Chapter 29
OLIVER
“What’s this?”
Suspicion fills Eve’s tone as she stares at the garment bag hanging on the brass luggage cart. She puts her phone on the table, still eyeing it suspiciously. A shoebox sits on the base, another containing a matching designer handbag.
“That’s your outfit for this evening.”
Her head turns to me slowly, her expression one of distaste and her answer one single word. “Nope.”
“No?” I can’t say I’m surprised, though I act as though I am.
“No, it’s not. See this? This is me, tapping the brakes.” The comedienne that she is, she lifts her foot as though testing invisible hydraulics. “I might have to go with you, but you can’t tell me what to wear.”
“I’m not trying to dictate to you. I just realized we hadn’t discussed what kind of function tonight is.”
“That’s what struck you as strange about tonight?” she demands, folding her arms across her chest. “Not that you hadn’t explained who I’m supposed to schmooze or what you expect me to do?”
“No. I purposely hadn’t mentioned any of that.” As I purposely haven’t mentioned that my deal with Una included making sure there were no images of Eve and Fin floating about the internet.
She narrows her eyes, all kinds of epitaphs brimming behind her pursed lips. Not that I blame her—not that I’m trying to make it up to her with a designer dress. As if a hundred dresses could. I know I’ve been unfair, that I promised one thing and delivered another, as far as the gossip column goes. I know I should’ve told her about my affidavit. I might even have mentioned it was Ariana’s idea. But I didn’t.
I need her to be wary of me. After my fuckup in Garrard, I need her to be on her guard. I’m not talking about the planted photograph of the supposed happy couple but about what happened with the rings. About thinking, even for a split second, that I could deserve her. I could never deserve her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want her.
I could never earn her trust, not after the position I’ve put her in.
So I revert to type. Worsen my treatment of her. Continue to use her as a tool for my revenge. Because you’re afraid, a little voice whispers. Afraid of your feelings.
What does it matter? Even if it was true, in a few weeks, she’ll be nothing but an experience. Memories wadded up to be stuffed into an unexamined corner of my mind. I can only hope for this kindness.
“For your information, I don’t need your help. See?” Thrusting her arms out, she wiggles ten bloodred digits under my nose. “I also have a perfectly acceptable cocktail dress hanging in the closet. A little black dress is the friend to all occasions.”
“Almost all,” I murmur, turning the page on the report I’m supposed to be reading. “Just not to this one.” I slide off my glasses, vain bastard that I am, and glance up. My God, what is it about making her fiery that gets me so fucking hard?
“Do I look like I have hay in my hair?” she demands.
I take a moment, as though I check before answering. “Should there be?”
“You think I need fashion advice?” She pins her arms across her chest.
“No. You always look”— edible. It doesn’t matter what you wear, because I always want to take your clothes off —“nice.”
“ Nice ,” she repeats, but not in the same tone. “Listen, friend , I wasn’t raised in some no-name backwater—”
“Yes, so you said. Country club, horses, nasty, horrible rich men.” Leaning forward, I place the folder on the coffee table as I wave away her explanation— blah, blah, blah . Buying Eve gifts is a completely different experience than I’ve had in the past, but I can’t say I don’t prefer it this way.
But that’s not why you bought her the dress, the little voice whispers. Not the only reason, at any rate. It’s not a peace offering or an apology for the things I say but don’t always mean. I know it makes no sense that I swing from adoration to resentment simply because Atherton found her first.
Like that’s somehow her fault.
It’s just something I saw. Something that stopped me in my tracks as I took a break from the office earlier today. I found myself wandering into the boutique, and before I realized what I was doing, I’d guessed her size and had my credit card in my hand.
“You know, it seems to me you want to sabotage tonight, because there’s no way we’re gonna look like a couple in love,” Eve says. “We’ll be more like that couple seven years married and on the way to a divorce.”
“ Seven seems a very particular number.”
“That’s when boredom sets in,” she retorts airily but for the almost imperceptible pinch in her voice.
I could never imagine being bored of her.
“Wear it or don’t,” I murmur as I run my thumb over the edge of my fingernail, as though a possible rough edge might be more of interest.
“You think you can bend me however you see fit,” she says, spinning away.
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to make you bend,” I mutter under my breath. Gripping the back of the sofa, I give in to a full-body stretch. She doesn’t bite, though her eyes devour. I do enjoy the way she pretends she’s unaffected by my physical appearance. Unlike my personality. I sigh and ruffle my hands through my hair, and I pop my biceps for effect. “I thought I was helping.”
“Railroading, more like. My God, I really need to move out. I hear the rent in Kabul is cheap and the regime a little more tolerant.”
“If you like blue. And full coverage.”
“At least I’d get to choose it for myself.”
“Just humor me, and open the bloody thing.” The words fall from my mouth with a rush of air. “I didn’t even pick it.”
“Then who did?” she demands.
“Your stylist. I haven’t seen it, but she assures me it’s perfect for an evening at Kensington Palace.”
“An evening where?”
“Kensington Palace. Don’t get too excited. It’s not like we’ll be dropping in on William and Kate. They no longer live there.”
“Do you ... know them?” she asks slowly. Suspiciously.
“The Prince and Princess of Wales?”
“Silly question?” Her brow flickers. Hopefully? I’m not sure.
“A gentleman never dines and discusses.”
A little growl sounds from her throat, and she eyes me as though if she stares hard enough, I’ll disappear in a puff of smoke.
“There’s an exhibition taking place at the palace over the next few weeks, and tonight is the inaugural gala evening. Fashion, jewels, some link between Crown and celebrity is the theme, I believe.”
“Okay.” Eve lowers herself to the opposite sofa without loosening her arms. “So, kind of fancy.”
“Yes. I imagine there will be all kinds of celebrities attending. Minor royalty, foreign dignitaries, that sort of thing.”
“What will you be wearing?”
“Why? Do you want to choose my outfit?” I regret the words as soon as they fall from my mouth. “That was a joke,” I qualify quickly.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Men’s clothing is different. Boring. It’s not like there’s a lot of choice,” I hedge. The way things are, I wouldn’t put it past her to outfit me in drag. Not that I’m giving her the opportunity.
“Oh, come on,” she says, suddenly crossing her legs, putting me in the mind of how a cat behaves right before it pounces. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right? I’ll even take professional advice, like you have.”
“You want to dress me?” I’d rather you undress me.
“Not tonight. Some other time. Tit for tat.”
God help me. God help my thickening cock at the remembrance of the last time she said that.
“What kind of professional advice?”
“I’ll consult your tailor.” She flicks a shoulder. “Or whatever.”
“You’ll stop harassing me about the dress if I let you choose my outfit next time.”
“If I like it and I wear it, I think that’s a fair trade. Unless you’re under the impression I can convince this important person of our love in one evening.”
“It’s unlikely to be one evening’s work,” I agree.
“I still think it’s weird how most people just want the best price for their property, not to tell the buyers what to do with it.”
“It’s been in his family for generations. It has cultural and historical significance”—as well as some other things I’ve yet to mention—“but in essence, it’s the place of his birth. It just happens to have seventy bedrooms.”
“Eish.” She scrunches her nose. “Just don’t say you want me to pretend we’re going to fill all those rooms with kids.”
“Just an heir. And perhaps a spare.” I point my finger over at the trolley again. “Try it on, and you’ll have yourself a deal.”
“I get to dress you next time?” Her sudden excitement seems disproportionate to our agreement.
“Why not?” I answer as though she’s worn me down.
She practically bounces up from the sofa. “Then I guess I’ll see you in half an hour.”
“Thirty minutes?” I repeat doubtfully, then watch as she pivots, changing direction as she crosses the space between us. “What are you doing?” My words come out low and rough, my entire skin suddenly pierced by a million hot, pleasurable pins as she loops her elegant fingers around my wrist.
“Six fifteen,” she says, reading my watch upside down. “What time are we going out?” Her eyes lift. They seem so gold in this light.
“The car will be here at eight,” I reply, rusty voiced by her proximity.
“You can take me out for a drink before it arrives.”
“Dutch courage?” I feel the loss of her fingers as she straightens.
“A chance for you to persuade me I can pretend to like you.” She steps backward out of reach. “You want the performance of a lifetime, right?”
I want you on your knees, right now, in front of me. I want all kinds of things I shouldn’t.
“See you at six forty-five.”
Her words penetrate my lustful haze, and I pull a doubtful face.
“Have you met me?” Her confidence and her playfulness and the way she touches her fingertips to her sternum make me smile. “Remember, you gave me only ten minutes to get dressed last time.”
“And you took at least twenty.”
“Just imagine what I can do with ten extra minutes.” She throws the retort over her shoulder, leaving me alone in the room to do just that.