Get lost, Mr Sandman.
‘Your coffee is going cold.’
She snatched her arm down, blinked three times, then bolted upright so fast a galaxy of tiny stars danced in front of her eyes. ‘Oh, my God!’ Not dreaming. ‘Wh...what are you doing here?’
‘Breakfast.’ He inclined his head towards a tray on the nightstand. ‘Orange juice, cornetti and coffee. Unless you prefer tea in the morning?’
‘I prefer privacy in the morning,’ she snapped, to which he simply responded with a bone-melting smile.
Her heart tripped and fell and she swallowed a groan. Why must he look so crisp and gorgeous? She yanked the sheet to her chin, pushed a hand through her jungle of curls. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Oh...’ She frowned, dismayed. ‘I don’t normally sleep so late.’
The tantalising smells of strong coffee and warm pastry wafted from the nightstand. She eyed the cornetti, all fresh and fluffy and tempting. Had he gone out especially for them?
She tried for a conciliatory smile. ‘If you give me a few minutes I’ll get up and dressed.’ In other words, get out. I can’t breathe with you here.
‘Take your time.’ He stood, and her shoulders sloped with relief—only to inch up again when he sauntered to the wardrobe. He flung open the doors. ‘What are you wearing tonight?’
She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He started riffling through her clothes and she leapt forward, one foot hitting the floor before she remembered her skimpy pyjama shorts. She sank back, frowning when he pulled out the long black dress.
He held it up. ‘This?’
Her hands fisted in the sheet gathered against her chest. ‘Yes. Does that meet with your approval?’
‘It is black.’
‘You’re very observant.’
‘And boring.’
She gritted her teeth. Okay, the high neckline and long sleeves were a little conservative. But it was elegant and practical. ‘I think the term you’re looking for is classic.’
He tossed the dress onto the bed, flicked an imperious hand at the rest of her clothing. ‘Where is the colour?’
She shrugged, but the tension in her shoulders made the gesture jerky. Where was he taking this? ‘I’m a working girl now. Neutrals are more practical.’
He studied her intently. ‘You used to like colour.’
His observation was hardly profound, yet all the same her insides twisted. ‘Well, now I don’t.’ She reached for the orange juice, her throat suddenly parched, but her hand trembled and she put the glass down again.
She’d rather die of thirst than admit it, but he was right. Colour had been her passion. Her talent. Her joy. And her textile design degree, had she graduated, would have turned that passion into a career. But the day she buried her son—their son—the colour vanished from her world, and though she looked for it, tried desperately to reconnect with her passion, all she saw for the longest time were lifeless shades of grey. Bright colours had felt wrong. Artificial. Like painting the outside of a house to make it pretty while the inside remained neglected and rotten.
‘I want to see you in something eye-catching tonight,’ he said. ‘Something more befitting my mistress.’
She stiffened. ‘I don’t measure up to your standards now?’ An old familiar ache sparked in her chest. How many childhood years had she wasted, trying to live up to her father’s impossible standards, knowing that no matter what she did it would never be good enough?
Leo’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m talking about the dress. Not you.’
‘Well.’ She hiked her chin, tamped down her old insecurities. ‘It will just have to do. It’s the only gown I’ve brought.’
‘Then we will shop today and buy you another.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t afford anything new.’