She’d kept her make-up simple—just smoky eyes, mascara, a pinkish lip tint—and her hair was pinned up with just a few loose curls framing her face. It was the dress...the beautiful blue dress...that was the star of the show.
It was a dress that managed to be revealing and subtle at the same time. A dress that made her look sleek, sophisticated, and wholly unfamiliar.
Turning, she glanced over her shoulder at the back of the dress. Her pulse jumped like a startled frog.
What back?
She was naked from the top of her spine right down to the twin indentations above the curve of her bottom, and yet she didn’t feel exposed. In fact, she had worn far less revealing dresses and felt more vulnerable.
Breathing out shakily, she ran her hand over the smooth, shimmering silk. In part, that was down to how the dress hugged her body, almost protectively. The other reason—the main reason, of course—that she didn’t feel vulnerable tonight was Arlo.
Her pulse twitched.
‘Trust me,’ he’d said, and then, ‘You do trust me, don’t you?’
And there had been no doubt, not even an atom of hesitation, in her reply. Her trust in him was as unwavering and unequivocal as the man himself. How could it not be? After everything he’d done and said.
Her throat tightened. After the inquest she had stopped talking to people about the accident, about the part she felt she’d played. Instead, she had kept her guilt close, preferring it to the alternative, more crushing pain of loss.
Only she could see now that hiding the truth had meant also hiding who she was, so she’d created Frankie Fox the social media influencer with a million friends—none of whom knew her, all of whom were easy to keep at arm’s length.
But she hadn’t kept Arlo at arm’s length, and in his arms the truth had come pouring out. Today, though, he hadn’t just listened. He had forced her to confront the whole truth, made her see that her guilt wasn’t just trapping her but condemning her family to exist only in those few terrible, fractured moments.
He had made it possible for her to move past that terrible night in France and it had been like a weight lifting. The pain of losing them was still there, it always would be, but she could live with that now that the other terrible, relentless ache was gone.
Her head had been so fuzzy with adrenaline and emotion that she still didn’t really know how he’d done it. But one fragment of memory was diamond-bright.
Arlo had rescued her. Again.
Not from a swirling sea, but from herself.
And she wanted to say something—only what? Thank you seemed too anodyne. But she didn’t know how to express the complicated mix of emotions she was feeling. Maybe the right words would just come to her after a glass of champagne...
Wondering if Arlo was ready to go, she turned and headed back into the bedroom.
She stopped in the doorway, her heart skipping a beat.
He was slumped on the sofa, reading a book. His hair was still a little damp from the shower, but he was more than ready, in a dinner jacket that accentuated his broad shoulders, matching trousers, another snow-white shirt, and, finishing it off like a ribbon on a birthday present, a perfectly knotted bow tie.
Her stomach did a slow backwards flip.
If only she could spend the evening slowly unwrapping him.
But, taking a second look, she felt her breathing slow. Despite the casual arrangement of his limbs, there was something about how he was sitting...an almost unnatural stillness that hinted at the coiled tension beneath his skin.
Remembering his agitation earlier, she felt a fierce protective urge, cold and potent like a shot of vodka. He was on edge—not that he would admit it. He’d said all he’d wanted to earlier—probably more than he’d wanted, in fact. But she knew. And more importantly, she knew what to do about it. He had given her this beautiful dress, but she would take care of him tonight—that would be her gift to him.
As though sensing her scrutiny, Arlo looked up. Clearing her throat, she took a step forward and did a little twirl. ‘How do I look?’
He got to his feet, his grey eyes sweeping admiringly over her body. ‘Like a goddess,’ he said softly.
He closed the distance between them in two strides and the iron strength of his arm anchored her against him as his lips found hers. Sliding her hands up over his satin lapels, she breathed out shakily against his mouth. Her body was softening...her skin was growing warm, too warm. In another few seconds the small amount of resolve she had would melt away...
‘Arlo—’
He broke away. ‘I know. I know...’
His smile was rigid as she reached up to wipe her lipstick from his mouth. ‘That’s better,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m just going to touch up my lips.’ She was back in less than a minute. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’