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She blinks, her mouth falling open as we begin strolling through the place. “I have no idea.”
“You need everything, don’t you? Top to bottom.”
“I guess, but…” She runs tentative fingers over a silk blouse, then winces when she looks at the price. “This is too nice for me.”
Just when I think I have her figured out, she goes and says something like that. Too nice for her? Girls like her live along this strip, or at least that was the impression I got during prior visits. Even now, the street is crawling with girls her age carrying shopping bags over one arm and sipping smoothies and iced lattes.
“I would think it’s fairly standard for a girl from your family.”
She seems to shake herself out of it, then shrugs. “You’re right. I… don’t get a lot of opportunities to choose my own clothes.”
That, I believe. “Well, if it would make you feel better, I can pick out things I like for you.” I’m already looking around for a store clerk. “Remember. Not a word.”
“I remember,” she whispers a moment before a girl dressed in black from head to toe joins us, her brows lifted in anticipation. She’s going to be glad she came to work today, at least if she works on commission.
“We have a lot of shopping to do,” I explain, removing my sunglasses and hooking them over the neckline of my shirt. “And we might need your help carrying things and putting them aside until we’re ready to check out.”
The girl’s mouth is practically watering. “Whatever you need, sir.” She turns her gaze to Elena, wide-eyed and trembling a little. “Can I get you something to drink? Some cucumber water? Maybe a mimosa?”
“No, thank you,” Elena whispers before I take her by the hand again and begin moving through the store with purpose. Jeans, blouses, T-shirts.
“You need underwear, don’t you?” I murmur when the girl takes a stack of clothing to a dressing room for Elena to try it on.
“Of course.” She eyes a table of lacy panties and thongs, and it’s like pulling teeth to get her to pick any of them up.
“You could try enjoying yourself,” I suggest in a soft growl. “I don’t have to spend all this money on you.”
“Then why are you?”
It occurs to me that this is the question that’s kept her so quiet and so unwilling to participate. “You’re going to be my wife, whether either of us likes it or not. You need clothes, and a man like me needs a wife who will look her best.”
I can’t tell her the entire reason. That if she doesn’t start wearing something other than dress shirts with no pants, I can’t guarantee how long I’ll be able to control myself. Eventually, I’m going to do something I can’t take back, like ravish her until she passes out, at the very least.
Eventually, she loosens up, at least offering opinions about the pieces I choose. “I think I prefer this one,” she murmurs, choosing one pair of jeans over another.
“Fair enough. Please, decide what you want. I’m not cut out to be a personal shopper.” That doesn’t mean I’ll give her a moment’s peace—I tag along behind her, right on her heels all the way to the register, and again once we’re in the Louis Vuitton store. I can tell by the way the women in the store smile and murmur to each other that I look like a caring, attentive boyfriend. Like I deserve an award for taking a woman to a store and doing something other than dragging my feet and rolling my eyes. In times like this, I realize how low the bar has been set for men in general. Days ago, I had this woman tied to a bed, where I threatened to take nude photos to send to her father. But I’m a prince for walking around a store with her.
There’s one item we haven’t searched for yet, and I can tell she wants to avoid it while we’re wandering around Balenciaga. “We have to get you a dress for the wedding.”
“Do we really? It feels so wrong.”
“For fuck’s sake. Does everything have to be an argument with you?” Truly, I doubt any man would want to marry her for any real, legitimate reason, not when she’s so fucking impossible all the time. Everything has to be an argument.
“Here.” I choose a white dress at random, one displayed on a mannequin. “That’s your size, right? Go try this on.”
“I don’t—”
“You’re going to try this on, or you’re going to have a big problem. Now, which is it going to be?” When she only glares at me in defiance, I shrug before taking her hand. “So be it.”
Before she can so much as take a breath, I drag her into the dressing room she’s been using since we got here and follow her inside.
“You shouldn’t do this,” she whispers, but I’m oblivious to her bullshit at this point. I’m nowhere close to gentle as I all but tear off her clothes and toss them aside. I unzip the dress—she at least lifts her arms, so I can lower it over her head. It’s sleeveless, with thin straps, in a soft fabric that flows around her as it cascades down her body, coming to a stop at her ankles.
“Turn,” I choke out. My throat is so tight all of a sudden, along with my chest. I can hardly draw breath. She turns around, facing herself in the mirror while I zip up the back.
The word angel comes to mind. “You’re beautiful,” I murmur, hands on her shoulders as we both stare at her reflection. “You really are beautiful. I don’t care if you want this dress or not. You have to wear it. It was made for you.” It hugs her curves to perfection yet is modest enough for any parent to approve. It sets off her skin, her hair, and her eyes.
The word beautiful doesn’t cover it. She’s stunning, Elegant.
