“Next door” was a boutique where the saleswomen greeted “Monsieur Killian” by name. One even pressed her cheek to his and said something warm in French that made Melodie’s toes curl in dismay. When he mentioned where they were going, the women began pulling out black cocktail dresses that didn’t have price tags at all.
“Roman,” Melodie started to protest.
“Take your time. I’ll come back when I’m finished and they’ll pour me a drink while I wait over there.” He nodded to a small but luxurious lounge area. “I know the drill.”
“Because you’ve done this before?” she guessed.
He heard the edge in her tone. His own cooled. “I have. Although never to this specific jazz club. They have a female blues singer there. You said your mother used to listen to French blues. I thought you’d enjoy it.”
Which sounded very thoughtful of him, but...
“I’d like to take you on a proper date, Melodie,” he added. “We haven’t had one yet.”
Yes, they had, but he didn’t stick around to hear her argue that dinner and a movie in Virginia was a perfectly acceptable date. Another night, she had cooked for him and he’d run out for a bottle of wine, bringing back flowers, as well.
“Mademoiselle?” the boutique owner prompted.
In the end, after their afternoon of walking, Melodie found herself grateful for a reason to sit down and sip a fortifying glass of champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice while dresses were brought to her for consideration. Crackers appeared with foie gras and caviar, salty and delicious.
As for the dresses, the sleek, modern designs with cut-outs and daring necklines were beautiful, but Melodie’s eye kept tracking back to something a bit more modest with a hint of flounce. The bodice was silk organza, fitted in the front and disappearing behind her shoulders into a backless pair of straps. The skirt was short and narrow, but had a fuller sheer overlay that added femininity and swung sassily. Beaded detailing at the waist gave the dress more of a figure-eight figure than her stalk-like build usually had.
The saleswomen made several admiring remarks about her jambes after she tried it on with a pair of deceptively simple black high heels with detailing down the tall, wickedly sharp heel. One suggested if she lost six or eight kilos, she could find work in Paris as a model.
“Kilos,” Melodie repeated. “Those are bigger than pounds, right?” Fifteen pounds? Really?
They weren’t being catty, though. They were actually very nice. Maybe Roman paid them to be, but Melodie still felt pampered and relaxed by the time she had her hair styled to cloud around her face and her eyes smokily made up so the blue of her irises popped.
Then a funny attack of nerves hit her as she walked out to greet Roman. Even as a teenager living off her generous allowance, she had never taken this much care with her appearance. Anton had always made her believe it was futile to try. She’d resigned herself to never affecting boys and had rarely wanted so badly to impress a man.
Roman was looking at his phone, a drink on the side table next to him, his arm stretched out to rest along the back of the sofa. His new white shirt fit him just this side of bursting its seams, hugging his muscles and pulling across his chest. The collar was turned up and his hair had been given a professional ruffle. He hadn’t shaved since just before they landed and the shadow on his cheeks and jaw gave him a rakish air.
He sat with his ankle crooked up to rest on his knee, straining the fabric of his black pants, which were tailored to showcase his toned thighs. Argyle socks peeked between the cuff of his pants and his shiny shoes.
He was so casually hot she had to stop to catch her breath.
Then he looked up and stole her breath all over again.
Only his eyes moved as they leisurely traveled from her hair in its big, loose curls, to the glossy pink lips she tried not to ruin by pressing them together instead of licking them, to the ever-present pearls against her collarbone. Her shoulders twitched and her breasts prickled as she felt his gaze caress her there, then her stomach sucked in and her intimate muscles clenched when he stroked her bare legs with his gaze.
“Turn around,” he commanded huskily.
Swallowing, she suppressed the feminist in her that scolded her for letting herself be objectified, arguing that this was different. This was...
She turned her back, her entire body coming alive under the awareness that she had his complete attention. When she turned again to see him, he was rising in an easy flex of his strong frame. He came toward her, and she reminded herself, Breathe, idiot, breathe.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, lips grazing her brow as she dipped her chin self-consciously. His hands settled on her bare arms in a light, tantalizing caress while the starchy smell of new clothes came off him along with a fresh sample of cologne and his own masculine notes.