by Dani Wade
Never one to do things by half measures, Sloan’s tongue plunged through her parted lips, sweeping across her own, igniting a flash of longing through her body. Long after the last of her intelligence had leaked from her brain, he pulled back a fraction. His hands remained anchored in her hair, his minty breath fanning across her face.
Forcing her heavy lids upward, her eyes met his. “What was that for?” she asked, embarrassed by the husky whisper of her voice.
His hands tightened against her head for a moment as if to draw her forward for another kiss but, instead, he spoke. “For keeping my secrets.”
They stood immobile for long minutes, afraid to move and bring reality back into their fragile peace. Ziara had never experienced anything like their kiss. Everything before had been a simple match set to flame, but this time fireworks exploded.
She needed to back away, but she didn’t.
Slowly his hands drew the silky weight of her hair forward and over her shoulders. “Beautiful,” he whispered, though his eyes never left hers.
An urge unlike any she’d ever experienced swept through her. No previous desire, no previous need felt real compared to the intensity of this moment. With no thought, she leaned forward, eager to taste his kiss once more. He didn’t back away.
Until a knock sounded on the door.
* * *
Sloan escaped to the outer room, leaving Ziara behind. One deep breath followed another. If he could just get his head in gear and think this through, he’d make the right choice. When he opened the door, a courier brought in a simple white box, fairly long and thick in size, tied with a deep purple bow.
Sloan closed the door and turned to catch sight of Ziara standing in her bedroom doorway. She hugged herself loosely across her middle, warning him that awkwardness had set in. Good thing he had something to break the ice.
He drew in another deep breath, willing his heart to stop racing. His response to her was unbelievably strong. “You have a delivery,” he said.
“Me?”
As she walked to the table, he noted her hair swinging midway down her back. His hands itched to bury themselves in the dark, silky fullness again. He’d always suspected her hair would be extravagant when set free from the constraint of that bun thing, but the sight and feel of it surpassed his tantalizing dreams.
He watched her delicately untie the bow, her care and precision not surprising him. But her restraint had a different quality to it, something more than just her normal reserve.
He studied her movements. The contained excitement on her face, the slight parting of her lips. Did she ever receive surprises? Was there no one in her life to offer those happy moments, big or small? With an unexpected spike of jealousy, he hoped there wasn’t another man. He’d seen no evidence of anyone at her house.
Was her family the reason she’d closed herself off from the sensual parts of life? Had someone hurt her, damaged her?
She lifted the lid slowly, then pushed aside the tissue covering the contents. Her eyes widened, that sweet mouth opening in a silent O. She didn’t remove whatever was inside, simply caressed it with exploring fingertips just as he’d seen her do with the lingerie and design fabrics.
Before those luscious strokes could completely shatter his control, Sloan walked forward to peer into the box himself. At first all he could see were layers upon layers of sheer, brightly colored fabric before he realized an expensive dress lay inside.
Sloan’s suspicions were confirmed when Ziara pulled out the card tucked among the golden tissue.
“Patrick. But why?” she asked, turning to face him, though one hand remained resting amid the folds of the dress.
He opened the note. “We’re invited to a party Patrick is hosting tonight. He wants you to wear this,” he said, handing the paper over for her to read. His earlier jealousy settled like a lead brick in his stomach because Sloan himself hadn’t been the one to make her eyes light up like stars.
She gazed back into the box but still didn’t lift the dress. “I can’t believe he did that.” She looked at Sloan, a frown drawing those elegantly arched brows together. “Is this appropriate? I don’t want to give the wrong impression.”
“You worry too much. Of course it’s okay to accept a gift. I’d say it’s a sign we’re headed in the right direction.” Reaching in, he found the straps and lifted the dress, shaking it out to its full length. “Exquisite,” he murmured.
Patrick’s mind must have run along similar lines as Sloan’s. The vibrant, flaming colors would be a stunning complement to Ziara’s dark caramel skin and black hair. The soft, handkerchief layers of the skirt echoed her femininity, as did the cut pieces attached to the form-revealing bodice. His lips pressed together as he slipped into creative mode.
“I don’t think I can wear this.”
Sloan surfaced from his thoughts at the sound of Ziara’s 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.”
Ten
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 moveme
nt 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.
She smiled. “Thank you. And thank you for sending the dress.” She fingered the skirt with her free hand, glancing down at the flaming swirl of material. “It’s so beautiful.”
Having stood silent long enough, Sloan said, “I knew you had talent, but this proves it. I’m tempted to up my offer.”
Patrick frowned. “Sloan, no business. This is a party. Don’t you remember how to have fun?” He pulled Ziara gently into his own grasp. “Let’s mingle and meet about a hundred of my closest friends.”
Ziara laughed, surprised the sound floated from her so freely. The loosening of her control was almost a physical sensation.
Then she simply let herself follow Patrick’s lead. He took them from group to group, making introductions. He didn’t mention Ziara’s status as Sloan’s assistant. Her instinct was to correct him the first time, but something stopped her at the last minute. She didn’t want to be that person right now, which was both scary and exhilarating.
Would the universe fall apart if she loosened up for just this one night?
They finally settled in with a small group of Patrick’s theater buddies, one or two of whom had also known Sloan since college. After a period of catching up, one of the men turned to her. “And what do you do, Ziara?”
Unsure how much she should reveal, she answered, “I’m an executive assistant in training at a wedding gown design firm.”
“Hey, Sloan, doesn’t your family own one of those?” one of the men asked.
“Yep.”
“Which is why I’m in training—to keep him on track,” she said, unable to resist teasing.
Everyone chuckled. Before Sloan could make a snappy reply, Patrick stepped into the gap between them. “Could I borrow my buddies here for a few minutes? There’s something I think they’d like to see.”
Ziara nodded, smiling as the men stepped away. The women around her chatted about the wedding dress industry, distracting her from a sudden sense of vulnerability. With a deep breath, she remembered she could take care of herself. She’d been doing it every day since a very early age.
After chatting for a while, she excused herself to hunt down a drink. Despite the variety of alcohol at the bar, the parched Nevada air had put Ziara in desperate need of plain old water. When the waiter gave her the bottle, she opened it gratefully. The chilly liquid soothed her dry throat.
Someone bumped into her from behind, hard. Grimacing as cold water splashed across her bodice, she tightened her grip on her drink and spun around.
“I’m sorry,” said a man in a navy suit with a loosened tie, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. His gaze wavered and he took precise care in pronouncing his words. He was obviously drunk but trying to hide it.
“No harm done,” she said, brushing at the water spots darkening her dress. She replaced the lid on her bottle for good measure. “It’s just water. It’ll dry.”
He stared at her a moment before a pseudo-charming smile tightened his loose lips. “That’s nice.”
Her tension mounted as he closed the gap between them. She told herself he wouldn’t attempt anything in a room full of people, but she’d seen enough drunks to know they were unpredictable.
“You’re really pretty,” he said, only slurring the words a little. His slight adjustment to his tie and straightening of his shoulders reinforced his attempt at being suave. It wasn’t working for her.
“Thank you.” She moved back a few steps before forcing herself to stop. Stand your ground.
“I think such beauty deserves a kiss.” As the man advanced, Ziara held up her hands to maintain distance between them. Her water bottle dropped to the floor.
“Stop right there,” she said, remembered panic adding force to her words. “I’m not interested, so you can just back away.”
He paused. “What do you mean, not interested? I bet you’re just saying that
. Women who look like you are always interested.”
His assumption punctured her normally impenetrable armor. Her arms wavered long enough for him to slip through. Grabbing her, he dragged her body closer. “I’ll just have a taste of the goods for sale.”
If his earlier words were a pinprick, these were a knife to the heart. The pain that lanced through her provided the strength to slam her foot down on his toes as he leaned forward to touch his lips to hers. Then she shoved him back, straight into Patrick’s chest.
Sloan’s friend surveyed the situation with wide eyes behind his designer wire-rimmed glasses. Sliding an arm around the man’s shoulders, he said, “Come on, Michael. Let’s get you into a taxi before my friend here decides to find the nearest meat grinder.”
As Patrick led the drunk away, Sloan moved close to study her but kept his hands to himself. Her contrary body protested, aching for his touch.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his face tight.
“I’m fine,” she said, struggling to control the sudden shake in her voice. She reached down for her water bottle. “No big deal.”
He leaned forward until his eyes were level with hers. “Really? Because I don’t think that guy’s foot would agree with you.”
A glance in that direction showed Patrick and the drunk had disappeared. “I’m sorry I made a scene at Patrick’s party. I’ll certainly apologize and smooth things over when he returns.”
Sloan clasped her wrist, using it to guide her to a secluded corner. “I don’t give a damn about any scene. That guy’s lucky I didn’t coldcock him. I’m kind of jealous that you handled it without me.”
Though his mouth remained serious, his eyes smiled into hers. She was never so glad to see the crinkles along the sides.
“Well, a woman has to do what a woman has to do. This is the twenty-first century, you know.”