Page 26

“Wear it now, but you need more.” He went through to the bathroom, where she heard him shake something from a bottle of pills.

“Do you have a headache?” she called as she hurried to change. “You don’t have to come with me. As long as Tassos drives me, I won’t be alone. In the shop, I’ll be with the clerk so—”

“It’s not that.” He came back into the closet and twirled his finger, then briskly drew the zipper up her back. “I know better what you need.”

“But if you’re not feeling up to it…”

“Shopping with a woman mostly requires sitting quietly and signing my name. I can handle it.”

“You’ve done it with a lot of women, have you?” She couldn’t help the note of pique that injected her tone.

“You make it sound like it’s something kinky.” He waved for her to lead him out of the bedroom, mouth kicked up with humor. “I have, yes. Sometimes two at once.”

She tsked and hurried down to the waiting car, unable to tell if he was making an idle joke or outright mocking her.

She was troubled, too. Not jealous of his buying things for other women, but inexplicably jealous of the women who had a sexual history with him. The kind of history he had decided he didn’t want with her.

Why not? Because of her phobia? Did he think she would be too much trouble in the long run?

Spiro had dated a lot. Lambros had thrown that in her face more than once, suggesting her husband played the field very widely. Which wasn’t to say Spiro lacked discernment. Obviously, he was picky or he would have taken what she had offered him last night.

He hadn’t, so what was it about her that failed to measure up? Was it really just because it would complicate their annulment?

His sexual experience was yet another area that he outgunned her. He was physically much bigger than she was and far more rich and powerful. He had attended to his education while running a global company and not only lived alone, he liked it.

Meanwhile, she was a naive girl from a remote village whose experience with dating ran to small talk over coffee.

She didn’t even know how to buy a bra that fit. The proprietress at the upscale lingerie boutique scolded her with a loud “Mon Dieu!” for wearing the wrong size cup, then spent a full hour making her try on every scrap of lace in the store.

Finally, Alia was released from the prison of the change room. She smoothed her hair as she joined Spiro. He was on a sofa at the back of the boutique, dozing behind his sunglasses, crossed ankles kicked out to the middle of the floor, fingers linked where they rested on his stomach, head tilted back against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” she said on a sigh. “Apparently, I’m small across the back and bigger than I realized up front.” She waved at the generous swells that had sent the proprietress into such a tailspin.

“The challenge of her career,” he drawled. “I heard. You found something that works, though?”

“We have some very nice options,” the woman assured him. “Now that I have her size, I’ll keep more in stock.”

“Do that. And send three of every color to my villa along with nightgowns and bathing suits and whatever else you think she could use. My staff will return anything she doesn’t want.” He rolled his head as though allowing his gaze to track over Alia. “Lean into jewel tones. They suit her.”

“Three of every color?” Alia hissed as the woman walked away. “That’s at least a dozen. There are only seven days in a week, you know.”

“Are you implying I should buy you days-of-the-week underwear? I’m happy to.” He pulled his feet in and casually unfolded to tower over her. “But you know that would invite me to check what you’re wearing whenever I need to know what day it is.”

Was he flirting? She stared up at him, astonished.

But she couldn’t resist saying, “That would give ‘calendar girl’ a new meaning, wouldn’t it?”

He snorted. “I’ve always liked the kind where you tear one off every day.”

She immediately imagined him tearing her underwear off her hips and that should have appalled her, but it sent a filthy thrill straight into her loins.

She blushed hotly, looking sideways as the proprietress returned. The woman had overheard and was trying to stifle a laugh.

Spiro signed his name and steered Alia out to the car.

Their next stop was a house of couture, not that Alia had any sense of what that meant. She sometimes watched reality shows and loved romance novels full of glamorous gowns and brooding tycoon heroes, but most of her clothes came from bargain racks and thrift shops.

Once again, Spiro made himself comfortable, accepting a coffee from an assistant while the designer took Alia under her wing, measuring and holding swatches against her face, promising to fill her wardrobe and turn her into one of their country’s most renowned trendsetters.