Page 40 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
“What can I say? I left my sewing kit at home.”
My gaze skates across the counter. “How good are you at ripping fabric?”
She stares at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “What?”
“He’s here to babysit me, Sandrine, and I’m a grown woman, for God’s sake. I do not need a chaperone. He just had the nerve to tell me my outfit is inappropriate. I haven’t even married into the family yet! Can you believe it? Well, if he wants to see inappropriate, I’llshowhim inappropriate.”
Sandrine has no concept of just how risky this is, my fiancé being the don of the city’s biggest Mafia family and all, and it’s evident in her squeal of, “Hell yeah!”
Before I can stop her, she’s on her hands and knees, a nick of fabric from halfway up my thighs jammed between her teeth. I grip the vanity for balance as she tears a thick ribbon clean off the bottom of my dress.
I gape open-mouthed at the small amount of length leftover.
Sandrine spits out the fabric and holds it up, studying her handiwork. “Thou shalt not bend over in this, my lady,” she says.
“I bloody shall.” I grin despite the crazed butterflies zinging around my abdomen and turn to look in the mirror. “What about the neckline?” I tug it down to where my cleavage is visible.
“The neckline is fine,” Sandrine says, standing. “But you could do with showing off these babies.” She tugs the thick straps down over my arms, showcasing my shoulders and illuminating my collarbone.
Next she pops open her purse and squirts something iridescent onto my skin, until my cleavage shimmers under the lights.
“Holy crap. If he doesn’t jump you, I will.” She smacks her lips together and studies me with intent. “You need to put your hair up. You have such a gorgeous slim neck. Make him want to sink his teeth into it.”
I feel a surge of intention and fish a band out of my purse. I twirl the strands into a messy bun and turn my head from side to side.
Wow.
I like to dress up, and I have a tendency to wear slightly outlandish vintage garments, but I’venevertaken it this far. If Papa could see me now, he would actually kill me.
Out of the corner of my eye, a girl shakes a can of what appears to be hair lacquer. When it sprays out, her platinum strands turn a gorgeous baby pink. I catch Sandrine’s eye and know she’s thinking the same thing.
She confronts the girl. “Would you exchange that can of spray for a kidney?”
The girl darts her eyes between the two of us and laughs. “No body parts necessary.”
She holds out the can, and Sandrine swipes it from her hands, getting to work immediately. When she’s finished, I glance in the mirror, and my jaw drops. I still look like myself, but ... I look like myselfon acid.
Part of me can’t wait to show Cristiano what he’s driven me to. Another part of me is about to crap right here on the floor.
“You ready?” Sandrine says after she’s handed back the spray and exchanged numbers with the girl. It never fails to impress me how easily she collects friends.
I force a nod.
Her eyes narrow mischievously, and she takes my hand. “Let’s go.”
We walk out into the club and have to resort to shouting again over the music.
“Shots?” Sandrine calls over her shoulder.
I coast my gaze over the bar, and my heart sinks—way more than it should. He’s gone.
“Sure,” I shout back, my tone flat. If ever there were a time to succumb to the lure of a fluorescent alcoholic beverage, this is it.
We reach the bar, and I feel every single male pair of eyes on me. “Self-conscious” doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel. Maybe mix it with a bit of mortification and a dash of disappointment, and we’ll be on the right track.
Sandrine turns around brandishing four shot glasses filled with something pink. “To match your hair, baby doll,” she says with a wink.
We clink glasses and down them both.
