Time flew. Another couple of busy days passed. All the important things for the gala were set, and with two days to go, I was working on details.

As it turned out, there was one detail I had neglected to consider. And when Morgan brought it to my attention, I could only stare at him and repeat his question, my mind in overdrive but coming up empty.

“What am I going to wear?”

Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to me that I would be attending the gala. This was a function for rich people, not people like me. When I’d planned Miss Delilah’s charity gala, I had dressed in a black suit that resembled the staff uniform so I could go around and solve last minute issues without drawing attention to myself. When I said that aloud, however, Morgan shook his head.

“No. Not after all the work you’ve put into this thing. There’s someone in the blue salon to see you. She’s a very talented designer. I’m sure she’ll make you something suitable.”

For the second time, he’d left my brain on repeat mode.

“A designer?”

My mind flashed back to Miss Delilah’s dressing room, and the custom dresses she’d had designers create for her—or rather, for me. They’d been gorgeous dresses, sure, but the thought of playing mannequin doll again, this time for Morgan, wasn’t exactly appealing. I didn’t need to be reminded of how little power I had. And I would have said exactly that if Morgan hadn’t added, “Today she’ll just take your measurements and talk to you about what you want. She’ll be back for fittings.”

“What I want?”

I was beginning to feel ridiculous, repeating what he said. And he’d noticed, too, because he gave me an amused look.

“Are you all right, Angelina? If you don’t want a new dress, I suppose you could wear the one you had on at my birthday party.”

That sealed it. That red gown was gorgeous, but I had no intention of ever wearing it again. I had a few… interesting memories associated with that dress, all of them involving Morgan but mostly it was what Miss Delilah had compelled me to wear; the wrapping of her ‘gift’ to her brother.

I shook off my confusion and let him lead me to the ‘blue salon,’ which was a small sitting room whose furniture and artwork were all, you guessed it, blue. He introduced me to Crystal, a middle-aged woman whose kind eyes were already running over me as though taking measures before she’d even finished shaking my hand. Morgan left, Crystal and I sat down, and right away she set a notepad on her lap and started sketching the rough shape of a body. She asked what kind of dress I had in mind, and as much as I enjoy fashion, I might have had more to say if I’d been given anything other than a five-minute warning.

“Relax,” she said, smiling, when she noticed how weird this was for me. “We’re here to put a beautiful dress on a beautiful woman. There are no wrong answers. As long as you’re happy with the result, that’s all that matters.” Then she leaned closer and winked as she added, “And don’t worry, we’ll make sure he likes it, too.”

There was no doubt in my mind that ‘he’ was Morgan. And the thought of wowing him was rather appealing.

With a few quick, easy questions about what length I wanted for the skirt or how much of a décolletage I cared to show, Crystal started to get what she needed from me. And once I watched the beginning of a shape appear on her notepad, it was easier to tell her what I could see myself wearing. When I began using words like ‘dropped waist’, ‘sweetheart neckline’ and ‘asymmetric draping,’ she teased me about watching too many fashion shows on television, and that shared laugh finally chased away my reservations.

After another few minutes, she was done sketching both the front and back of the dress, and I could easily see myself wearing it. It just felt very me. All that needed to be decided was the color. When I hesitated, she said, “If we’re trying to make his jaw drop, I’d suggest a bold color, something dramatic. Judging from past experience, he’s very partial to red.”

“Past experience? You mean, you’ve done this before?”

I tried not to let my disappointment pierce into my voice, but it must have shown because her expression instantly turned apologetic.

“I didn’t mean—”

But I didn’t want excuses.

“Have you done this before?” I insisted. “Have you come here and designed a party dress for another woman? Several women?”

She sighed softly.

“Just one. And it was years ago, when I was starting in the business. I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. Is it okay if I take your measurements now?”

I stood and let her measure what she needed, and the entire time I tried to tell myself not to be an idiot. It wasn’t like I hadn’t suspected this. Stephen had told me Morgan had had human guests before. And if Camille, the shoe lady, hadn’t actually said it wasn’t the first time she’d brought half her store to the mansion for a private shopping session, her demeanor had certainly suggested as much. For that matter, even Morgan had admitted that Miss Delilah had offered him ‘gifts’ like me in the past.

I should have seen it coming, but then why did I feel so betrayed? Why was the first thing I asked Morgan when I returned to the conference room, “Do you do this with every slave your sister gives you? Buy them shoes and dresses and…”

My voice trailed off when he stood, standing close enough that he towered over me, his expression tempestuous, his eyes darker than ever.

“A slave?” he said, and the word sounded like a curse in his mouth. “When have I ever treated you like anything other than a guest?”

I gestured at the table.

“You put me to work!”

“Only as a decoy for your parents! I’ve been telling you for days I could finish the preparations on my own!”

Which was true, but I was too hurt to concede the point.

“So you’re saying you haven’t bought a stupid number of shoes for other women before?” I insisted. “And Crystal didn’t make dresses for someone else here? Don’t lie to me! You said she gave you other women as gifts before. You said it!”

When he took a deep breath in and let it out in a long, slow exhale, it felt as though he was trying to get a grip on himself. And indeed, his voice was calmer when he replied.

“I also told you it hasn’t happened in a long time. Your grandparents weren’t even born the last time Lilah gave me such a gift. And back then…”

He looked away for a moment, and it seemed as though he wouldn’t finish. But he finally looked at me, met my eyes again, and I shivered just as much from that look, devoid of any emotion, as I did from his next words.

“Back then I didn’t bother buying them presents. I fed from them until I either took too much and killed them or tired of them and sent them away.”

It had happened again. I had forgotten—again—that he wasn’t human. How easy it was to forget until he said something to remind me of what he was…

“But you don’t… you don’t do that anymore.” My voice dropped down to a whisper. “Do you?”

He shook his head in answer. I really wished he’d have answered in words. He could have lied, of course, but it would still have made me feel better. Trying to get off the topic of him killing people, I swallowed hard and asked, “So who… the shoes and the dresses? Who were they for?”

His eyes remained empty, but his voice did waver a little when he said, “I haven’t always been a bachelor.”

Did I want to ask more questions—all the questions you’re probably asking yourself right now? Of course. But I didn’t get the chance to do so. He left the room. Again. I was beginning to hate that habit of his. How are you supposed to have a conversation with someone when they just go away whenever they don’t like what’s being said?

I didn’t see him again that evening. I barely saw him the next day, either, as he only came to me to tell me Crystal was back for the first fitting. After that, he disappeared for the rest of the day. I looked for him. I’m not sure what I’d have said if I’d found him. I just felt incredibly lonely, eating alone, working alone… I guess I’d grown used to his presence.

I had another fitting on New Year’s Eve. Crystal had told me to expect her bright and early so I went down to wait for her and let her in. In the street behind her, the Christmas snow had turned to a gray mush.

That fitting didn’t last more than twenty minutes. The dress was just about perfect—but ‘just about’ wasn’t enough for Crystal. She left with the promise that she’d have the dress ready for me that evening, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it the next day, the day of the gala.

I was in my room when the dress was delivered. It wasn’t Crystal who brought me the big white box closed with a satin ribbon, but Morgan himself. After not seeing him for almost two days, I stood on the threshold to my suite, a little startled to find him there, so much so, in fact, that I didn’t take the box right away, and he said, “Where do you want me to put it?”

I motioned for him to set it on the low table in the sitting room. Part of me wanted to ask where he’d been hiding—and why. Another little voice suggested that I apologize for upsetting him with my questions. I did neither. Instead, I asked him to wait and went into the bedroom.

When the presents I had ordered online arrived after the storm, I returned those I’d bought for my parents, but I kept the lighter. The one I’d bought myself and the one Morgan had gone out to buy were side by side on the desk. I didn’t know what made me pick up the smaller box—the one I’d bought. The other one was nicer, but this one was the one I’d picked, with a small orchid engraved on the side.

“This is for you,” I said, holding it out to him and suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

He looked at the box, and frowned lightly as he opened it. The frown smoothed out when he ran a finger against the orchid.

“You’ve had this for days,” he said. “Was it for me all along?”

“Yes.”

“So why only now?”

That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? And I had no clue what the answer was.

“I don’t know.”

“Is it because of the dress?” he insisted. “You don’t have to, you know. This isn’t a gift exchange or—”

“It’s just a gift, all right? I thought you’d like it.”

He closed the box again, and for a second I thought he’d give it back to me. He didn’t, though, and said almost formally, “I do like it. Thank you.”

‘You’re welcome’ would have been the customary answer; instead, I found myself glaring at him.

“You can be so… so…”

He raised an eyebrow at me and suggested without as much as a smile, “Annoying?”

“Yes! And frustrating! And I should be scared of you, and I’m not, and sometimes you’re a pain and I want to kick you, and sometimes I just want to kiss you and… and…”

And I wanted to do that now. Actually, I couldn’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t. There had to be reasons, many of them, but at that moment they were all beyond my grasp.

I took a half step closer to Morgan.

And he, of course, took a step back.

“Angelina,” he murmured. “Don’t.”

With just one thought in mind, with my eyes locked to his lovely, kissable mouth, I stepped closer again.

“Don’t what?” I said, licking my lips.

His voice dropped even lower, but he didn’t retreat again.

“This is a bad idea.”

“What is?”

He cupped my cheek in one hand and leaned down, whispering “This,” against my mouth before he kissed me.

I closed my eyes, clasped his wrist, raised myself on my toes to deepen the kiss. It was just as sweet, just as hot as every kiss we’d shared in our minds. The difference was, this time it was real. This time his tongue was really stroking mine. My heart was really accelerating. That quiet, sexy sound was really rising from his throat.

Too soon he pulled back and ended the kiss. His hand remained on my cheek, though, and I still clung to his wrist. Batting my eyes open, I asked in a hoarse whisper, “Why is it a bad idea?”

I wish I could say he had some trouble finding a reason. Alas, he answered all too quickly.

“Because soon you’ll leave.”

Leave… Leaving was supposed to be a good thing, wasn’t it? It was what I wanted, what I’d been hoping for. So why did it feel like such a terrible idea right then?

“You don’t know that,” I said. “You don’t know it’ll be soon. Something is happening between us. You know it is.”

“What I know, what you don’t seem to understand, is that I’m not a good man. And I wouldn’t be any good for you.”

“No. You like to pretend you’re not a good man. You’re even very good at pretending you’re bad. I just don’t understand why.”

“What if I am a bad man who’s very good at pretending he’s nice?”

“If that was the case, you’d be kissing me again, and throwing me on my bed, and having your wicked way with me with no apologies. And you know what? I don’t think I’d complain.”

I kissed him again, throwing both arms around his neck, drawing him tight against me. There was no pretending anymore and no restraint as we shared our most heated kiss yet. What was I thinking? I couldn’t say. Mostly, I was feeling. Feeling every ounce of attraction that had accumulated inside me since I’d met him. Every last bit of frustration when he’d been less than forthcoming. Every moment of surprise and gratefulness when he’d shown himself unexpectedly sweet or thoughtful.

Again, he ended the kiss much too soon, pulling out of my arms and stepping beyond my reach. His voice was ragged, even breathless when he said, “Good night, Angelina.”

He left without giving me another look. Left me there, with my heart beating too fast, and my mind turning wildly, and my panties wet after no more than a couple of kisses. How could he kiss me like that and then just walk away? He’d wanted me, too. He could pretend otherwise, and yes, he could even walk away, but his body, at least, didn’t lie. His cock had been rock hard against me, tantalizingly close, and nowhere near close enough. What was going on in that stubborn, pig-headed mind that he’d refuse to acknowledge our mutual attraction? For hours, I tried to figure it out, but I simply didn’t know enough about him to make even an educated guess.

Good night, he’d said. My night was anything but good. In a fit of vindictiveness, I only hoped his night was even worse.

 

*