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Lucas’s grin is broad beneath his mammoth mustache. “How do you think I became the most respected couture designer in all of Greece?”

“Europe, Lucas. And one day, worldwide.”

It’s true. His dresses are worn by the world’s elite. I also know he donates dozens of gowns to the school where he used to teach to be given out to those in need ahead of school dances. I don’t just give my money and support to those who will use it exclusively for their own financial gain. The people I support are making a difference.

Lucas’s smile disappears as he reaches out and grasps my hand. “Because of you.”

Uncomfortable with his sudden emotion, I squeeze his hand and step back.

“I just saw a talent and made an investment. Nothing more.”

“Agree to disagree,” Lucas says with a wave of his hand. “I will check on your lovely wife. May I offer you a mimosa or champagne before I depart?”

“It’s nine in the morning, Lucas.”

“Never too early to celebrate. My success, your marriage and, if my eyes do not deceive me, the addition of a new family member?”

When I merely arch a brow, he gives a little laugh and disappears.

I sit down in one of the oversize chairs toward the front and pull out my phone, dash off a few emails about a software update for one of our systems, approve a press release for one of Sullivan Security’s new community initiatives and review our quarterly budget. All tasks that normally have my full and undivided attention.

This morning, however, as I read over spending and profits, the numbers are a blur. My mind returns over and over again to the woman at the back of the shop. To how cold and fierce she looked in her office when she essentially told me to go to hell. How fragile she felt in my arms as I waited for the ambulance. How stunningly beautiful she looked coming down the aisle even as uncertainty flared in her eyes.

How she’d looked at me for one fleeting moment before she’d found out about the money. As if I were something more than just a partner in a contractual agreement.

I’d convinced myself the woman I met before was an illusion, just one side to a calculating, manipulative schemer. I was partially right. It was just one side of her. The more I see of my wife, the more I want to know.

But still I hold back. Even though the temptation is growing to tell her more, to share something of myself, all I have to do is think of that afternoon in the park. My seventh birthday. Sitting next to my mother on the bench even though she encouraged me to play on the playground because I wanted to meet my father as soon as he arrived. I watched every man who passed by like an overeager puppy begging for a treat.

As the hours passed, my excitement had dimmed, replaced by a slowly sinking heart. When the sun sank down below the horizon, a single hot tear had slipped down my cheek. Every now and then I can still feel the burn of its trail down my face beforeothers followed. I broke down and cried like I hadn’t in a very long time. Nothing my mother said made a difference.

I got into my first fight at school the next day.

Emotions can be good. But they can also be volatile creatures that strip away one’s ability to act, to think. Add in factors like lust and a belief that you’re in love, and you have the ingredients for a disaster.

I blink, realizing I’ve tried and failed to read the same paragraph at least three times. I glance at my watch. My eyebrows shoot up. It’s been nearly an hour. Our flight to Santorini will be less than that. But I’d rather get there and have extra time than be late or, worse, miss the small window of opportunity we have to secure my mother’s paintings.

I slide my phone in my pocket and make my way through the dresses toward the back. The dressing room is tucked in a corner. Skylights welcome morning sunlight and turn the cream-colored room into a glowing paradise. Plush armchairs in jewel-toned colors like navy and deep purple are angled toward the doors of the dressing rooms. Arched mirrors dominate the walls, with a raised platform every third mirror or so.

I glance around. And stop in my tracks.

Alessandra stands on a podium toward the left. Her hair is still pulled up into a bun, leaving her neck bare to my gaze. The sleeveless gown she has on is unzipped. The rich purple is the color of violets and makes her skin glow. Even though she has one hand holding two pieces together at the base of her spine, the back lies open, revealing the curve of her spine and her naked skin. I can see in the mirror that her other hand holds the bodice of the dress to her chest. The material crosses over her chest in folds that draw attention to her breasts before falling in a waterfall of material down to her feet. It doesn’t frame her stomach the way her wedding dress did. But there’s somethingcarelessly elegant, even sensual about the way the fabric hugs her curves.

I stay where I am, waiting to see if Yvette or Agatha makes an appearance. But as the seconds scroll by with no one appearing, I step forward.

“Need some help?”

Her spine straightens so quickly I can almost hear it snap. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. A blush steals into her cheeks, then traces an alluring path down her neck toward the swells of her breasts. I stifle a grown at the memory of those breasts pressed against my chest last night as we kissed.

“I’m sure Yvette or Agatha will be back in a moment.” She gives me a small smile. “They’ve had me try on no less than a dozen dresses so far.”

“See any you like?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Perhaps.”

I let my gaze wander over the swell of her breasts, the gentle roundness of her stomach, the swirl of fabric hiding her legs from my gaze and then back up to her flushed face.

“I like this.”