Page 24 of The Malibu Destiny

"Well," she says, her voice like honey dripping from a spoon. "I guess I won't know if it fits until I go and try it on."

"Lilith," I say, my voice dropping an octave lower than usual. "Let me call Jacques. He's used to fashion emergencies and he'll come out here and bring you the perfect dress in under a half hour. I just need to know your measurements."

Then I go up to her and place my hands on her waist, feeling the delicate curve beneath the silky fabric. She inhales sharply, her chest rising as my fingers spread across her midsection. "Waist seems to be about 25, give or take," I say, a jolt of white-hot electricity shooting from my fingertips up my arms and straight to my core. The scent of her perfume—something earthy with hints of jasmine—makes my head swim. I only wish she'd take off that dress so I could, uh, measure her properly. That's it. That's all I want to do.

She nods, a flush of pink spreading across her cheekbones. "24 1/2, actually," she says, with a slight tilt of her head, exposing the graceful line of her neck. "Bust around 36.” She looks at me through thick lashes, her topaz eyes darkening at the edges like a forest at dusk. I'm not imagining the hunger there. But goddammit, there's all these people still around, shifting impatiently in their costumes, checking their watches, waiting for their turn in the spotlight. "Size 4 dress, actually," she adds, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

We're standing there, frozen in our own private universe, my hands still encircling her impossibly small waist, her staring at me with those mesmerizing pools of topaz with flecks of emerald dancing around the pupil. Eyes that would transform with anything she wears, from a ball gown to nothing at all.

I swear to god, I feel like I'm under some ancient spell as I stare at her, unable to look away. But then she shakes her head, breaking the trance, her dark hair, streaked now with light green, bouncing softly against her shoulders. "I'm going to try on this dress," she says, each word deliberate and teasing. "Excuse me."

When she disappears behind the heavy velvet curtain of the dressing room, I pull out my phone and text Jacques. Just in case. I ask him to bring me a green dress—emerald, the color of the ring around her pupil in otherwise topaz eyes—with a halter bodice that would showcase those delicate collarbones and those beautiful breasts, size 4 petite.

I can imagine Lilith in that dress, the silk fabric clinging to every curve, her sun-kissed skin glowing against the deep green. She would look so breathtaking she'll make me come undone and goddammit, I'm not fighting becoming undone with her anymore.

Jacques texts back within seconds, three thumbs-up emojis, and I know he's already making calls. The boutiques along Rodeo Drive closed hours ago, of course, but Jacques can have them reopened with a single mention of the Kensington name. He's pulled strings like this before, even though the sleepy-eyed shop owners and security guards absolutely despise being dragged from their beds at this hour.

Lilith emerges 15 minutes later, drowning in fabric that devours her delicate frame. The dress strangles her chest while the waist gapes open like a wound, the hem cascading in a waterfall around her ankles. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she attempts a smile that cuts me to the bone. I rip my phone from my pocket and hammer out a text to Jacques: "ETA?"

Rodeo Drive isn’t far. The boutiques will open early for me—Jacques knows everyone worth knowing there. He’ll find something for Lilith, though watching her now, struggling with that ill-fitting dress, I’m not sure even Beverly Hills’ finest could do her justice. My chest tightens as she tugs at the bodice again.

She twirls before the mirror, the fabric swishing against her skin. "Not perfect, but it'll do," she says, her reflection catching the light. She crinkles her nose, shaking her head with determination. "No. I need the 1940s red dress from the Nighthawks tableau. It has to be that one."

My phone vibrates. "Be there in 10," Jacques texts, the man who's saved my ass a thousand times. Then he sends a photo that makes my breath catch in my throat. Christ. Mermaid halter neck with a keyhole slit that will showcase the soft curve of her breasts, a thigh-high slit that will reveal those legs that haunt my dreams, all in a silk emerald green that will make her eyes burn like wildfire. No dress deserves Lilith, but this one might actually be worthy of her.

Jacques bursts through the door ten minutes later, a sleek box tucked under his arm, cheeks flushed from rushing. Lilith perches on the edge of her chair, still expecting the vintage dress from the Nighthawks display. I've kept quiet about my actual plan.

"Who's this?" Lilith asks, eyeing Jacques and the mysterious package.

I lift the lid, revealing a shimmer of emerald fabric. Lilith's mouth forms a perfect O.

"Roman, you didn't..." Her fingertips hover over the silk, barely making contact.

"Try it on," I urge, my voice lower than intended. "Everyone at the gala will be looking at you, not the art."

Her hands tremble slightly as she accepts my gift. Minutes later, she emerges in the gown. The Italian silk hugs her waist before flaring at her knees, emerald against her olive skin. The halter neckline frames her in a way that makes my throat go dry. Through the slit, I glimpse her leg as she moves. The back dips low, showcasing her spine. The color brings out flecks of gold in her eyes. She studies her reflection, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

She stares at the dress, her fingers trembling as they trace the beadwork. "I can't accept this," she breathes. "It's—Roman, this must have cost more than my entire store makes in a month."

"I don't give a damn what it costs,” I say, stepping closer until I can smell the jasmine in her hair. "All I care about is watching every man's jaw hit the floor when you walk in with me."

Her eyes lock with mine, doubt battling with desire. Then her lips part in a smile that hits me like a shot of whiskey—warm, intoxicating, dangerous. "You're impossible."

I grip her wrist, my thumb finding her pulse. "I'm your date tonight. Blake can go to hell."

She laughs—a sound that races through my blood. "And Jezebel?"

"She can burn there with him."

We go back to the gala, where a recreation of Velázquez's Las Meninas is being unveiled to appreciative murmurs. The guests in their designer wear settle at tables with crystal centerpieces glinting under the chandeliers. Dinner is served: wagyu carpaccio, lobster with risotto, and gold-flecked chocolate soufflé—exactly what you'd expect at an event where three Michelin-starred chefs are in the kitchen.

Lilith's eyes dart toward the crowded dance floor. "I should probably find Blake. I mean, I did come with him tonight."

Part of me wants to say forget him—she's with me now. But that would make her the kind of woman who abandons her date, and I wouldn't respect that. I clear my throat. "Go ahead and find him. Bring him over to our table." I shrug with practiced nonchalance. "Blake Walsh won't exactly be heartbroken. You're just friends, and let's face it—a guy like him always has options."

Caspian finally walks through the door. I lift my wine glass in his direction, nearly shattering the stem between my fingers when I see who's draped across him like a second skin. Violet fucking Monroe. The supermodel who's graced more magazine covers than I care to count, and who once told a reporter I was "nouveau riche with the manners to match." My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood, but Caspian—my supposed best friend—beams like he's won the goddamn lottery, blind to the viper he's brought into my house.

Casp and Violet join our table. Caspian's eyes dart around the hall before landing on mine. "Sera's meeting you here, right? That's what she said." His voice lifts at the end, hopeful as a kid on Christmas morning. My gut clenches. Oh, you sweet summer child…