tremors grew, taking on a life of their own. Reminding herself that as Sloan’s date, she didn’t have to worry about anyone harassing her, she forced herself to walk to the door. But then, Sloan couldn’t protect her from her own weaknesses, could he?
When she finally found the courage to leave her room, Sloan waited near the glass balcony doors. He turned to face her, his body a long, lean silhouette against the glittering backdrop of the city, whiskey tumbler in hand. An ache bloomed within her, a desire to meet him as an equal—strong, passionate and confident instead of closed off and broken.
He moved slowly into the light as he drank from the tumbler. His tongue slid across his lips, catching the last trace of amber alcohol. She followed the movement with her eyes, wishing she could lick the same path. He watched her, his light eyes sparking with desire as his gaze devoured the length of her body. These two days with him had attuned her to a whole level of herself she’d never known.
She stepped forward, conscious of the skirt, sheer from right above her knee down to the handkerchief points. Fear or revulsion should have set in, but neither did. Just a need to feel the heat of his mouth once again covering hers, her pulse pounding throughout the secret places of her body.
He stopped only inches away, forcing her to look up to see his face. The smooth line of his jaw, the taut muscles along his neck worked as he swallowed, making her own mouth water. But he didn’t dip his head to indulge; instead, his eyes narrowed as a sexy grin spread across his full lips.
“I knew Patrick was the right designer for the job. He certainly knows what he’s doing. This dress makes you look like magic.”
His praise prompted her to stand a little straighter, ache to move a little closer, so she pulled back.
After clearing his throat, he said, “There was something else in the box.”
“More?” She gestured to herself. “This is way too generous.”
Sloan shrugged, his strong shoulders rippling under the slippery thin material of his button-down shirt. The blue made his eyes even more electric. Reaching into the pocket of his usual khaki pants, he pulled out a glittering length of golden circles. “He’s a designer,” Sloan said. “They want the look to be complete.”
Ziara’s mouth drained of moisture. Anxiety pounded at the base of her throat, even though logic told her there wasn’t any need for nerves. Then Sloan moved to put the chain around her throat.
“No.” The force in her voice wasn’t necessary, but she couldn’t control it. Moderating a little, she continued, “No, please. I don’t really like jewelry. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Why?” he asked with a frown.
Knowing any protest would just give him an opportunity to argue, she turned away. Moving to the balcony door of the suite, she escaped into the hallway with quick steps.
The limousine took them to a modest estate a short distance from the Strip. Ziara stepped out into night air that carried the tinkling sound of a center courtyard fountain. Through the open veranda windows drifted a soft rock song. The melody sounded vaguely familiar.
Sloan slipped up next to her, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. The gesture was a bit old-fashioned, part possessive, part protective. Despite her usual “no touching” rule, this calmed her nerves as they made their way up the stone steps.
They hadn’t moved ten feet from the car before Patrick appeared through one of the arched doorways. The open floor plan of the house allowed glimpses of the adjoining rooms through the repeated arches.
“Ziara, you look exquisite,” Patrick said, inspecting his creation and her in it. “Of course, I knew you would.” Though his gaze lingered at her bare throat, he didn’t mention the jewelry.
She smiled. “Thank you. And thank you for sending the dress.” She fingered the skirt with her free hand, glancing down at the flaming swirl of material. “It’s so beautiful.”
Having stood silent long enough, Sloan said, “I knew you had talent, but this proves it. I’m tempted to up my offer.”
Patrick frowned. “Sloan, no business. This is a party. Don’t you remember how to have fun?” He pulled Ziara gently into his own grasp. “Let’s mingle and meet about a hundred of my closest friends.”
Ziara laughed, surprised the sound floated from her so freely. The loosening of her control was almost a physical sensation.
Then she simply let herself follow Patrick’s lead. He took them from group to group, making introductions. He didn’t mention Ziara’s status as Sloan’s assistant. Her instinct was to correct him the first time, but something stopped her at the last minute. She didn’t want to be that person right now, which was both scary and exhilarating.
Would the universe fall apart if she loosened up for just this one night?
They finally settled in with a small group of Patrick’s theater buddies, one or two of whom had also known Sloan since college. After a period of catching up, one of the men turned to her. “And what do you do, Ziara?”
Unsure how much she should reveal, she answered, “I’m an executive assistant in training at a wedding gown design firm.”
“Hey, Sloan, doesn’t your family own one of those?” one of the men asked.
“Yep.”
“Which is why I’m in training—to keep him on track,” she said, unable to resist teasing.
Everyone chuckled. Before Sloan could make a snappy reply, Patrick stepped into the gap between them. “Could I borrow my buddies here for a few minutes? There’s something I think they’d like to see.”
Ziara nodded, smiling as the men stepped away. The women around her chatted about the wedding dress industry, distracting her from a sudden sense of vulnerability. With a deep breath, she remembered she could take care of herself. She’d been doing it every day since a very early age.
After chatting for a while, she excused herself to hunt down a drink. Despite the variety of alcohol at the bar, the parched Nevada air had put Ziara in desperate need of plain old water. When the waiter gave her the bottle, she opened it gratefully. The chilly liquid soothed her dry throat.
Someone bumped into her from behind, hard. Grimacing as cold water splashed across her bodice, she tightened her grip on her drink and spun around.
“I’m sorry,” said a man in a navy suit with a loosened tie, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. His gaze wavered and he took precise care in pronouncing his words. He was obviously drunk but trying to hide it.
“No harm done,” she said, brushing at the water spots darkening her dress. She replaced the lid on her bottle for good measure. “It’s just water. It’ll dry.”
He stared at her a moment before a pseudo-charming smile tightened his loose lips. “That’s nice.”
Her tension mounted as he closed the gap between them. She told herself he wouldn’t attempt anything in a room full of people, but she’d seen enough drunks to know they were unpredictable.
“You’re really pretty,” he said, only slurring
