his reflection, seeing a floor-length gown. It’s a muted silver satin, a lovely off-the-shoulder piece cut on the cross. It’s very me. It’s just what I would choose. It’s not tarty or suggestive. It’s elegant and beautiful and . . . him? Obviously. Is The Brit trying to transform me from a whore into a lady? I chew my lip as I try to slow my whirling mind.
“You hate it,” he says, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him sound unsure.
My gaze finds him, seeing his eyes look unsure too. It makes the monster seem vulnerable, and I soften a little on the inside. Does he actually care whether I do or not? “Do you like it?”
“Whether I like it isn’t the question. I want to know if you like it.”
I’m so fucking confused. Why the hell does he care? “I love it.”
He nods sharply and moves back, revealing a shoe box too, as well as a basket full of makeup. “I didn’t know what cosmetics you use, so I had them send everything.”
Where’s this all come from? Is he being kind? “Have you ever bought a woman a dress before?”
His persona seems to change in an instant, the veil of evil falling. “I don’t spend my money on clothes that are going to be ruined when I rip them off.” He turns and walks away. “We leave in fifteen minutes. Be ready.” The door slams.
The man is well protected. That much I’ve learned, and it’s really not surprising. I shudder to think how many people want him dead. Me included. We walk from the limo to the hotel door, the staff falling over their feet to greet him, smile, ask if he needs anything. He doesn’t acknowledge one of them, pulling me along beside him, his grip of my hand solid.
I can’t ignore the fact that I feel the loveliest I’ve ever felt. The dress, the Dior strappy heels, and the makeup. The fact that I’m wearing four-inch heels and he still towers over me is a novelty. My hair is roughly pinned up, my makeup perfect.
I’ve gone to too much effort. But for the first time in my life, I made an effort because I wanted to, not because it was expected. The reason why is something I need to cast aside. Though when I stepped into the room where he was waiting with a brandy in his grasp, I saw the squeeze of his chest from his inhale. The tremble of his hand as he lifted his drink to his lips. The stirring beyond the fly of his gray trousers.
It was the same reaction I had when I set eyes on him in his three-piece.
Wonder.
And, like me, he tried to hide it.
“Mr. Black, what a pleasure,” a man says, falling into stride next to us. “Anything you need, please, just ask.”
Black continues, not even blessing the man with a glance. But then he pulls to an abrupt stop, forcing every one of his entourage to stop too, all of them clearly confused. “Actually”—Black uses his free hand to go to his inside pocket, then turns to the man—“your chopper. Have it on standby.” He releases my hand and flips off at least a dozen hundred-dollar bills and passes them over before claiming me again. “I might feel like a sky tour of Vegas after dinner.”
“Of course, sir.”
A helicopter? Just like that? “That’s a bit spontaneous,” I say without thought as he moves us forward again.
“I don’t do spontaneous,” he replies flatly, releasing my hand and taking it to my lower back. My teeth bite down together, as his big palm splays the entire width, his touch burning through the silky material of the dress. Danny strokes the area gently, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s mindful of the bruise he’s seen there. “Spontaneous gets you killed,” he adds quietly.
“Wasn’t this dress spontaneous?”
“Yes, and it might get me killed.” His face is deadly serious when I shoot a surprised look his way. “After you,” he says, opening the door and letting me go through, but not before three of his men.
I see Perry immediately. He’s at a table of four, throwing back shots rapidly. He looks troubled. Very, very troubled. I feel Danny’s mouth at my ear, and my body rolls. “I hope you’re looking forward to this evening as much as I am.”
“I would rather walk on broken glass.”
He laughs softly as we’re led to a table mere feet from my lover. A romantic,