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He was standing in front of her now, so close, and strangely even more dominating than he had been in the lift.
Before she could take a breath, he continued, ‘You have your company credit card?’
Her mind was spinning enough that she was not able to understand why that would matter, but she nodded.
‘Good—perhaps if you look the part it will help you act the doting fiancée.’
She looked down in dismay at the sensible, albeit rumpled clothes she had worn on the plane. He was right. Not only did she need a whole wardrobe of clothes—those she hadn’t been able to retrieve from her apartment before coming here—but she needed a particular style of clothing.
She scowled at him. ‘No one,’ she said, echoing his earlier words, ‘would believe you would settle for doting.’
* * *
The concierge at The Excelsus had arranged for a car to take her to the most exclusive mall in Buenos Aires, with the assurance that it had a wide selection of fashion stores from which she would be able to get everything that she needed.
In the years since her breast reconstruction Emma had taken to shopping for clothes online, enjoying the fact that she didn’t need to expose her insecurities to anyone but the four walls of her bedroom. This, however, was daunting. But she knew Antonio was right. The level of sheer extravagance in even the daywear of the women in the hotel had been enough to convince Emma that if she needed to be Antonio’s fiancée, on his arm at evening events and at the racetrack, she would need thick and very expensive armour to succeed.
Besides, millions of women around the world who’d had reconstructive surgery did this every day. So could she.
But now, standing in the fourth store she’d entered, she felt the drive and determination that had brought her there beginning to fade. It wasn’t just a dress or two that she needed—it was an entire wardrobe. She knew that there were women who would kill to be left free in one of Argentina’s hottest fashion districts holding a credit card without a limit, but right now it was all just a little too much.
Some of the shocking and outlandish creations she had seen on display were so far outside her comfort zone, and the sheer sensuality of the Argentinian designs were both tempting and frightening in contrast to the office-style respectability of the clothing she was used to wearing in New York. But this was getting silly. She had spent so long hiding her figure behind loose clothes and dark colours. Perhaps this was a chance to make the most of this opportunity—even if she did feel slightly out of her depth.
She took her courage in both hands and approached a saleswoman who had been eying her suspiciously. Briefly, in a no-nonsense way, Emma explained the situation.
Rather than cloying mawkish sympathy she had prepared herself for, she was surprised and oddly touched when instead the woman beamed, informing her that she would be utterly delighted to help.
* * *
Antonio had just exited a shop, with a present each for his sister and mother safely in transit to his hotel, when he’d caught a glimpse of Emma slipping into a store. He’d held back a moment, losing her briefly as she moved amongst the mannequins and rows of designer clothes. Then, curious to see how she was getting on, he hadn’t been able to help himself as he followed her in, telling himself that he only meant to make sure that she chose clothing suitable for her new role.
He’d felt the vulnerability coming off her in waves when he’d discussed her need for a wardrobe, and had had an urge to reach out and comfort, to protect. The only other women in his life he’d ever felt like that about were his sister and his mother, and from them he understood only too well how important it was for a woman to feel beautiful in what she wore.
As he neared the back of the shop he was surprised by a high-pitched coo falling from the lips of a shop assistant. He turned just in time to see Emma twisting around to catch a glimpse of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror by the changing rooms.
Need and desire consumed him fiercely and unexpectedly the moment his eyes snared her. There she stood, in a strapless dress that hugged her perfect breasts and stomach, leaving her arms and shoulders bare while layers and layers of blood-red silk cascaded from her slim waist, looking almost as shocked as he felt.
He watched as she took in her own appearance, her eyes drawing upwards from where the dress fell at her bare feet all the way to the top, where she met his eyes in the reflection of the mirror.
In a second the shock in her gaze was shuttered. Her eyes narrowed and she spun round, looking at him accusingly. ‘How did you find me?’
Affronted by the way the fire in her voice matched the temperament of the dress, he couldn’t help the retort that fell from his lips. ‘I don’t have a tracker on your phone, if that’s what you’re implying.’
She scowled, and oddly Antonio felt—and resisted—the urge to laugh.
‘I’m here by mere coincidence,’ he concluded.
‘You don’t believe in coincidence.’
‘No,’ he said, feeling exasperation rise within him.
He really didn’t, and in that moment he wondered what kind of game the gods responsible for their lives were playing. Because that was exactly how he felt right now. Played.
As her hands clutched instinctively at the skirts of the dress he remembered just for a moment the feeling of her skin beneath his palms, and he forced himself to turn away before he embarrassed them both. The almost painful shock of arousal had hit him hard, and he knew it had nothing to do with how much time had passed since he’d last been in bed with a woman.
He could almost taste desire as he made his way over to the seat beside the dressing room. He was some kind of masochist to stay, but he didn’t have the will-power to leave.
A glass of champagne was left discreetly on the table beside the chair, and when he took a sip the bubbles scraped against his raw throat.
