shaky voice. “Of course you can. This dress was made for you.”
She shook her head, those soft waves of hair framing her face. “No, I can’t. I’d feel too exposed.”
Exposed? The dress did have only single straps across the shoulders, though they were thicker than spaghetti straps. The scoop of the neckline would reveal a little bit of cleavage, leaving her chest and arms bare. His mouth watered at the thought of all that delectable skin on display for his starving imagination.
He eyed the jacket she was wearing—her standard office fare. He remembered the T-shirt with its three-quarter-length sleeves that she wore in the middle of a hot Southern summer. Maybe there was more to her clothing than just an overblown sense of professionalism. If she was going to be stubborn about this—a grim smile slipped out—he had the perfect ammo for fighting back.
“Don’t be stupid. You’re wearing it.”
“No.” Her arms folded around her waist as if to anchor her clothes. Did she think he would strip her naked to force her to wear it? The tightening in his groin reminded him his thoughts were moving into dangerous territory.
He pulled back immediately, but pushing her out of her comfort zone would be good for her. The sensuous, open woman he’d glimpsed at her house needed releasing. If he benefited at the same time, all the better.
He tossed the dress toward the box, crowding forward to tower over her. “You don’t get it, do you?” He connected his gaze with hers, insuring he had her full attention. This wasn’t about business for him...his descent from lofty goals was gaining speed. But business was what she understood, so that’s the reasoning he’d use.
“I want Patrick as my designer, and I’ll do whatever I have to for him to agree. So if he sent a garbage bag with holes for the head and arms, you would be wearing that.”
Her back stiffened and those lush lips thinned. Still he drove his point home. “We’ll do whatever Patrick wants. Don’t forget who’s the boss around here.”
Her eyes narrowed to a glare, her softly pointed chin edging up a notch.
“Now,” he said, before he could give in to the temptation to kiss her pretty pout away, “go hang the dress up. We’ve got a party to get ready for.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “The party isn’t until eight tonight, and it’s just now three.”
God, her anger made her that much more beautiful and awoke an urge to channel it into a more mutually beneficial emotion.
“Trust me,” he said. “We’ll make every minute count.”
Ziara’s knees developed a tremor as she stared at herself in the mirror, making her unsteady on high-heeled gold sandals.
Sloan had instructed the hairdresser to leave her hair down, though she’d tucked one side up with a comb behind Ziara’s ear. The orange, red and purple swirls of the dress and glint of gold threads hinted at a gypsy look, overlaid with Moroccan belly dancer.
The movement of the dress was reminiscent of veils, which emphasized the impression, along with her muted Indian heritage. Her skin seemed darker, more exotic. Her eyes more mysterious and shadowed. Her bearing more regal, like a princess tucked away in a harem—sensual, yet above approach.
The 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.
