loud,” Sloan said, breaking into her thoughts. His voice remained soft, but there was no mistaking the steel undertone. “Describe it to me, Ziara.”
Swallowing anger at his high-handedness, she said, “The windows remind me of pictures, feminine and delicate. The pink-and-brown decor is also feminine, like candy and chocolate, but classy, like a sophisticated chocolatier.”
“Very good. Go on.”
She let her eyes slip to the lingerie, then quickly pulled back. “I don’t know. It’s underwear.” Or outerwear, depending on the woman.
Silence engulfed them in the midst of the eddying crowd. As the seconds ticked by, Ziara’s internal tension wound tighter and tighter. Whatever this test was, she was obviously failing.
“Ziara, I want you to go inside.”
Yikes.
“Go inside and see for yourself. And I mean really look. Lingerie does not have to be slutty.”
She scoffed. “Tell that to—” Her teeth clamped shut.
“To who?” he asked, his voice barely loud enough to be heard above the noise from the crowds.
The shake of her head was sharp, a reflection of the anger building inside of her. She had no idea where it came from or why it filled her so quickly. But it had to stop. She had to stop. The cracks would get too wide and then she’d never be able to repair them.
“I can’t do this, Sloan.” Turning on her heel, she was stopped by two strong hands with the softest of holds on her upper arms.
“Wait, Ziara,” he said, his voice once more soft, speaking into her ear just as he had in the privacy of their suite. Here, it was just as intimate. “You can do this. I know you can. You simply have to trust me.”
“You don’t know,” she whispered, not even sure he could hear her.
“Whatever it is, I want you to lock it away.”
She thought she had, but not well enough.
“Lock it away and go in with fresh eyes. Use those gorgeously sensitive fingers to explore, to discover. Trust me.”
If only I could... But she couldn’t say that out loud, so she simply nodded her head. His hands slid down her arms, then defected to her waist, leaving tingles of awareness in their wake. Then he turned her to once again face the storefront. “Go in.”
She was halfway to the door when the fear took hold of her. Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes met his. Without a word, he urged her forward. Without a word, she followed his command.
The fabrics were beautiful, tempting her to touch, to stroke, to explore the texture and feel. But each time she reached out, she could sense Sloan tracking her progress from display to display. His gaze blanketed her in warmth, strength. She could almost feel him surrounding her, pushing her, enticing her.
A nightgown, pale gray and silky smooth, slid over her fingertips. She could imagine it against her skin, caressing her hips, the sensitive tips of her breasts. Sloan’s gaze had her wondering if he imagined her in the silvery fabric, too.
Somehow the nightie and a matching robe found their way into her hands. A spot of the same silvery gray color caught her eye from a nearby table. Panties had always been utilitarian for her. Waistband and shape were chosen for comfort.
But with the first stroke she imagined wearing them for Sloan’s hot gaze. She couldn’t begin to see herself in a thong, but the dramatic curve of the high-cut briefs would line the edges of her backside with sheer lace. The phantom feel of his fingers tracing the edges brought a shiver along her spine, daring her to look over her shoulder through the outer windows.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, but she scooped several colors into her hands and moved to the register before she could think any more about it. All the while, Sloan’s presence called to her from just outside the door. His tracking gaze should have induced embarrassment. Instead, every glimpse of him through those wide windows brought the warm reminder of comfort, encouragement and, yes, trust. Along with a desire to be a woman she was not.
Without him she’d have never even spared this store a glance.
Her rush out the door slowed as she noticed a corner set off from the rest of the store. A quick glance made her think, Wedding night, prompting her to pause, to wonder.
A younger woman held up a thigh-length confection of cream satin, lace and pearls. Her companion, who was old enough to be her mother and probably was, smiled, whispering something that encouraged a nod from the daughter. They walked toward the dressing rooms, leaving Ziara watching them with loneliness creeping into her heart.
And confusion.
At first she’d been convinced Sloan was out of his mind. But maybe, just maybe, he was on the right track.
Getting married was a precious vow. She knew that even though she’d never witnessed or wanted that happily ever after herself. What if Sloan could extend the traditions of Eternity Designs to the private celebrations of marriage and not just the public ones?
For an instant the desire to experience a love deep enough for that kind of commitment overwhelmed her, settling at the pit of her stomach in a tide of need. She’d been alone so long, depending only on herself, the only person she could trust. What would it be like to give in to those feelings of overwhelming attraction, to trust someone to understand your needs rather than judge you for them?
She shook her head. With unerring accuracy, she turned to the windows and met Sloan’s bright blue gaze once more. Deliberately lowering her lashes, she forced her thoughts to the lasting image of the mother’s smile. She would never experience the feminine bond of shopping for her wedding night. Even though her mother wasn’t dead, shopping for lingerie with a prostitute was a whole different experience from what she’d just witnessed. She knew. She’d lived it.
Following Sloan back into the cool air-conditioning of the hotel suite, Ziara noticed the sweat coating her neck and scalp as she took her purchases to her room. A pounding headache—whether from the building tension or lingering emotions—throbbed in her temples and down along her jaw. A few minutes alone, that’s all she needed. Time away from Sloan’s probing gaze and questioning looks.
He’d watched her closely as she returned to him on the promenade, his eyes flicking between her face and the bag in her hands. That’s when the arousal had hit her, this time piercing and sharp. Almost painful. It would be a long time before she forgot that particular sensation.
In the bathroom she pulled the pins from her hair, allowing the heavy weight to fall below her shoulders. She ran a quick brush through the mass. Sometimes just letting it down was enough to ease her tension headaches.
Walking into her bedroom, she moved to close her door so she could rest for a while, but the phone rang. Not hearing any sound in the suite outside, she crossed to the extension beside her bed, stretching her neck from side to side as she went. Taking a deep breath, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Ziara?” Vivian’s voice rang in her ear, stealing her breath for a moment. A wealth of suspicion and condemnation resided in that one word.
“Yes, Vivian?”
“Would you like to explain to me what you are doing in Sloan’s hotel room?”
For a moment, Ziara’s head swirled. Her own concerns mixed with remembered insults and insinuations from the past. She forced herself to breathe, remembering Vivian knew nothing about her past. And never would if she had anything to say about it.
“Actually,” Ziara said, grateful her voice came out calm and even, “I’m in my own room. Sloan booked us into a suite so we’d have a common area for working.”
Vivian