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He chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. “I thought I’d check in to see if you needed any help.”

I hated that he'd noticed how unsure I’d seemed when we’d walked into the store. “I'm fine.”

“What do you like?” he asked, ignoring me entirely, moving to the rack and fingering through the options. “Colors, styles, fabrics?”

I shrugged, trying to appear indifferent rather than clueless. “I don't know. Something that fits, I guess.”

His eyes met mine, and I had the uncomfortable feeling he saw through my act. “You've never chosen your own dress for an event like this, have you?”

Heat crept up my neck. “Is that a crime?”

“No.” He pulled out a deep burgundy dress with a sweetheart neckline. “What about this one? The color would look good on you.”

I blinked, surprised by his taste. “Since when do Bratva thugs know about complementary colors?”

A ghost of a smile played at his lips. “Since this particularthuginvested in several fashion houses ten years ago.” He held the dress against me, his eyes critical but not unkind. “I’m half-Italian, Larissa. Fashion is a lucrative industry and I invested in a few clothing lines started by people within the Mafia.”

“Is that why you dress like you've stepped out of a men's magazine?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

He actually smiled then, a genuine expression that transformed his face from merely handsome to devastating. “Partly. Though I've always appreciated quality.”

I took the burgundy dress from his hands, our fingers brushing briefly. A jolt went through me that I immediately tried to suppress.

“Try it,” he said, stepping back. “Along with anything else that catches your eye.”

I retreated to the changing area, drawing the curtain tightly between us. As I slipped off my clothes, I couldn't help but smile at the thought of Giovanni Lebedev sitting in the front row of a fashion show. He never ceased to surprise me.

The burgundy dress fit well, but felt too mature for my taste. When I emerged, Gio's expression confirmed my thoughts.

“No,” he said simply.

“No?” I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were letting me choose.”

“I am. But that one doesn't suit you.”

“Maybe I like it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you?”

I held his gaze for a moment before sighing. “No. It makes me look like I'm playing dress-up in my mother's clothes.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Try the green one.”

The green dress was better—an emerald color that made my eyes look more green than blue. It had a slit up the side that was daring without being scandalous.

When I stepped out, Gio was pouring two glasses of champagne. He handed me one, his eyes sweeping over me in a way that made my skin warm.

“Better,” he said. “But still not right.”

I took a sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue. “What exactly am I dressing for? You never specified.”

“A charity gala.”

“And I'm attending as...?”

“My guest.”

I nearly choked on my champagne. “Your date? That wasn't part of our agreement.”