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Jackson came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “You like?”
“What’s not to like?”
“Follow me,” he said.
He led her into the bedroom, where he opened the closet doors. Indicating a mass of clothing hanging there, he said, “Look through them and decide what you want to keep. Keep all of them if you like.”
“When did you have time to do this?”
“I took care of it last week,” he said.
Amber went to the closet and went through the hangers one by one, examining the dresses, tops, pants, jackets, and sweaters, every one still with a tag on it. Obviously, he’d bought them just for her. She excitedly began pulling them out to try on, kicking off her shoes and removing her dress. Jackson sat on the bed. “You don’t mind if I watch this little show, do you?”
“Not one little bit.”
She tried on every last piece, modeling them for Jackson, who approved of it all. Of course, he had chosen everything, so it stood to reason that he would.
“There are shoes in there too. Up top, on the shelf,” he said.
“You think of everything, don’t you?”
“I do.”
Amber looked up and counted fifteen shoe boxes with names she had only dreamed about. Each pair cost about the same as her monthly rent, some of them even more. When she got to the Jimmy Choos with white suede, crystals, and ostrich feathers, she put them on and took off everything else, then wiggled into the delicious red and black lace corset he’d bought for her. She felt like a movie star, with her stupendously expensive duds, a private jet to travel in, and a gorgeous man dying to make love to her. She walked over to Jackson, still seated on the bed, and, running her fingers through his hair, pulled his face against her chest. She pushed him down and began to work her magic. In a matter of seconds, she would do her best to take him to another world.
Later they had dinner by candlelight, Amber still in her high heels, but now with a silk robe over her naked body.
“I’m famished,” she said as she cut into her filet mignon.
“No wonder. You must have burned up five thousand calories.”
“If I could stay in bed with you and never have to come up for air or food, I would be the happiest girl alive.” She made sure to stroke his ego every chance she got.
Jackson raised his wineglass. “That would be a perfect world, my hungry little sexaholic.”
When they landed at Le Bourget Airport in Paris, they were whisked by chauffeur to the Hotel Plaza Athénée. Amber loved the hotel, with its red awnings and crimson bouquets everywhere you looked. She toured its 35,000-bottle wine cellar and was pampered at the Dior Institut spa. It was the most glorious week of her life, strolling along the Champs- Élysées and dining in intimate cafés with soft lighting and delectable food. The Eiffel Tower thrilled her. She was overwhelmed by the vastness of the Louvre and its masterpieces, moved by the grand edifice of Notre-Dame, and charmed by the city’s amber hue as lights glowed in the twilight. And in between this eye-opening journey, she never let Jackson forget how virile and exciting she found him.
The visit had seemed to fly by, Amber thought as they boarded the private plane for their return. She sat without speaking for the next hour, while Jackson gathered papers from his briefcase and began making notes. When he finished, she went over and sat next to him.
“This has been the most wonderful week of my life. You’ve really opened up my world.”
Jackson smiled but said nothing.
“It’s been heaven having you all to myself. I hate the thought of sharing you with Daphne.”
Jackson frowned, and Amber knew immediately that she’d made a mistake. She never should have mentioned her. Now he was probably thinking about Daphne and the girls. Damn. She usually didn’t make that kind of slipup. She’d have to try to recover.
“I’ve been thinking,” he finally said. “How would you feel about having your own apartment in New York?”
She was nonplussed. “Why would I want that? I like living in Connecticut. Besides, when I want to stay in New York with you, we have your place.”
“But it’s getting complicated. If you had your own apartment, you could have all your own things there. You wouldn’t have to hide your clothes or make sure they’re out of my apartment in case Daphne comes into the city.”
She didn’t want her own place. She wanted Daphne’s place.
When she didn’t answer, Jackson went on. “I’d buy it for you, of course. We’d furnish it together, buy all the art and books you love. It would be our own hideaway. Just ours.”
Their hideaway. She didn’t want to be hidden. She wanted to be very much out in the open, to be Mrs. Jackson Parrish.