Exposed to You (One Night of Passion 2)

Joy hesitated. She wasn’t much for glitz and glamour. But something about the dress—something about the idea of Everett seeing her in it—appealed to her. Maybe it was because, like Everett, the dress didn’t speak to her of pageantry and drama, but of vibrancy, sensuality . . . the risks and rewards of living.

She met Katie’s sparkling eyes.

“Are you sure, Katie? What if I spill something on it?”

“I’m not worried. I have a crack dry cleaner. Please say yes. I’m dying to see you in it.”

Joy bit her lip uncertainly and again touched the fabric, allowing it to seduce her. Katie grinned triumphantly when she took the hanger from her hand.

* * *

At ten to six that evening, Joy suspected she was on the verge of a panic attack.

She pushed a button on the remote control and the television in her bedroom switched off. It had been a mistake to turn it on. A local news station was doing red-carpet coverage of the Maritime premiere. Hundreds of people were congregated on Illinois Avenue. Guests were already arriving, flashing glittering smiles at the cameras and fans crowding behind waist-high barriers.

She felt like Cinderella on the night of the ball. A woman used to clipping coupons, doing her own sewing, and scouring her own floors didn’t wander into the world of the golden people without some major anxiety. It would have been bad enough for Joy to attend the premiere with her uncle and a few friends she knew from his special effects makeup company, but Joy had gone and made it worse. She’d agreed to attend the high-profile event with Prince Charming himself.

She placed her hand on her chest and forced herself to take a long, slow breath. The feeling of her breast draped in rich satin sent the alarming reminder through her that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Katie had insisted she didn’t need one—the fabric was ruched around her breasts, hiding the contours of her nipples. No one could tell that the only thing she wore under the gown was a tiny thong.

But Joy knew.

She felt naked—no, worse. The rich fabric slid and caressed her skin every time she moved, creating a sensual friction, a hyperawareness of her sensitive body.

She inspected herself in the full-length mirror. It was difficult to find flaws in her image. Her insecurities were just beneath the surface. The dress fit her to perfection, its flowing lines seeming to make love to her feminine curves, skimming and suggesting as she moved versus clinging obviously. She’d been fortunate in being left with a relatively innocuous reminder of her chemotherapy. The single strap that tied at her left shoulder covered her small port scar. She rarely wore much makeup, but knew the dress called for some dramatics. She’d focused on her eyes. The result was a smoky, seductive look.

Her one criticism of her appearance was the lack of her long mane of chestnut brown hair. It would have looked perfect with the dress. She’d combed back her short hair for a sophisticated, simple look. She touched the strands on her neck, hating them, longing for her tumbling tresses . . . wishing for the confidence she’d possessed before her cancer diagnosis.

The loss of her hair had brought back so much to her—shaving her mom’s head as a mother and daughter ritual on three different occasions, putting on the act that shopping for a wig was fun. No wonder Samson’s hair had meant life and vitality in the myth. She suspected every cancer patient and survivor understood the analogy.

The buzzer going off made her jump.

“Hi,” she said into the intercom in her foyer a few seconds later.

“Hi.”

Reality shuddered through her at the sound of his deep voice.

“I just have to grab my purse. Do you want to come up, or should I come down?”

“I’ll come up.”

She pushed the release on the downstairs lock. A few seconds later she swung open the door.

“Wow.”

He’d said it, but he’d stolen the word straight from her mouth.

“You look wonderful,” she murmured, her gaze gliding over him. It fascinated her how he could epitomize shabby insouciance one moment and elegant male sophistication the next. Maybe it was just because he possessed an amazing body that he could wear anything; apparel was just a negligently donned accessory to the man beneath it. He wore a classic black tux, white dress shirt with wing collar, points tucked behind a black bow tie. His hair looked neat for once, combed back in glossy waves. The overall look was immaculate and utterly masculine.

His eyes gleamed as they moved over her, making her self-conscious in an entirely different way than she’d felt just moments ago.

“I’m glad you chose the tux over the bowling shirt,” she said, grinning.

“I’m still partial to your jean shorts,” he murmured as his gaze roved over her belly and breasts, “but this dress has its charms. At least it does on you.” He met her stare, his eyes warm. “You’re beautiful.”

She didn’t know what to say. If it’d sounded like flattery, it would have been one thing. It hadn’t, though. The compliment had sounded candid and a little amazed.

She turned, anxious to hide her embarrassment. “I’ll just get my purse.”