‘My measurements? How did you know my measurements?’
A slow smile split his lean face as his glance slid slowly over her slim, sinuous curves. ‘I have a good eye for such things, cara.’
‘And no doubt a lot of practice sizing up women,’ she flung back, focusing on the annoyance of him making her blush, rather than the fire zigzagging along the nerve endings under the surface of her skin.
‘Oh, and for the shoes I got two sizes of each to accommodate your feet.’ He looked down at the items under discussion. ‘Shall I come back in, say, an hour and a half?’
‘How long do you think it takes me to get ready?’
It wasn’t until he had grinned, said, ‘Right, half an hour, then,’ and left the room that she realised her indignation at his assumption that it took her so long to make herself presentable meant she had missed an opportunity to buy herself more time to recover from the way he was making her feel. Though she could have said three hours and probably should have said at least an hour, she had let him get to her and so he’d given her a tight timeline, knowing that she would be determined not to be a second late.
Walking across to the massive wardrobes, she focused on the positives—at least he wasn’t going to sit there and wait—but she quickly met her second challenge...there appeared to be no handle in the smooth wooden surface. It wasn’t until she inadvertently pressed her palm to a panel that the doors slid silently open, revealing a massive space.
The new items hanging in their protective covers covered a fraction of what was available, and she dropped to her knees to check the shoeboxes neatly stacked...still not sure if he’d been joking.
He hadn’t been.
There were ten pairs of shoes, all in two sizes.
The clothes were all in one size—her size—and there was a bigger selection than many shops she knew carried. She didn’t buy many clothes for herself normally, though she had an eye for a bargain and she knew what suited her. Ultimately, what she felt comfortable in was quite often plain old jeans and a T-shirt.
Neither was available, so after a short sift through Abby pulled out a pair of palazzo trousers with deep pockets in a subtle silvery blue and a square-shouldered fifties-style shirt in a slightly darker shade brightened by drifts of butterflies.
She used her bra and pants from her overnight bag, though a quick glance in one of the drawers in the antique chest revealed a vast selection of silky underclothes in mouth-watering shades and gorgeous fabrics.
She pulled out her one make-up bag from the hold-all and, after pushing her hair back from her face with an Alice band she applied that too. It didn’t take long—just her usual moisturisers and sunscreen, a smudge of blusher across her cheekbones and a smudge of brown eyeshadow on her eyelids. She tended not to wear mascara as her eyelashes were naturally brown and long, though they never curled without a lot of encouragement. Finishing off with a defiant slash of bold red lipstick, she let her hair fall loose. Standing in front of the mirror, she subjected her wild curls to a wrinkle-nosed scrutiny. The time constraint ruled out straightening it so, after holding it on top of her head for a moment while she tried to figure out how to tame it, she released it with a hiss of dissatisfaction and delayed the decision by going back into the bedroom to dress. Sliding on a pair of low-heeled red mules, she went over to one of the full-length mirrors to judge the results, but before she reached it there was a tap on the door. The visitor didn’t wait for a response, he just walked in.
The sardonic half-smile curling his mouth at the corners flattened out when he saw her and he walked across the room towards her. Abby was flustered by his sudden appearance but she still managed to notice the clenched tension below his relaxed exterior.
‘I’m nearly ready.’
* * *
‘Take your time...’ His glance drifted upwards from her feet to the top of her glossy head, returning to rest on her lips. ‘You look ready to me.’ She looked incredible...like a classy, sassy female lead in one of the classic old black and white Hollywood movies his mother had introduced him to as a kid...elegant but sexy and in full, glorious colour.
She stuck out her chin. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ She lifted a hand to her tumbling curls. ‘I haven’t done anything with my hair.’
‘It looks fine to me,’ Zain replied in a voice that gave no hint that he was imagining those curls falling down her naked back and over her breasts. It would cover them now it was inches longer than it had been ten months ago... He sucked in a sense-cooling breath through flared nostrils and pushed away the raunchy image. ‘What do you still need to do?’
He arranged his long, lean length in a chair, aware her resentment was growing and choosing to push her by adopting a bored demeanour.
‘I need to make myself presentable...’ She lifted the weight of her hair off her neck and let it fall back in a gesture that suggested it explained everything. For Zain, it explained nothing. ‘Presentable for all those people who are probably lined up outside to look at me. Perhaps I should wear a veil...or would that offend people?’ Looking suddenly and completely overwhelmed by what she’d signed up for, she grabbed the padded back of a nearby chair, taking a deep breath before adding despairingly, ‘You see, I don’t have a clue.’
His clicking fingers cut through her diatribe of complaint. He refused to believe that a woman who looked the way she did had any confidence issues. ‘Do not play the victim, it doesn’t suit you.’
This bracing and unsympathetic advice brought her chin up, a move he was growing used to very quickly.
‘And it is also extremely unconvincing. I have seen you stand up to men wielding knives,’ he reminded her. ‘And as for presentable...presentable...’ he parroted. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘It’s something my nan always said before she left the house... Do I look presentable?’ The mention of her grandmother brought a wistfulness to her face and she blinked to clear the tears he could see her fighting. Before he could say anything to try and help, a hopeful smile spread across her face.
‘Perhaps your sister-in-law,’ she began eagerly. ‘Do you think if we told her the story she’d help me? I mean, it was her job, so surely she’d be able to give me some pointers.’
‘No.’ His emphatic response was designed to flatten her enthusiasm, and it worked.
‘But—’ she began to protest.
‘You will not approach Kayla.’ He moved towards her as he spoke, his voice not raised, but each ice-edged syllable had a dangerously explosive quality that was echoed in his body language; he looked big and dangerous.