‘Right now.’
There was no way she would miss the opportunity. ‘About time. Would it be best to take the dress there?’
‘No need for that. We can do it right here.’
‘What do you mean—you’ll bring her here?’
‘No,’ he said, the spark in his eyes taking on a victorious gleam. ‘You wanted a fitting with the bride—you’ve got one.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘So put it on.’
‘What?’
‘Put-the-dress-on!’
CHAPTER SIX
‘NO!’ COLD fear crashed over her, a drenching wave that left logic spluttering in its wake. ‘This has to be some kind of sick joke.’
His eyebrows lifted in response, his mouth curling dangerously into a bare grin that held no trace of humour. He took a step closer. ‘You will make a beautiful bride.’
She shook her head, inching backwards as she kept her eyes fixed on him, willing him to keep his distance as her mind battled for reason.
He moved closer still.
‘You’re just trying to scare me, because I insisted on this fitting. You’re just trying to get back at me.’ She felt the worktable behind her, clutching on to it with tight fingers for support, praying for its solidity and strength to supplement her own.
‘Are you going to try it on?’
‘No, of course not.’
He stopped just inches away, looking down at her, and she waited for the moment when he would reach out and touch her, searing her again with his hands.
It was crazy. What he was saying was crazy, yet still the anticipation of his touch threatened to wipe out logical thought. And she needed to think straight, needed to harness every shred of reason that she could muster in order to fight her way out of his onslaught.
‘You were the one who insisted on a fitting.’
‘It’s not my dress.’
‘Isn’t it? Then whose measurements do you think were provided to you? That dress was made to fit you like a glove. That dress was made for you.’
‘How?’ she asked even as the realisation hit her—they’d taken her measurements her first morning here. She’d let them take them. ‘You tricked me. You said those were so they could make some sort of gift. You lied to me.’
He shook his head. ‘I did not lie. Your traditional Jebbai garments have been made for you. I just did not tell you all of the truth.’
‘This is mad. I’m no
t your bride. I won’t be your bride. You can’t make me.’
‘I won’t need to. You’ll come to me willingly.’
She laughed, her tension betrayed in the short, fractured sound. ‘Now you kid yourself. Why the hell would I do that?’
‘Because,’ he said, curling one hand around her neck, while the other snaked its way around her waist, pulling her close and extinguishing the space between them, ‘you want me.’
She fought the pressure of his hands, not allowing herself to be collected as easily as he might wish. ‘In your dreams.’