Page 78 of Sexy as Sin
Brett wasn’t smiling, not quite, as he pulled a square, flat leather box in the same discreet blue out of the bag. “You look beautiful today,” he told Willow, “but something’s missing.” He set the box in front of her. “Open it and tell me what you think.”
She did. Of course she did.
It was a necklace, but saying that wasn’t enough. It was anecklace.Three gorgeous blossoms made of cleverly arranged diamonds, in a waving column, with a few tiny leaves carefully picked out in more diamonds around them, and trailing down the bottom. Like the Opera House—absolutely pleasing, and absolutely organic. More perfect because it was so delicate, only three or four centimeters long from the petal tip of the largest blossom to the bottom-most minuscule leaf. And exactly what she’d have chosen if she’d had every necklace in the world to choose from.
“Oh,” she said, and stared at it stupidly.
“You don’t like it?” Brett asked, and she jumped.
“No!” she said. “No. Of course. I... I love it.” She laughed. “I don’t know what to say.”
Brett smiled. Slowly. And Jamila Amal could go hang. “That first day,” he said, “when I bought flowers at Woolworth’s for you after our curvature in the plan, I bought sunflowers. I saw them and thought, ‘Perfect.’ I still do.” He touched the edge of a blossom with a finger. “Turning their faces to the sun and blooming where they’re planted, no matter how harsh the soil. May I put it on you?” He glanced at Jamila Amal. “My hands are clean.”
Oh, bloody well done,Willow thought. “I should pretty well think so,” she said, and he laughed.
Oh. Whoops. “Is it allowed?” she asked Azra’s mum. Ice queen or not, she surely knew the answer, because no woman had ever looked more polished. “Isn’t there a rule about diamonds and daytime? I never know these things. I’m not as girly as I might be, as you’ve clearly seen.”
Jamila Amal had unbent a tiny bit. Jewelry could do that to you. “That is what you call a wearable piece,” she said. “A day-to-night item, as it’s smaller, and the chain is of platinum rather than diamonds. Harry Winston can overwhelm a woman’s good sense in any case, but you may wear this in the daytime without reservation.”
“Oh, good,” Willow said. “Not that I wouldn’t anyway. If we’re in... what are we in?” she asked Brett, “if it’s not an apartment? Something with a door, clearly, if we have a butler, so nobody to see my possibly inappropriate diamonds. Seriously, Brett. A butler?”
“The Residence,” he said, only slightly sheepishly. He had the necklace in his hands, and she turned her head and pulled up her hair to give him access, then trembled a little at the brush of his fingers at the nape of her neck. Diamondsweresexy, or maybe that was just him.
She put a finger to the pendant and said, “I’m dying to see it,” and Jamila Amal pulled a large tortoiseshell compact from her purse without a word, flipped it open, and handed it over.
Willow had to sigh. “Oh, it’s... it’s gorgeous. I can’t...thankyou.”
“You’re welcome,” Brett said. “Drink your champagne.”
Brett was out of the warmth and back to Portland-winter cold, with one meeting down and two more to go. And that was just today’s schedule. If you spent three extra weeks in Australia, there was a price to pay. He hefted his new cane, gritted his teeth against the discomfort of a leg protesting against bearing this much weight, headed into Pioneer Courthouse Square, thronged with its usual crowds even on a chilly February afternoon with the wind whistling, and looked for Willow.
“I’ll meet you by the fountain at one,” he’d reminded her when he’d left her at the loft this morning. He’d been propped on his hands, over her at last, at least for the moment, looking down into emerald eyes, and she’d been wearing nothing but a sleepy smile, with her own arms around his neck. “My assistant says Nordstrom, which is, fortunately, across the street from the square. I sent the directions to your phone. If it’s too cold for you getting there, and it probably is, take a cab. Ask for a parka, Brenda says, and tell them it’s for Montana. Apparently, there’s a certain quilted coat that’s filled with duck down and has a hood trimmed with coyote fur. I’m supposed to tell you to get that, so she can own it vicariously. I should buy it for her for Secretary’s Day, probably. When is Secretary’s Day? My problem is, I need my secretary to tell me. Sort of takes the surprise factor out of it. Also: possibly inappropriate. I don’t think clothing’s an allowable gift, even a coat. It’ll have to be a gift certificate.”
She was laughing. “Brett. Go. And I am never wearing something with a fur-trimmed collar. I don’t care if itisMontana. Just no.”
“It’s a coyote. You wouldn’t call them endangered.” He got off the bed, though, and halfway to the door, then turned back. “Also, you need more sweaters. I should be saying something about a high neck, but I’m going to say wrap front instead, because I like looking at your skin. You need a bigger suitcase, too. Ask them for help. Pretend it’s Azra, and that when you say, ‘It’s too expensive,’ she’s putting her hands over her ears and singing.”
“Leave,” she said. “Now. It’s one week. There’s a limit.”
Now, he searched for her from across the square, thinking,At least it isn’t raining.And forgot all about it as a figure in a cherry-red, slim-fitting parka stood up on the steps beside a fountain, turned off for the winter. She waved, and something happened in his heart.
She’d found a red coat. Of course she had.
It had been the flight that had thrown him, and everything that had come before it. When she’d sat beside him on the glove-soft brown leather seats, had chatted with the onboard chef in French in that voice like music, and he’d watched the play of emotions over mobile features, the sparkle of diamonds on pale skin, then turned back to his laptop, thought,Hang on. Don’t get ahead of yourself,and hadn’t succeeded one bit.
Or later, when they’d eaten a dinner that, he was sure, she could have cooked even better and were sitting with wine glasses in front of them, and he was looking over the presentation for the Coorabell Heights project, thinking of the right words to use to sell the expansion he was already contemplating, and Willow was watching a movie. He’d had the bed in the next room in his mind, and a vision of her stepping out of the shower and not bothering to dress again. How he’d pull her down onto the bed and she’d laugh, until she wasn’t laughing anymore.
He was thinking that, at least, until he stopped working to watch her movie.
It was something about the stillness in her body. On the screen, a slim redhead with subtle curves, in an evening dress that made her look like a mermaid, was putting her hand into a man’s as if it belonged there and being led onto a dance floor. Some sort of fairy-tale thing, he’d already surmised from the costumes, not to mention the singing and dancing.
The man—the hero, he guessed—put his hand on the woman’s waist. Carefully, like she was precious. The redhead put her hand on his shoulder, light as a whisper, and neither of them looked... exactly happy, but like once they’d touched each other, there was no choice. They were holding their breath, because it was too good to be true. And so hard to believe in.
He put on his headphones and plugged in. Willow’s face was absolutely rapt, and if this was her fantasy, he should know what it was.
A man on stage, singing a ballad. A chandelier, and under it, a woman in a mermaid dress being twirled and spun, then caught again in sure hands, until at last, the man had both hands on her waist and was lifting her off her feet. The two of them dancing like Willow’s aunt and uncle had the night before, like they were the only people in the world.
Willow had her hand over her heart, and then she must finally have realized that he was watching, too, because she ripped the headphones off in a hurry, paused the movie, and said, “Sorry. Romantic. Silly.”
