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One night. That’s all this dress will buy me. One night during which he won’t touch me.
It’s not enough. Not nearly enough. When Alexei turned away after I refused to wear white, it occurred to me to count the days since my last period. I can’t remember the exact day it started, only that it was mid-week—and I don’t know how long I was unconscious while Alexei transported me here—but I’m reasonably sure that I’m approaching the middle of my cycle.
As in, a woman’s most fertile time.
If he’d agreed not to touch me for a week, I might’ve been safe—for this month, at least. But a single night will accomplish nothing. I need to figure out a way to keep him away from me for at least the next few days. But how? I have so little leverage over my captor. The white dress was something he seemed to want, so I played that card the best I could. Now I need to come up with something else, something he’d be willing to bargain for.
Of course, all of this presupposes that I’m not already pregnant.
“Need some help?”
Alexei’s voice makes me jump. Heart pounding, I spin around and meet his darkly amused gaze.
He stands at the entrance to the closet, one forearm propped on the doorframe just above his head. He’s already dressed for the wedding, having swapped his casual T-shirt and jeans for a tuxedo suit and a bowtie. The sleek black jacket hugs his powerful torso, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders, and the crisp white shirt underneath contrasts beautifully with his olive-hued skin and black hair.
He looks equal parts intimidating and breathtaking, and I hate him for it—nearly as much as I hate my body’s involuntary reaction to him.
“You seem to be having trouble finding a dress,” he says with a sharp-edged smile, nodding toward the rack of clothes behind me. “Perhaps I can be of service?”
I grit my teeth, willing my breath to even out. “No, thanks. I’ve got it.”
To demonstrate, I turn and yank off a hanger the first white thing I see—which turns out to be a long-sleeved linen tunic.
Fuck.
Then again, who says I need to look like a proper bride? Our agreement was for a white dress, and this is a white dress. The kind I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anywhere but poolside over a bikini, but still… Smiling triumphantly, I turn back to face my intended, holding out the tunic in front of me.
At the expression on Alexei’s face, the smile drops off my face.
“I don’t think so.” His voice is dangerously soft. “I’m not explaining that to our grandchildren when they ask to see our wedding pictures.”
He advances on me, making my heart leap, only to stop a foot away. Reaching behind me, he pulls out an evening gown. Made of heavy white satin with silvery threads woven vertically through the square-cut bodice, it’s equally suitable for a wedding or for a high-end gala.
“You’ll wear this,” he says, thrusting the dress at me. “Or else our deal is off.”
So much for that little victory. Clenching my jaw, I hang the tunic and take the dress from him. What choice do I have? He holds all the cards in this fucked-up game of ours, dictates all the moves. As much as I want to fight him on this, I can’t—not without giving up what little ground I’ve gained.
After all, one sex-free night is better than none.
Clutching the dress against my chest, I tip my head back and meet his gaze with the haughtiest look I can muster. “You can leave now. I’ve got it from here.”
Though my voice is steady, my heart beats unevenly. He’s too close to me, his body too tall and muscular, his presence too overpowering in the small space of the walk-in closet. It feels like he’s commandeering all the air around me, leaving no oxygen for me to breathe. I try anyway, forcing my lungs to drag in a full inhale, and my body ignites like lint in a fireplace, memories of yesterday playing out in graphic detail in my mind as I catch a faint whiff of his masculine scent—that strangely appealing mix of pine, leather, and salty sea.
For years, this man haunted my darkest nightmares and my most erotic dreams, yet my imagination still underestimated the magnetic reality of him.
He senses my weakness. He must because his eyes grow hooded, the tight line of his lips morphing into a sensual, softly mocking curve. “And if I don’t wish to leave?”
I swallow, acutely aware of the damp heat gathering between my legs and the aching tightness of my nipples inside my bra. “You promised.”
“Not to fuck you, yes.” His eyes glint. “I never said I wouldn’t look.”
I take a shaky step back. “I’m not changing in front of you.”
