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“Quinn? Enjoying the view?”
I wrench myself back to the present with a shuddering inhale, my skin flushed and my heart pounding. Damn him. Damn my own reckless imagination.
I freeze, heat flooding my cheeks, unable to come up with a reply to put him in his place. He's watching me with a knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement and something darker, more intense.
“I was just...” I scramble for an excuse, hating the breathless quality of my voice. “I mean, I didn't mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, I don't mind.” He takes a step closer, his tall frame crowding me back against the wall. “In fact, feel free to interrupt me anytime.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry from his closeness. Up close, the scent of his sweat and masculinity is even more intense, making my head spin.
“Don't you have a party to get ready for?” I manage, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. I remember he mentioned it over breakfast this morning.
“We both do. You’re coming with me.” His gaze drags down my body, before snapping back to my eyes. “You’re going to need something appropriate to wear.”
I bristle at his condescending, commanding tone. “I don’t think I’ll be needed tonight.”
“Oh, you are very much needed. It’s a big gathering, and no better place to be seen publicly.” His lips curve into a wicked grin. “Anyway, I've had a selection of dresses sent to your room. Why don't you go try them on?”
My jaw clenches at his presumption. “I don't need your fashion advice, Mark.”
“Humor me.” He leans in, his breath fanning over my cheek. “I want my fiancée to look her best tonight. We have important people to impress.”
I grit my teeth against a sharp retort. As much as it galls me, he's right.
“Fine,” I bite out. “I'll go play dress-up. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” His eyes gleam with satisfaction. “I have some errands to run, so I'll meet you at the venue later. Try not to miss me too much.”
With a final, infuriating wink, he strolls past me and out of the gym, leaving me fuming in his wake. Arrogant, controlling bastard.
But even as I silently curse him, I can't ignore the way my body reacts to his, the simmering heat his presence ignites. Keeping my distance is going to be harder than I thought.
Squaring my shoulders, I march toward my room and the waiting dresses, determined to find something that will make his jaw drop. Two can play at this game.
***
I stride into my room, slamming the door behind me with more force than necessary. However, my irritation fades as I take in the sight before me. Approximately three dozen dresses hang from a portable rack, creating a dizzying array of colors and styles. Sequins and lace, satin and silk—each one more stunning than the last.
I run my fingers over the delicate fabrics, marveling at the sheer extravagance. But as I examine the dresses more closely, a strange question comes to mind: Why does Mark have so many women’s dresses lying around?
Jealousy coils in my gut as I picture faceless women draped in these gowns, hanging off Mark's arm at glittering events. Women he's wined and dined, charmed and seduced. Women who've shared his bed, his life, in ways I never will.
The thought makes me want to scream, to tear the dresses to shreds and watch the scraps flutter to the floor. But I force myself to take a deep breath, to push down the irrational anger bubbling up inside me.
What right do I have to be jealous? Mark and I aren't real. This engagement, this whole arrangement, is nothing more than a business deal. I can't let myself forget that.
If I weaken, I’d only be another conquest, another notch on his bedpost.
The thought makes my chest ache in a way I don't want to examine too closely. I shake my head, forcing myself to just pick a dress.
I square my shoulders, my resolve hardening. If Mark wants me to dress the part, then that's exactly what I'll do. I'll find the sexiest, most jaw-dropping gown in this entire collection, and I'll wear it like armor. I'll show him and everyone else that Quinn Desmond is not a woman to be trifled with.
Silk, satin, and chiffon in every color imaginable hang before me. All very pretty. But I'm not looking for pretty or demure. No, tonight I need something that will make a statement. Something that will show Mark Zolotov exactly who he's dealing with.
My fingers glide over a sleek black dress featuring a plunging neckline and a daring slit that reaches high up the thigh. It's the type of outfit that commands attention and turns heads. Perfect.
I decide to be bold and remove my bra, sticking on some nipple pasties before slipping into the dress, the cool fabric hugging my curves like a second skin. It highlights every dip of my hips, the curves of my waist, the bones below my waist, and the alluring barely-there swell of my abdomen. As I turn to face the mirror, I smile at my reflection. The woman staring back at me is a force to be reckoned with, all fiery hair and dangerous curves.