Thirty-Six
Amelia
The dress Van Wyk has bought me is a slinky black affair with a tight bodice that pinches my waist and lifts my breasts, and a slit so high on the hip I’ll have to be very careful how I move.
Never mind that I have a closet of dresses after all my excessive shopping, this one turned up anyway.
At first, I thought the glitter on the bodice was sequins. How na?ve. They’re diamonds.
“I can’t even wear underwear with this.”
Van Wyk’s lips twitch. “I consider that a plus.”
“And I can’t get into it myself,” I add. “It laces at the back.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” He pauses. “Do you like it?”
Yes, I like it. It’s stunning. It’s easily the most beautiful dress I’ve ever owned. “It’s fine.”
“What did I tell you about that word?”
Shit. I’d forgotten.
Or had I? Maybe I do want to provoke him. Get him to push me against a wall and make me feel again.
But then he’ll only leave. I can’t do this anymore.
“Whatever,” I mutter, then drop my robe and step into the dress. It can’t be done gracefully and I don’t want him watching my awkwardness, but he does anyway.
He waits until I’ve settled it around my hips and collected the bodice around my bust, then rises from his chair and walks over, all grace and poise as always. His fingers sweep my French plait over my shoulder (that took ages to do), and his breath is warm on the back of my neck.
“You look gorgeous,” he murmurs as he pulls the laces tight. “All I’ll be thinking of is getting you back home.”
“That works for me,” I reply. “I can’t dance in this dress.”
“Oh?” He inquires. “Doesn’t the hip slit give you freedom of movement?”
“Well that depends, husband dear. Do you want me to flash the room? What will you do to all the men who stare?”
He goes still behind me. I glance in the mirror, and his jaw is clenched, lips pursed in a scowl. He looks terrifying, but it’s not directed at me. It’s directed at phantom men that might spend the last few seconds of their lives regretting how their eyes were drawn to an alluring dress.
Is it wrong to get a thrill from his possessiveness?
“I know it’s a Company event,” I say, giving that word the same subtle emphasis he does, “but I still think they’ll throw you out after the fourth murder.”
“I want to dance with you,” he says at last, his fingers resuming their task. “You’ll just have to dance close.”
“And if I say no?” I mean it literally, I think.
But maybe I’m pushing, too. The dress, his proximity, the sexiness of it all, being bare beneath it.
The excitement of going out. Feelings are stirring again, and I want them.
I don’t like being dead to the world, to myself, to everyone and everything around me.
“Then I’ll get down on one knee and beg until you say yes.”
My breath catches, and I have to make a conscious effort not to bite at my lip for fear of messing up my makeup. Control, composure, I tell myself. I can’t get aroused, not when I’m naked beneath this thing.
“I’ll dance with you,” I say quickly. “Please try not to turn me on too much.”
He chuckles, low in his throat, and that pulls at me too. “Is it wrong to want to dance with you so much that your thighs are slick for me, glistening with every step?”
“Jesus, Van Wyk—”
“Lukas.”
“—you can’t have it both ways. Either you’re busy dancing with me, or you kill everyone else. Which way is this evening going to go?”
“I think I’ll wing it,” he murmurs, giving my ass a slap. “You’re done.”
What Van Wyk failed to mention is that it wasn’t a normal dance, like a club. Oh no. It’s a goddamn ballroom, complete with high ceilings, a sweeping staircase, marble everywhere, and a chamber orchestra playing classical.
Couples glide across the dance floor with graceful turns and steps I don’t even know, let alone could ever perform.
I pull on his arm, nodding to them subtly. “I can’t do that.”
“They’re just showing off, don’t worry. There are other dances that are much easier.”
“Can you do that?”
He regards the dancers for a moment. “Foxtrot? It’s been a few years, but yes. It happens to be one of my favorites.”
We’re learning so much about each other. So he dances. No wonder he was so keen for me to say yes. But he’s going to be disappointed; my limit is lifting my arms and swaying to the beat. Up until now, it’s always been enough.
Inadequate doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. Why is he interested in me, anyway?
Except he’s not, I remind myself. This is a marriage of convenience.
That’s thin. It wasn’t convenience when he broke into my apartment, or filled it with cameras.
“Dance with someone else, then,” I say lightly, covering my consternation. “I don’t want you to miss out.”
He stops, turning to me. “I won’t. There is no one here I’m even remotely interested in.” He says it like he means it, voice husky with his intensity. “Why would I be, when I’ve married the most beautiful and fiercest woman in the room?”
Beautiful is nice, but there are many here who qualify. But fiercest? Is that really how he sees me?
“Dressed like this, I feel about as fierce as a jewel on a velvet cushion.”
“Dressed like that, Little Stray, you’re as fierce as a lioness on the hunt.”
“Don’t lions have many lionesses?”
“A tiger, then.”
“Let’s go with that,” I agree. “Tigers are strict loners. I’ll wander off by myself.”
His lips curl slowly. “Even now, you provoke me?”
“Amid a crowd?” I ask innocently. “With all your work colleagues, when there’s nothing you can do about it? Best time, if you ask me.”
He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me sharply against him.
I catch myself with a hand on his tux, feeling the hardness of his chest beneath.
“I have a long memory, and I’m making a list,” he growls into my ear.
“I might not be able to do anything now, but sometime soon, you’ll be at my mercy.
So keep going, Little Stray, and see what happens. ”
Okay… shit. And wow. And… oh my God.
It’s not just his words, it’s his tone, heavy with promise. My thighs are slick, my nipples tight, brushing against the bodice and sending tingles through me. My heart is racing. I feel alive, so damn alive.
And I love it.
I want to push him more. I want him on the edge of his control.
No, I want him losing it for me. Here and now, in front of everyone.
Fuck, I want him slamming me up against the wall, pinning me there with my dress lifted and my legs around his waist, while he drives into me, taking me while they all avert their eyes in case he kills them when we’re done.
I know they’re watching. They’ve been watching since we walked in.
In front of them all, I reach up and pat his cheek. “Such a nice idea, Lukas, but I wouldn’t want you to put your back out. Did you restock your Viagra?”
Last time I called him impotent, he cut my clothes off and bent me over a table. This time, he only smiles, teeth bared. It’s almost disappointing.
“You will pay for that later, wife. Push as much as you think you can handle, but for now, I do have to treat this as work.” He takes my hand and folds it over his arm, turning to face the room.
But he’s not finished. “If you can still walk when I’m done with you,” he murmurs, “I’m going to flip you over and start again.” He glances at me. “And you can keep that dress on for it. I’m going to ruin it, the same way I’m going to ruin you.”
He starts walking before I can draw enough breath or composure to come up with a response. It’s several paces before I can still my heart, lift my chin, and put on a show. I am his wife, after all, and they’re all watching.
It’s crowded, but they part for us. For him. It’s like everyone knows where he is all the time, not making it obvious that they’re looking, though they all are.
“What did you say you do here?” I ask quietly.
“Security.”
The same answer as last time. “Then shouldn’t you be on the door?”
“The only person I’m guarding tonight is you.”
It’s obvious they all know him, but no one comes up to offer greetings. It’s like they’re afraid of him. He’s a shark swimming through a shoal, and no one wants their blood in the water.
Van Wyk is carving a path with purpose, and against the far wall are a set of tables with Bastien in a group. That explains a lot. But it also raises questions.
“Why is Bastien here?” I mutter, keeping my voice pitched to his ears. As usual, he’s told me nothing. Or I haven’t asked before now. “When they talk about the Company, do they mean Cadrion?”
He glances at me in surprise. “Have you been nosy, Little Stray?”
“Did you expect me to accept a seven-figure art delivery without doing my checks?”
He chuckles. “I suppose not. And no, Cadrion is not the Company, but the Company is Cadrion. I’ll explain later.”
Enigmatic, until I think about it. Then it becomes clear. “The inner circle,” I reply. “And you and Bastien are at the top of it.”
“My wife is sharp. I knew I chose well.”
We’ve reached Bastien, and I don’t have time to respond to his words. But it’s not difficult to find a smile; I like Bastien. He’s charismatic, easy on the eye, and what little I’ve seen of him makes it clear he’s fond of Van Wyk. And I can’t fault him there; I’m fond of Van Wyk too.
How the hell did that happen?
It’s been creeping up in fits and starts. One pace forward, three back, a little rush forward whenever he pins me down or threatens to kill people for me. Or actually kills them, for that matter.
Fuck, I’m as twisted as he is. And I seem to have forgotten I’m still his captive, lost in the heady freedom of one single night out.
“There you are,” Bastien says, holding out an arm in greeting. “Late as always.”
“My wife deserves an entrance,” Van Wyk replies, clasping his wrist.
“That she does.” Bastien smiles at me. “And everyone in the room has noticed you, dear Amelia. Landing the most eligible bachelor in the whole Company. Can you feel the curiosity buzzing?”
He’s not a bachelor, he’s a widower. Or does Juliette not count?
“Perhaps we should’ve invited them all to our wedding,” I demur. “It would’ve been fun to say ‘I don’t’ with more of an audience.”