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“Get it,” I tried again, “because your clothes are so ugly, you have no vanity, and this is a fire.”

She just stared at me. “It’s hard to laugh at your willful destruction of my property,” she said quietly, “all my worldly goods.” She pointed at the atrocious polka dot blouse in my hand. “Mrs. Anderson gave that to me right before she died.”

I made a face, I couldn’t help it. “You’re not convincing me to keep these awful things by telling me they belong to dead people.” I punctuated my point by tossing the blouse in the fire.

Finally I got a reaction out of her.

She shot me a bland look that promised retribution. “Sentimental value not your thing, huh?” she asked with spectacular detachment.

“Not at all. If you want to keep any of the junk that’s left, you’re going to have to wrestle me for it.”

She did her little smile that wasn’t a smile, her eyes flashing.

Now this, this was what I’d wanted. “Something to say?” I asked with an unrepentant smile. “Bring it on, cupcake.”

She just shook her head. “Burn it all. It’s fine. I’m actually not that sentimental either.”

I puzzled over that for a bit, knowing it was a clue about what she was planning as retribution.

I frankly couldn’t wait to see what she came up with.

I had an open bottle of wine, a terrific Russian River pinot noir, beside me. I took a swig of it, grimaced, and offered it to her.

She shook her head, biting her lips to keep from smiling.

“Understandable,” I said agreeably. “I hate wine, too.”

“You’ve already drunk half the bottle.”

“I’m also not a quitter.”

There it was, finally, the laugh I’d been waiting for.

It warmed me, head to toe.

Her revenge was effortless, at least the first part of it was.

She just started wearing the clothes I’d bought her. They actually fit her, showed her knockout body off.

Fitted little skirts with slits. Nicely tailored button up shirts. Fitted, ass hugging slacks. Conservative mules and pumps with sensible heels. I’d had to buy some of her shoes from the kids’ department; her feet were so itty bitty. She stopped wearing hideous pantyhose because she simply didn’t have any and hadn’t bothered to get more after I’d torched all of hers. I got to see pieces of her bare flesh constantly.

Sometimes she even wore the skintight bodysuits I’d added with little hope that I’d see them in action. They went perfectly with a pencil skirt and when she paired the two together, I was practically useless for anything except the one thing I was not doing lately.

She was turning business casual into a personal kink for me.

Every time she walked in a room, I was reminded of the fact that I’d thought I’d hired her because she wasn’t a dime and here she was, the hottest creature I’d ever seen in my life.

It was slightly perturbing and extremely distracting.

I pretended to be focused.

I was particularly and ridiculously distracted by the fact that her clothes were tight enough now that I could see when her nipples were popping.

I set the thermostat a few degrees lower to keep them that way constantly.

She often mistook my preoccupation with her as my usual procrastination.

I let her.