Sloan’s suspicions were confirmed when Ziara pulled out the card tucked among the golden tissue.
“Patrick. But why?” she asked, turning to face him, though one hand remained resting amid the folds of the dress.
He opened the note. “We’re invited to a party Patrick is hosting tonight. He wants you to wear this,” he said, handing the paper over for her to read. His earlier jealousy settled like a lead brick in his stomach because Sloan himself hadn’t been the one to make her eyes light up like stars.
She gazed back into the box but still didn’t lift the dress. “I can’t believe he did that.” She looked at Sloan, a frown drawing those elegantly arched brows together. “Is this appropriate? I don’t want to give the wrong impression.”
“You worry too much. Of course it’s okay to accept a gift. I’d say it’s a sign we’re headed in the right direction.” Reaching in, he found the straps and lifted the dress, shaking it out to its full length. “Exquisite,” he murmured.
Patrick’s mind must have run along similar lines as Sloan’s. The vibrant, flaming colors would be a stunning complement to Ziara’s dark caramel skin and black hair. The soft, handkerchief layers of the skirt echoed her femininity, as did the cut pieces attached to the form-revealing bodice. His lips pressed together as he slipped into creative mode.
“I don’t think I can wear this.”
Sloan surfaced from his thoughts at the sound of Ziara’s shaky voice. “Of course you can. This dress was made for you.”
She shook her head, those soft waves of hair framing her face. “No, I can’t. I’d feel too exposed.”
Exposed? The dress did have only single straps across the shoulders, though they were thicker than spaghetti straps. The scoop of the neckline would reveal a little bit of cleavage, leaving her chest and arms bare. His mouth watered at the thought of all that delectable skin on display for his starving imagination.
He eyed the jacket she was wearing—her standard office fare. He remembered the T-shirt with its three-quarter-length sleeves that she wore in the middle of a hot Southern summer. Maybe there was more to her clothing than just an overblown sense of professionalism. If she was going to be stubborn about this—a grim smile slipped out—he had the perfect ammo for fighting back.
“Don’t be stupid. You’re wearing it.”
“No.” Her arms folded around her waist as if to anchor her clothes. Did she think he would strip her naked to force her to wear it? The tightening in his groin reminded him his thoughts were moving into dangerous territory.
He pulled back immediately, but pushing her out of her comfort zone would be good for her. The sensuous, open woman he’d glimpsed at her house needed releasing. If he benefited at the same time, all the better.
He tossed the dress toward the box, crowding forward to tower over her. “You don’t get it, do you?” He connected his gaze with hers, insuring he had her full attention. This wasn’t about business for him...his descent from lofty goals was gaining speed. But business was what she understood, so that’s the reasoning he’d use.
“I want Patrick as my designer, and I’ll do whatever I have to for him to agree. So if he sent a garbage bag with holes for the head and arms, you would be wearing that.”
Her back stiffened and those lush lips thinned. Still he drove his point home. “We’ll do whatever Patrick wants. Don’t forget who’s the boss around here.”
Her eyes narrowed to a glare, her softly pointed chin edging up a notch.
“Now,” he said, before he could give in to the temptation to kiss her pretty pout away, “go hang the dress up. We’ve got a party to get ready for.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “The party isn’t until eight tonight, and it’s just now three.”
God, her anger made her that much more beautiful and awoke an urge to channel it into a more mutually beneficial emotion.
“Trust me,” he said. “We’ll make every minute count.”
Ten
Ziara’s knees developed a tremor as she stared at herself in the mirror, making her unsteady on high-heeled gold sandals.
Sloan had instructed the hairdresser to leave her hair down, though she’d tucked one side up with a comb behind Ziara’s ear. The orange, red and purple swirls of the dress and glint of gold threads hinted at a gypsy look, overlaid with Moroccan belly dancer.
The movement of the dress was reminiscent of veils, which emphasized the impression, along with her muted Indian heritage. Her skin seemed darker, more exotic. Her eyes more mysterious and shadowed. Her bearing more regal, like a princess tucked away in a harem—sensual, yet above approach.