Page 59 of Secrets & Lies

She was barefoot, her tiny toes peeking out from the bottom of the dress.

“You seem to be missing your shoes. Where are they?” I stepped back and made my way into her bedroom.

“I’m not so sure about this,” she murmured as I emerged with the heels in one hand. She looked shy and sweet as she hugged her arms across her chest.

I strode over to her and knelt. Looking down, I grabbed her foot. Damn, she had the cutest feet. I knew from the shoe size they were small, but holding them in my hand only emphasized it.

Her breathing picked up as I brushed my index finger along the insole, and she jerked her foot, trying to free it from my grasp. She gripped my shoulders as I did it again.

Slipping the shoe on her foot, I gently set it back down. I waited until she adjusted her stance, running my hand down the soft skin of her calf. Lifting her other foot, I heard her sigh deeply, resigning herself to the fact that we were doing this.

Yesterday, I picked up a necklace, and the box’s outline pressed against my side in my jacket pocket. I wondered what she’d think of it. Standing, I dug out the box and handed it to her.

Her perfectly manicured eyebrow above her left eye raised, and her cheeks deepened in color. She opened the box and then narrowed her eyes. I remembered her statement about me thinking I was buying her like a whore.

“No expectations other than dinner and a dance,” I reminded her with a smirk.

“We’ll see about that dance. The necklace is beautiful, but you shouldn’t have. Flowers would have been perfectly fine…” Her voice trailed off.

She gently touched the necklace. Seven brilliant-cut round bezel diamonds were evenly spaced along the delicate chain. At the last minute, I’d gone with a longer chain style, even though my dick screamed at me to make it collar length.

“I don’t do flowers. They die, and then all you’re left with is a memory of that one time you got flowers. When I saw this, it reminded me of you. I also noticed you don’t wear jewelry. It’s real, so it shouldn’t break you out. My mother has sensitive skin and can only wear genuine gold.”

Shut the fuck up. I was rambling, and I wanted to kick myself. Suddenly, I was nervous.

“It’s real? You shouldn’t have,” she responded, looking at me in confusion.

I helped her put it on and had to fight every urge in me not to kiss her neck. If I did, I knew we’d miss the gala event, especially given her earlier responses.

“Shall we go, then?” I gave her my arm, and she looped her hand through and nodded. She locked up, and I opened the car door for her.

“What, no driver tonight?” she teased.

“No, your earlier comment sent me into a fit of rage, so I fired him.” I couldn’t help myself as I teased her.

“Well, that was stupid. Tell me you’re not being serious,” she exclaimed.

“I’m joking. Marcus is family.”

“Oh.” She sounded relieved, which made me smile.

I put the car in reverse and made my way toward the airport. The jet was ready and waiting. Ivan and Nikolai were already in Portland with their prospective dates. I held off telling her more, saving it for the plane. The girl next to me was nervous; she kept wringing her hands together.

“Speaking of family, why don’t you tell me about yours?” I asked.

“My mother died of cancer when I was little, never knew my dad. My grandfather raised me.” The first part sounded detached, and with the last, I visibly saw her shrink, growing sad.

“Is that who taught you how to use a knife?” I teased, trying to change direction.

Sure, we needed more information about her, but we had an entire weekend to work on it. I much preferred a spunky kitten to a sad one, especially for tonight. I made a mental note about her detachment when discussing her family, though. Marcel would want to know. It was just another piece of the puzzle.

“Yes, he did. He taught me to hunt and fish too. We used to go hiking a lot.” She perked up a bit.

“I love hiking,” I said smoothly, tempering my excitement.

The gods were smiling down on me. This weekend was going to be epic. I’d impulsively brought my sketchpad and pencils, hoping I’d have an opportunity to draw her outside.

Drawing was a passion of mine—one I’d let go of in recent years. Little did she know that her suggestion to take up a hobby had reignited that flame. In fact, I had three sketches of her already. The first one from the day we met at the café, the second one from her in the dress she wore to the club. The final one was of her at dance class the other day.

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