“Wow—already?” How the time had flown by.
“I made an appointment for you at the hotel spa. My treat. The works. Then tomorrow night we’ll go to a very special place, and we can spend New Year’s Day seeing some ancient ruins, if you like. Something romantic.”
“I like. I take it even Mr. Miramoto doesn’t work on New Year’s Day?”
Miguel shook his head, the worry settling around him again like a cloud. “He flies back to Tokyo tomorrow night.”
“Does that mean you’re winning?”
“No, Roo. I believe it means I’ve probably lost.”
December 31
New Year’s Eve
Seven Swans a’Swimming
Tilda liked a luxurious spa session as much as the next gal, but she’d never treated herself to a place like the Spa at D’Oro.
Everything was in shades of beige and gold, with subtle splashes of copper and dark grey for contrast. The ladies there, all clad in pristine cream coats, dark hair drawn back into sleek ponytails, makeup impeccable, treated her like a princess.
They smiled and led her gently along, a soak in a bath of warm milk and honey. A bone-melting massage, followed by an invigorating eucalyptus rub. When they settled her into the chair for her facial and applied the soothing, pore-tightening masque, another young woman wheeled in a cart with hot wax.
“Have you ever had a Brazilian before?” She beamed her beneficent goddess smile.
“Am I having one now?” Tilda asked, taken by surprise.
Distress marred her sweet complexion. “It’s part of the package. Do you not want it?”
The man was diabolical. Had she noted that to herself before? Why yes, yes she had. He likely predicted she would go along with this rather than cause a fuss. Neatly cornered.
“Go ahead.” She listened to the care instructions—no sexual activity for twenty-four hours? Like that would happen. She’d have to lump it—and laid back and let the waxer do her thing.
It stung, but after Miguel’s games, this paled in comparison. The soothing gel also helped. They finished her facial and threaded her eyebrows, then took her in for a manicure and pedicure. Mr. Control had even picked out the color. The UV light they used to set the polish gave her nails a glassy gleam that made her fingers and toes look like they’d been dipped in gold.
Finally, a woman did her hair and make-up. She pulled her shoulder-length curls into a sleek twist, using lovely pins shaped like golden feathers. Tilda had never had a professional cosmetic job—the department store “makeovers” surely didn’t count—and she looked different than her usual thing. Refined and elegant. Sexy.
Back in her room, she discovered a gown had been delivered, a full-length sheath of the palest champagne, covered in tiny gold beads in feather patterns. They were so small, that the thin silk drifted over her like down. Earrings were included, elegant white feathers suspended from gold wire, so long they nearly brushed her shoulders. The heels were high and made of transparent straps. From a distance it looked like she wore nothing at all.
No underwear was included. Of course.
Outside, the revelries were ramping up. People were partying on the sand as the sun lowered and music from several sources wafted up and down the beach, with hoots and various delighted screams. It promised a wild night ahead. Tilda sat on her balcony, drinking the champagne Miguel had sent up, along with a note promising to be there soon. She wondered what she might have been doing tonight if she hadn’t met him.
She couldn’t really imagine it, which showed how much her world had changed in such a short time.
He was an interesting man, to be sure—one who bottled far too much inside. Whatever was going on with him was eating at him, emerging when he let down his guard. She didn’t mind that he was rough with her. Not a bit. And she didn’t need the romance he seemed to have suddenly decided was missing. No—that wasn’t about her. He’d grabbed onto that because he felt like he wasn’t delivering something else.
She would talk to him about it, if he’d let her. Which he likely wouldn’t.
Only fun. Nothing serious.
At the knock on her door, she smiled, feeling giddily excited to see him, despite her ruminations. Bubbly like the champagne. She opened the door to a polished, urbane Miguel. He wore a tailored cream tuxedo with a pale gold bow tie. Cleanly shaven and with his hair newly trimmed, he could have stepped out of a James Bond movie. With that charming grin, he bowed and presented her with a lavish bouquet of white roses.
Okay, maybe more romance wasn’t so bad after all.
“You look ravishing, mi amor.”
“You’re not too shabby yourself.” She took the bouquet, allowing herself a little coo of delight, and set the vase on her bedside table. When she turned back to him, he held the jewelry box with the collar and cuffs, and a wicked smile.