I grin, feeling like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
Diana disappears through the back door. A girl I had not noticed in the corner appears with a tray, two glasses, a bottle that is already open. She pours and withdraws.
The velvet bench is impossibly soft, and the champagne is icy.
Diana comes back with three dresses on hangers. The first is black, with a high neck and a slit. The second is silver, sequinned, narrow. The third is oxblood. Heavy silk. Bias-cut. Thin straps. The neckline is low and the back, when she turns the hanger to show me, is not there. The dress is open all the way down. The hem will sit mid-thigh.
“That one,” says Alistair, before I have spoken.
“Try them all if you like,” he adds. “We can buy them all. But I want that one.”
The fitting room is at the back, behind a curtain of the same cream velvet. I peel the swimsuit off. I rinse my hands in the small basin with the lemongrass and ginger soap that probably costs more than my old monthly rent. I stand naked for a moment and look at myself.
The bruise on my ribs has gone yellow at the edges. The cut on my forehead is healing. My shoulders are pink from the rooftop. My nipples are still cold from the damp bikini.
I put the oxblood dress on. The fabric falls over me like water. The straps are thin enough that I can feel the silk move. The back is open from my shoulder blades to the small of my spine and I can feel the cool air conditioner on my bare skin. When I walk out, Alistair sets his champagne flute down. His eyes say everything.
Diana, somewhere behind him, makes a small pleased sound.
Our car eases back into the traffic.
The light has gone the kind of blue that London goes when the day has been clear. The street lamps flicker on in twos and threes. A cyclist crosses in front of the car with a baguette in her basket.
Alistair's hand goes to my thigh again. This time it is on the silk, not the cotton, and the silk slides under his palm. When I look at him, he’s staring at me. “You are a hazard.”
“You picked the dress.”
“I’m already regretting it,” he jokes, but there is some truth in it, too.
I lean against him. The seam of his suit jacket is against my bare shoulder. He smells of his signature cologne, my favorite smell on earth, apart from his just-showered skin. And his post-workout skin. And his post-fuck skin.
“I meant it when I said I’m in the mood for everything tonight,” I say. “All of it. Every part of it. Nothing is off the table.”
His eyes have gone dark again, hungry. “So am I.”
CHAPTER 33
Orchid House
ALISTAIR
Pryce eases us to the curb outside Orchid House. When I open Ivy’s door, she steps out and the dress moves with her as she straightens, the long bare line of her back in the lamplight. So goddamned beautiful. I pull her in and put my mouth to her neck. She is warm and she smells so fucking good and I hold her there for a moment. Yesterday the threat of Elena and the Mirror Bratva loomed, tomorrow it’ll be Hargrove. But tonight, we can pretend that we have nothing to worry about. We can be reckless without risk.
“Ready?” I say against her throat.
“Ready.”
Two couples are ahead of us on the steps. The house is modern, minimalist, double-fronted. Two stories, the ground floor windows amber with low light, the top floor glowing with candles. I can hear the music from here, low and slow. I takeIvy’s hand and we go to the door. A man in a black shirt checks a list and nods us through.
A porcelain-tiled floor, copper trim, a long dark console table with a vase of heady ranunculus. An incredible staircase curves up to the left. The music is closer now, I feel the bass in my pelvis. Underneath it all is the smell of the room: candle wax, cardamom, warm food somewhere. As we get closer, we hear the quiet hum of people talking under their breath, and then there are confident high-heeled steps coming our way.
“Ivy! Alistair.” Sarah comes through the drawing room doorway with both arms open.
I have only seen her in a bikini by the jet pool at the Palacio, with wet hair and very little makeup. This version of her in a blouse of sophisticated champagne silk, her auburn hair in loose curls, and what looks like professional make-up is hardly recognizable. Still, it’s her. I’d know that mouth anywhere.
Behind her Matt appears, and I don’t like how attractive he appears. I glance at Ivy, but she’s hugging Sarah, warm and unhurried. Sarah then takes both my hands in hers. “You two came. I'm so happy.”
Matt shakes my hand with a steady gaze and a firm grip, then touches Ivy's arm. I’m glad to see his touch doesn’t linger.
