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Two more nights, maybe three, then he’d be on his bike and heading home. Fuck Cavendish. And fuck her.
28
Two days later, Nita had one thought.
Show time.
Her eyes fixed on the skimpy costume hanging on the door of one of the villa’s bedrooms. It had only been two days, but it felt like a year.
The costume cleaning fiasco, the food mix-ups, and special requests from their star client—five cans of MAC silver body glitter delivered to Mags last night—had kept her brain close to popping out forty aneurisms. It was only this morning that she’d formally handed over the reins of running the engagement to Fontana and Lindsey.
“Thank fucking Christ,” she said out loud to the froth of sparkling gold chiffon and sequins that draped on the hanger. But her voice didn’t sound very confident.
The doorknob rattled and Nita’s heart jumped into her throat, freaking out that Ryder had found her. Not that he’d been looking, but still.
“Oops,” said a woman, who peeked around the open door. “I thought this was the consultant’s change room.”
Nita recognized the woman as a consultant for Mags’s engagement. She’d drilled both guest and consultant profiles into her head so that she could spot anyone who didn’t belong.
“Three doors down, other side of the hall,” Nita said, mustering up a professional smile.
“Thanks,” the woman said. “There are a million rooms in this place.” She disappeared back into the villa’s hallway.
Nita faced the costume again, her nerves walking a fine edge that had nothing to do with the skimpy outfit.
Somewhere in the villa was Ryder. He’d been staying in the Spanish-themed mansion for the last two nights. She didn’t feel good about how she’d left things, but every time he texted her an update on his security team or the status on check points and cameras and whatnot, she didn’t reply. She just tapped to give his comment a thumbs up. Which was so fucking lame it was embarrassing.
She needed to apologize, but meeting in person was… it was too much. Apologizing on the phone also made her want to throw up.
Taunting him about his son’s custody had been so low, she deserved to be sick to her stomach. Now, knowing she was the closest to him physically that she’d been since Monday afternoon, she knew she’d have to apologize face to face before he left.
“Maybe I could throw in an ‘I’m sorry’ belly dance while I’m at it,” she murmured, touching the sparkling chiffon material.
The costume was a stark contrast to her derby attire. While her satin shirt and shorts looked sexy, it was a sturdy outfit meant to take a beating during a bout. This golden ensemble, made of sheer fluff and shimmering sequins, would have been shredded by her opponents before she even made one circuit of the track.
With a deep breath, she reached out and took the costume off the hanger, feeling the weightless quality of the golden chiffon between her fingertips. As she held it up, the fabric billowed softly, catching the light and creating an ethereal glow that hinted at sensuality.
Undressing, she dug through the layers of fabric until she found the sequin-studded triangle that made up the g-string. She stepped into the tiny piece, pulling it up her legs. The sequins scratched as she adjusted the straps over her hips. Then she plucked the bra off and slid that on.
Turning to look in the mirror, she expected to see a sexy and glamorous vision. Instead, she saw the powerful muscles of her thighs and calves, and the way the gold fabric turned to blah beige against her pale skin.
“Goddammit,” she muttered, going back to the froth of material still on the hanger. This was her punishment for delaying her apology. She’d have to spend the night looking like the world’s only belly dancing wrestler.
She unhooked a length of fabric, turning it over in her hands before figuring out how the small hooks on it fastened to the band of her g-string. Another shorter panel of fabric attached to the front. Next was a floppy chain thing that attached at the top of each of the bra cups and swung in a multi-tiered “U” on her stomach. Last, another ringed belt encircled her waist, tiny bells hanging off it in intervals.
She turned back again to the mirror, more satisfied with the final look. Swinging her hips back and forth, the chiffon pieces floated magically. The gold chains glinted in the low light and the tiny bells gave a soft jingle.
“Maybe some make-up will help,” she murmured, stepping closer to the mirror and grabbing a charcoal eye pencil.
Several minutes later, having darkened her eyes and adding the almost-overlooked sheer veil, she smiled.
The fabric clung to her curves, revealing glimpses of her tattooed skin beneath the sheer cloud of material. As she adjusted the chains and the belt adorning her waist, she hoped the itchiness of the g-string wouldn’t force her to fidget. The last thing she wanted anybody to see was her picking sequins out of her butt all night.
“Okay, team. First cars arriving,” buzzed the walkie talkie app on her phone.
She tapped it and replied, “Roger that.”
She examined her costume one last time, realizing she’d have to carry her phone in her hand. None of the straps offered any way to hold the phone.
