth over. Her slim pencil skirt with the thigh-high slit forced her to walk with a swing in her hips. She felt—sexy. Before evil-Angel-must-die day, sexy was the last thing she’d have been looking for. Now, it kind of felt—amazing. Micha had picked out a slew of clothes that were body conscious and provocative without being so over the top and revealing. It sure did help when one of your best friends ran a fashion and entertainment magazine. Pausing for a moment before she opened the door to the conference room, Ricca tipped up her chin, plastered a bright smile on her face, and shook out her hair. “Game on.” Three things happened simultaneously as she opened the door. Zach, who was in the middle of a conversation with Serena did a literal double take and gawked, going so far as to have his jaw unhinge.
