by Naima Simone
The quiet, low question might as well as have been bellowed and accompanied with shattering glass. Hell, she might’ve been less wary if he had. The soft tone was damn unnerving.
“Nothing,” she whispered, shifting backward. Her pulse accelerated as he claimed the step she’d surrendered.
“Oh it’s something,” he countered in the same menacing tone. “I understand perfectly that you don’t want me here. I’m also quite crystal clear you’d like for me to take my offer of help and shove it up my ass. But I have to honor my agreement for that damn auction, which includes doing something with the money that would’ve went toward the date. And it might as well be spent on you, since you’re the one hot to attract the attention of a ball-bag who doesn’t seem to know you exist.” Ouch. That stung. But then the truth often did. “I don’t give a fuck what you wear. I’ve seen you naked…”
Naked. Naked. Naked. The word seemed to vibrate and gain speed and volume the longer the silence between them stretched. She shivered, remembering exactly what he’d done to her after stripping her down to nothing but skin.
“But what I am fucking tired of,” he continued, “is seeing you hide behind dull clothes shaped like tents and sacks because you’re afraid of being noticed. Like you’re trying to disappear. And that’s a damn crime. Screw this Bennett. I could give two fucks about Bennett,” he repeated his name on a sneer. “This is about you. About you seeing the beauty you are so maybe others will, too. Now…”
He drew near until they stood toe-to-toe. And nose-to-nose because he bent his head over hers, his bright gaze boring into hers, his mouth so close, she could taste his peppermint-scented breath.
“Unless your goal is to attract the Pope, I’d suggest you go upstairs, take that habit off, and wait for the stylist to arrive.”
He didn’t linger for her reply but stalked past her toward the living room, his angry strides carrying him out of her sight.
For several seconds, she gaped at the entrance through which he’d disappeared. Then, with a sigh, she turned, climbed the stairs, and waited for the stylist.
“Guurl. Tell me. Do you keep your hair this long for religious reasons? Like, will you lose your strength if you cut it?”
Beside Khloe, the make-up artist, Reece, snickered as she dusted a huge brush cross Khloe’s cheekbones.
Reece; Laurence, the wardrobe stylist; and Terry, the hair expert, had shown up at her door within the requested thirty minutes. When they’d marched into Khloe’s bedroom, armed to the teeth with wheeled luggage, clothes, and some things she couldn’t identify, she’d felt her eyes widen. The trio was…uh, unique: Laurence, lanky, gleaming mahogany skin, wearing jeggings and killer heels. Terry, with a sharp, chin-length bob, startling bright hazel eyes—contacts or one of his parents was part cat—and a red leather, fringed jacket. And Reece, the only woman in the group, with her frosty, super-long lashes and jeweled lips—as in crystal lipstick. Separately, they were striking. Together, they were mesmerizing…and just a tad bit scary.
“Ignore Ms. Shadyboots,” Laurence said in his beautiful Southern drawl. Behind her, Terry chuckled. “Okay, sweetie.” Laurence appeared within Khloe’s line of vision with three dresses. “Which one? I have this red strapless. Or an emerald backless. Which would look delish with your eyes. And then there’s the white. Sleeves and high neck but with the illusion of tons of bare skin. Very sexy.”
Khloe stared at her options and swallowed the lump of anxiety blocking her windpipe. All three were bold, eye-catching, stunning—the exact antithesis of what she usually wore. The exact antithesis of…her.
“They’re all gorgeous,” she hedged, her fingers tangling in her lap. “But, uh, you don’t have anything in, y’know, black?” Because it was supposed to be slimming. Which was why three-quarters of her wardrobe honored the color.
“Stop frowning,” Reece admonished, smoothing eyeshadow over Khloe’s lids. “I vote for the red. It’ll show off your amazing breasts. And red is Christmas-y.”
“They are amazing, girlfriend,” Terry agreed, while Khloe nearly groaned as he drew a brush through her hair, the firm bristles heavenly on her scalp. “But I say go with the green. Not only will it make your eyes pop, but it’s backless.” He gasped. “With that ass of yours, you’ll have men worshipping you like it’s an old-time revival.” He sighed. “I want men worshipping my ass for Christmas.”
“The white.”
All chatter in the room ceased. A tense, expectant hush descended as every eye zeroed in on the tall form leaning against the door jamb.
Her breath snagged in her throat as she stared at his reflection in the oval vanity mirror. Niall’s deep, husky voice stroked over her skin in an uncanny imitation of his touch from that night: rough, tender, sure. Though he spoke to Laurence, his scrutiny remained on her. It traveled over her unbound hair, her face, pausing for a long moment on her parted lips, before dropping to her robe-covered body. Heat flared in his eyes, all of his attention centered on her chest. She dragged her gaze away from his and glanced down.
Oh God.
At some point, the front of her robe had loosened, and the lapels gapped, revealing a large swath of skin from her throat to just above her navel, the inner swells of her breasts clearly visible. She grappled for the ends, jerking them closed and fisting the cloth at her neck. Too bad covering up didn’t erase the prickles of awareness racing over her skin or ease the heaviness of desire in her breasts…or conceal the tightening of her nipples. And from the hard, carnal slant of his mouth, she doubted he missed that tell-tale sign.
“We need to leave in about twenty minutes,” Niall murmured. “Will you be ready by then?” Finally, he released her from his regard, and she inhaled her first breath since he’d appeared in her bedroom.
“Yes, she’ll be ready,” Laurence replied, preening, his long, fake lashes batting as if swatting a fly.
Niall nodded, and without glancing at her, disappeared from the entrance as quietly as he’d arrived. An Irish Batman. The inane thought popped into her head, and she swallowed a slightly frantic giggle.
“Oh my.” Reece fanned her face. “That was seriously hawt.”
“Guurl,” Terry purred. “I thought someone had jacked up the heat in here. That man looked at you like Christmas had come early, and you were the last present under the tree. Hashtag, unwrap me. Hashtag, get nekkid.”
“What?” Khloe laughed, the sound high and nervous. Terry’s insinuation was ridiculous. Niall didn’t want her. He’d proven that quite succinctly without any room for interpretation. Complete radio silence after a night of sex transmitted one message: You suck in bed, and I don’t want a repeat. He might’ve stared a little too long at her exposed skin, but he was a man. They glimpsed even a peek of boob, and they reverted to little boys. His attention had been nothing personal. “No, you’re wrong. We’re just”—she gritted her teeth, nearly choking on the— “friends.”
“Hmph,” Laurence grunted, his heels clacking on her hard wood floor as he walked away with the extra dresses. “Whatever. Well, I’m gonna go with your friend’s suggestion and select the white. It’s going to look fabulous on you.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Khloe stood in front of her cheval mirror, mouth hanging open.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, stretching a trembling hand toward the glass. “Is that really me?”
In the space of forty minutes, she’d transformed from plain, ordinary Khloe Richardson into…into…this stunning stranger. Awed, and a little fearful, she brushed her fingertips over her mouth. Almost as if afraid if she dared touch the person reflected in the mirror, the image would ripple and disappear, only to be replaced with the real her. But no. The vision remained. The beautiful woman in the mirror was indeed her.
Laurence, Terry, and Reece had worked a miracle. Terry had styled her hair into the similar bun Khloe usually wore, except his creation was softer, more artistic. Twists of various sizes looped over and around the loose chignon at the nape of her neck. Tiny diamond
pins twinkled with every movement of her head, glinting in the overhead light of the room. Reece’s make-up enhanced her features, playing up beauty Khloe hadn’t realized existed. Her eyes, shadowed and lined, appeared luminous and mysterious, and damn! She had cheekbones.
And the dress. Her hands lowered, hovered over the gorgeous gown. The sheer high-necked and long-sleeved top hugged her torso like a glove, not hiding her breasts as most of her clothes did. Strategically and elegantly placed white embellishments graced her neck, twined around her arms, and covered her chest and belly and lower hip. The heavy skirt fell from her hips to the floor, the high slit exposing the length of her right leg from foot to thigh.
“Here, sweetie. Put these on.” Laurence knelt in front of her, a pair of clear shoes in his hand. Carefully, he helped her into the heels higher than any she owned. He straightened. “And yes,” he said, grinning. “That is really you.”
“Oh my God,” she repeated. “I feel like freaking Cinderella.”
“I think she just called us fairies,” Terry drawled.
“Oh, damn. I didn’t mean—” Khloe whipped around to face the hair stylist, heat firing her cheeks beneath the expertly applied make-up and an apology stumbling off her tongue.
“Please,” Reece scoffed as Terry burst out laughing. “Ignore him. You look gorgeous, Khloe.”
“And we’re late, so if you don’t get downstairs, we’re going to have another visit from Prince Charming.”
The reminder of Niall caused the butterflies in her stomach to hatch into pterodactyls. But beneath the attack of nerves something else loitered. Anticipation. Excitement to see Niall’s reaction to her transformation.
She accepted the small, beaded clutch Laurence pressed into her hands and managed not to fidget as he attached long, sparkly earrings. Moments later, they ushered her from the bedroom and escorted her down the short staircase. As soon as her foot hit the bottom step, she murmured a thank you to Laurence and glanced up.
Niall stood in the entrance of her living room, as still as a statue.
He was motionless. Except for his gaze. Her lips tingled under the visual caress. Her skin heated, nipples hardened at the phantom brush over her shoulders, across her breasts, and down her hips to the length of thigh bared by the high slit in the dress.
She waited, her pulse thrumming like one of the Irish drum pieces he used to listen to. The primal beat reverberated in her veins, her chest, her ears. Throbbed between her legs in a traitorous rhythm she hadn’t experienced since the night he’d introduced her to a passion that had wrecked her.
When his perusal made the return trip up her body and settled on her face, she barely managed to stifle a flinch. Cold. Harsh. His skin pulled tight over the sharp angles and severe planes of his cheekbones, forehead, and jaw. The sensuous curves of his mouth flattened into a grim line. And the vivid hue of his eyes had hardened into frozen chips.
“You look beautiful,” he said, voice flat. “Are you ready to go?”
Shock slapped her, and it required every bit of hard-earned reserve to mask the pain. What had she expected? Niall to suddenly become effusive with praise and flattery? To proclaim she was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen? Beg her forgiveness for abandoning her and eviscerating her already tattered self-confidence?
She might feel like damn Cinderella, but unless the crystal palace had sprouted sheetrock and assumed an IKEA decor, she lived in reality, not in a land of rainbow-shitting unicorns. Besides, she didn’t want his apology. Or his approval. None of this was for Niall, but for Bennett.
Bennett, who was handsome, kind, considerate, respectful. Stable. After tonight, he would finally see her as more than the mousey, socially awkward employee who blushed and stuttered when he spoke to her. And she…well, she would be one step closer to the dream of having a family of her own with a caring, attentive husband who valued her as an equal partner, who accepted her…who loved her.
Straightening her shoulders, she tilted her chin, met his glacial gaze.
“Yes, I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Chapter Six
There were worse ways to spend a Friday evening.
Like shopping in the post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas furor otherwise known as Dante’s unknown tenth circle of hell.
Or a date bored shitless with a woman whose idea of intellectually stimulating conversation entailed a detailed analysis of the latest Dolce & Gabbana handbag.
Or a mind-numbing marathon of the latest reality television crap.
Definitely worse ways to spend a Friday evening than attending a festive party with food, music, and free-flowing alcohol.
Still, at this moment, with Khloe in his arms, her curves brushing his body as they swayed to the band’s music, her sensual scent teasing him like a red flag with a bull, he would’ve gladly sacrificed himself to an evening of inane conversation followed by a nightcap of hectic shopping and hours filled with the Housewives of Wherever the Fuck.
Niall closed his eyes but quickly opened them when the image of Khloe descending her home’s staircase slammed into him with all the subtlety of an Acme anvil. A vision in white. Innocence wrapped in sin. Purity begging to be dirtied.
Christ on the cross, she’d nearly brought him to his knees. And not to pray. With each step, that damn split had teased him with not just the sight of her toned, firm thigh, but fantasies of what lay only a few inches above. The sweet, tight flesh he’d spent hours touching, kissing, licking…fucking. He remembered with startling clarity what the plump, pink flesh looked like damp with her arousal. Remembered how that flesh tasted, like fresh, wind-sharpened rain after a heavy storm. Remembered what the vise-like grip of that flesh felt like around his fingers and cock.
Yeah, if he was on his knees in front of her, an Act of Contrition would be the last thing occupying his lips.
He stroked a palm down the straight line of her back and bit back a curse at her sexy, unconscious arch into his caress. Unconscious because she didn’t desire his touch. Didn’t want anything from him—she’d barely accepted his presence as a beard. Which was fine. As long as he kept his purpose here forefront in his mind, he wouldn’t have a problem getting through tonight so he could return to Dublin, his promise to Michael on its way to being fulfilled.
That promise was the only reason he’d changed his mind about escorting her to this ball. It wasn’t enough to stay away from her any longer. Michael had said Khloe needed a man who loved her, devoted himself to her, and provided her with the family and home she craved. According to Morgan, this Bennett was that man—or Khloe believed him to be that man. If so, then Niall would help her obtain that dream, that future. Help her obtain the happiness Michael wanted for her…that Niall wanted for her. Even if it was with…Bennett.
And if the thought of her with this man—any man—seeing her sweaty with passion, coming apart with ecstasy, made him want to put his fist through a wall, well… That was Niall’s problem to get over, wasn’t it?
Because he had no choice. Khloe longed for the knight in shining armor to sweep her off her feet and carry her back to his castle where they would spend their lives together in connubial bliss.
A dream he knew from experience was complete and utter bullshit.
Still, he’d failed to be by Michael’s side the night he’d skidded on a rainy, Dublin road and crashed his car. And he’d failed in upholding Michael’s last request when he’d had sex with his sister. But not any longer.
But damn. The end of the evening couldn’t get here fast enough.
“Bennett’s alone by the bar,” she said. “Maybe we should go over there and talk to him.”
Not. Fucking. Fast. Enough.
“No.”
She tilted her head back, frowned up at him. “No? That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Niall,” she practically growled his name, and damn if his dick didn’t leap at the dark sound. “We’ve been here for an hour. How can I get Bennett to notice me if I never get near
him?”
“Stop glaring at me,” he said, gripping her hips and tugging her closer until her breasts pressed against his chest and her legs tangled with his. “If we’re supposed to be convincing Mr. Perfect that we’re lovers, then burning a hole in my head is counterproductive.”
Her expression transformed as soon as the words left his mouth. A soft smile lit her face, replacing the scowl, and he hated the clenching in his gut and tightening of his balls that corresponded with the change.
“That’s just it. How can we convince him if he’s not even paying attention?”
“Oh, he’s paying attention,” Niall drawled, lowering his head and grazing the tip of her ear with his mouth. “He’s barely taken his eyes off you since we arrived.”
Khloe had pointed out the tall, blond man as soon as they’d walked through the doors of the ballroom where the gala was being held. Obviously popular with his co-workers—especially the female ones—he’d held court all evening, surrounded by people like a king with his admiring subjects. His good looks, evident charm, and commanding presence…he understood Khloe’s fascination…
Niall hated him on sight.
Her gasp whispered across his jaw, reminding him of another time her soft catches of breath had bathed his skin. He clenched his jaw. Those memories were off-limits, buried. Damn buried. They needed to be cremated.
“Really?” Excitement lent her voice a breathlessness that grated on his nerves like a nails on blackboard. “All the more reason why we should be over there while he’s not preoccupied with other people.”
“Lesson number one about men, Khloe. We’re hunters. Part of the pleasure of the takedown is the hunt, the pursuit. Let him chase you.”
“That’s such sexist bullshit,” she grumbled, dragging a reluctant smile out of him.
“Politically correct? No, but it doesn’t change the truth. You think he doesn’t know you’re alive. Yes, he does. Even if a man isn’t interested, he’s very aware of who wants him, who’s attracted to him. It’s an ego fuck. The difference is now he’s the one watching you.” Shifting back, he grabbed her hand and gently but firmly led her off the dance floor. “Make him come to you.”
