Until today.
And I’d wager she thought nothing of it.
“We could spend an hour in this office, asking and answering questions, pretending that we don’t know where we’re headed,” I begin, walking slowly toward her. Filled with caution, her eyes watch my every step until I stop a scant inch from her. “Or we could agree to meet after we fly back to Charleston.” I reach up to brush my thumb over her quivering lower lip. I feel her fear and her desire like a branding iron to my gut—searing hot and slightly painful. But painful in a good way, in that way that says I’ll be getting what I want, even if it’s not what I need, not what’s best for me. “You could agree to come and stay with me for the weekend, to let me show you my world. And you can show me yours.”
“There are things I will not—” she begins, but I interrupt with a finger laid across her lips.
“Shh, you don’t need to do that. I know you. Well enough, anyway. I know something happened to you when you were a child, something that has skewed the way you view sexuality, the way you experience it. Understand now that you have nothing to fear from me. Whatever it is, I can take it. Whatever it is, I can help you.”
Her stormy gray eyes glisten with unshed tears. She whispers, “But what if you can’t?”
“Trust me, I can. You just have to let me.”
I see the indecision on her face. I know my deduction surprised her. But it will also bring her comfort—believing that I know and understand, and that I won’t judge her. In a few days’ time, she’ll be as ready for me as I am for her.
I just hope that when I introduce her to herself, to us, to who and what we are, that it won’t damage her beyond repair.
“Why would you do this for me?”
For you? If only I were that unselfish…
“You won’t be the only one to benefit,” I answer, purposely vague.
After a long pause, she finally nods. I walk to my desk and scribble out two addresses onto a piece of paper then hand it to her. Cautiously, as if it might burn her, she takes it from my fingers. “There are some things you’ll need. There’s a woman at the first address. Her name is Ursula. Swing by tomorrow night and she’ll measure you then send some clothes to my house. My address is the second one, just in case you don’t remember how to find it.” I drove her home from there, but most women have a terrible sense of direction. “Come to me after you finish with Ursula.”
Samantha nods, her fingers worrying the edges of the paper. I cover them with my own, feeling the fine tremor that passes through them at the contact.
God help me, but I’m going to enjoy this.
“Until then, do me one favor. Don’t think of me. At all. When you find your mind wandering to me or to the time we’ll be sharing, think of something else. Don’t fear it. Don’t anticipate it. Just let it be a surprise.”
She nods once more, and I’m sure she’ll attempt what I’ve asked. But I know it’s impossible. By asking her not to think of me, of what’s to come, she’ll likely be able to think of little else. And that’s really what I want. I want her to be on edge when she comes to me. I want her to be so close to snapping that all I’ll have to do is bend her over my arm to break her.
I tuck the silky strands of her black wig behind one ear. “All good?”
“All good,” she replies softly.
And so it begins…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - Samantha
Ari wasn’t entirely surprised when I changed my return flight to today after the signing rather than waiting until tomorrow morning. I’m sure he assumes it’s my normal reasons for not wanting to stay gone too long. In a thousand years, he’d never guess I’m dying to get back because I have a torrid date with Alec Brand.
In my head, he’s still very much Alec Brand. It’s like Dr. B died the instant I found out he was Alec. I’m not sure that’s healthy, to be so utterly fixated on someone, but it is what it is.
When the electronic voice of my navigator tells me my destination is on the right, I start looking for the correct building number. I park in the lot to the side and walk around to the front.
I’m a little surprised when I see the dress shop. The awning reads Little Shop of Borrows. There are prom dresses in the window, as well as wedding and evening gowns. I’m not sure what I was really expecting, but I don’t think a formal clothing rental shop was it.
A bell jingles when I push open the door. After a few seconds, a small, mousy woman of middle age shuffles to greet me.
“Is there something I can help you with today?” she asks in a hushed librarian’s voice.
“I’m looking for Ursula.”
Behind her tortoise shell glasses, I see the woman’s nondescript blue eyes scan me from head to toe and back again. Finally she nods. “This way.”
I follow the tiny woman to the back of the store, behind the counter and through a door that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY. It opens into a small ante room housing two other doors. One reads BREAK ROOM. The other reads MS. URSULA. The woman leads me through the second door.
The room is as dramatically different from the main store as desert is from the ocean. The walls are covered in thick, red velvet, the floor is polished black marble and the lighting is so dim it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. When they do, I see a woman lounging on a black leather settee in the corner.
As fluidly as a cat, she swings her feet to the floor and stands. Slowly, she approaches me. She stops several inches from me and I see that she’s quite tall and quite stunning.
Her midnight hair cascades over her shoulders like rivers of ink, gushing into cle**age that any stripper would be proud to boast. Her eyes are dark and smoky in the pale oval of her face and her lips are stained ruby red. When she speaks, I’m not at all surprised by the low, husky sound. It suits her perfectly.
“You must be Samantha.”
I nod. I knew Alec would call ahead. He obviously has something very specific in mind. But now, after seeing this room in the shop, I’m a little concerned about what that might be, about what I might be getting myself into.
“I’m so glad to see Alec active again. It’s been too long.” She reaches for my hand and leads me to the center of the room. She urges me to step up onto the small pedestal there.
“Undress.”
It’s not a request; it’s a command, issued as she walks to a dimly-lit desk that’s barely visible behind a lacy tri-fold screen. She comes back with a measuring tape. When she sees I’m still fully clothed, she crosses her arms over her chest as if settling in to wait. And to watch.