I sigh and stand, pulling my towel in and going to the bathroom. I find a hairdryer in the vanity unit and start blasting my hair. I have no makeup, no perfume, no anything. And I hate myself again for wishing I did. Because I want to look nice. Not for him, but for myself. Because it’ll enhance the power I’ll feel when I’m holding my own with Danny Black.
Another sigh.
I flip my head upside down, blasting my hair from every angle. One thing I’m blessed with in this miserable life is thick, wavy hair and even a rough dry will give me something smooth and manageable. I spotted some men’s hair product earlier that I can use to gloss if necessary. His hair product. His shower gel, his shampoo.
Tossing my hair back, I look up to the mirror. And freeze. He’s standing in the doorway watching me, and I’m quickly so thankful he can’t hear my thoughts. He’s in a suit. A three-piece. A light gray three-piece suit. Designer. Bespoke. It makes his hair look blacker, his eyes bluer.
He’s trimmed his stubble, making his scar more prominent. He’s fixed his hair, making it almost too perfect for his sharp, angry features.
I’ve been looking at him for far too long. I quickly gather myself, feeling the towel loosen around my chest. I don’t stop it from falling, letting it hit the floor as I switch off the dryer and blow my hair out of my face. His facial expression doesn’t falter in the slightest. I’d wonder if he’s becoming immune to the sight of my naked body—Lord knows he’s seen it enough—but I sense his determination to remain unaffected by my brazenness. I confuse him. He can’t hide that. I imagine every woman falls all over herself to please him, whether that be because of lust or fear. The latter is wasted on me. The former I will go to the end of the earth to contain.
Without a word, he comes to me, taking my wrist and pulling me from the bathroom, ever the gent. He stops us by the full-length mirror in the bedroom, placing me in front of it and taking up position behind me. Unashamedly, he looks me up and down in the reflection, his chin virtually resting on my shoulder. “What will you be wearing for our date?”
He knows damn well I only have the red dress. “Whatever you tell me to,” I reply evenly.
He nods approvingly. “I’m telling you to wear what’s laid out on the bed.”
My eyes dart to the bed beyond 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.