Page 21

TWENTY-ONE

A Dress

Vivianne

The sun is just beginning its descent toward the horizon, casting the narrow streets in a warm, amber glow.

His hand rests on the small of my back—steady, possessive, a gesture that feels more intimate than professional. Every nerve in my body hums to life beneath his touch, but I refuse to let it show.

“We will spend the rest of the day getting to know each other.” Paul’s voice carries a hint of command rather than a request. The low, rich timbre sends a shiver down my spine.

My heart skips a beat at the quiet authority in his tone. “What do you have in mind?”

“You’ll need a gown for tonight’s auction.” His eyes catch mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. “I know just the place, but let’s establish one rule.” His gaze pins me in place.

“What?”

“I’m paying, which means I choose the dress. Understood?”

“I can’t let you—” I blink, momentarily thrown by the edge of dominance in his voice.

“It’s not a request.” The air between us crackles with tension.

“Understood.” I swallow hard, nodding.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Tonight’s our first test as a couple, and every detail matters. The dress, your look—our look. There can be no missteps.”

A thrill surges through me, but beneath it lingers a flicker of caution.

This isn’t a date, this is business. Still, the thought of being draped in haute couture in Paris sends excitement bubbling to the surface.

The lines between personal and professional blur with every moment I spend with him, and I hate how easily he affects me.

As we approach a sleek, black Mercedes parked on the cobbled street, Paul opens the door for me. His fingers brush mine as I slide into the leather seat, and it’s enough to send tingles up my arm. It’s infuriating how much I feel from such a simple touch.

He slips behind the wheel, his presence filling the space. The sleek Mercedes purrs to life and soon we’re weaving through the streets of Paris.

The city rushes by in a blur of wrought iron balconies, cafés, and boutiques, all vibrant against the grey stone of the buildings. I try to focus on the beauty of it all, but my attention keeps drifting back to Paul.

His hands on the wheel, the occasional glance he casts in my direction—assessing, always assessing. It’s like he’s studying me, learning every detail, every movement, and I feel exposed under his gaze, even when he isn’t looking.

We pull up to a discreet storefront nestled between a quaint café and a bookshop. There are no flashy signs, just an elegant gold plaque reading “Madame élise.”

Paul exits the car, opening my door with a fluid, practiced grace—the kind that feels effortless yet deliberate. His hand lingers on mine, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver up my arm. Just as I step out, he tugs gently, pulling me closer.

Before I can react, his other hand slips to the small of my back, firm and possessive, guiding me.

My breath falters as his lips brush my cheek, soft and lingering. The kiss isn’t rushed, nor is it a simple gesture.

It’s calculated, teasing, like he’s making a statement.

The warmth of his breath skims my skin, and I feel his hold tighten just enough to make my pulse race.

His scent—cedar, spice, and something darker—envelops me, and the world around us seems to fade.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes locking onto mine, watching for a reaction, for the effect he knows he’s having on me. My heart pounds in my chest, my pulse thrumming in my ears, but I refuse to let him see just how rattled I am.

“Shall we?” His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile, as though he’s just tested me and found exactly what he expected.

I swallow hard, trying to steady myself, but my body betrays me, still humming from the intimate closeness of his kiss.

Without waiting for a response, he guides me forward, his hand never leaving my back, his touch as possessive as the kiss he didn’t need to give.

His touch sends a current of heat through me, and every step I take with his hand on me makes me acutely aware of the tension simmering between us.

Inside, the boutique is a treasure trove of silk, lace, and shimmering fabric. Every gown draped across the room seems designed to capture attention. The scent of lavender and cedar hangs in the air, a heady mix that clings to my senses as Madame élise, a petite woman with silver hair and sharp eyes, glides toward us.

“Monsieur de Gaulle,” she greets him warmly, her eyes briefly flicking to me before returning to him. “Welcome back.” Her eyes flick to me, assessing. “And who is this vision?”

Paul’s hand remains at my back, his fingers warm through the fabric of my dress. “Madame élise, may I present Mademoiselle Faulks,” he says smoothly. “We need something spectacular for tonight.”

Her gaze sweeps over me, appraising, before she smiles with approval. “Of course. I have just the thing in mind. Come with me, chérie. ”

She takes me by the hand and whisks me away to a dressing room. Paul’s intense gaze follows us, watching my every move.

There’s heat in his gaze that I can’t ignore, a hunger that simmers below the surface, even though he remains outwardly calm.

It makes my skin tingle and my pulse quicken.

The dressing room is a plush haven of mirrors and soft lighting.

Madame élise presents a parade of gowns—silk, satin, sequins, each one more breathtaking than the last.

The first dress is a shimmering gold fabric that catches the light, creating a mesmerizing effect.

She holds it up for my inspection. It’s an exquisite dress that would turn heads at any gala.

When I step out and twirl for Paul, his eyes darken with something unreadable, roaming over my body with undisguised hunger.

He shakes his head. No words, just a simple dismissal.

The next gown is a deep midnight blue. The neckline plunging enough to make my breath hitch, and the cool fabric sends goose bumps across my skin.

“This one’s lovely,” I venture, running my hands over the fabric, hoping for approval.

Paul’s lips twitch in amusement, but he shakes his head again. His silence is maddening yet thrilling.

Emerald green follows, the color making my eyes pop. Then a soft pink that brings a blush to my cheeks. A deep purple that drapes like liquid royalty. Each time I emerge, Paul’s eyes devour me, but he remains silent. His quiet intensity is intoxicating, stirring something primal within me.

Dress after dress, Paul’s silence, his quiet intensity, only heightens the tension swirling between us. Every glance, every flicker of his gaze, stirs something primal within me, something I can’t quite control.

When Madame élise presents a stunning silver gown that catches the light like starlight, I spin for Paul, loving this dress the most.

“What about this one?” I ask, gesturing to the mirror.

Paul’s eyes narrow, his gaze sharp. “Did I ask for your opinion?”

Heat flushes my cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and—excitement? Beneath that is something else—something darker, something that stirs in my core at his quiet dominance. I hate the way his words make my pulse race, how easily he affects me.

As the afternoon wears on, the tension in the room builds. Each dress feels like a step in an intricate dance, Paul leading without a word. My skin tingles under his gaze, hyperaware of every look, every slight change in his expression.

Madame élise disappears into the back and, a moment later, returns with a final dress—a gown of deep crimson silk, the kind that stops conversation. The fabric is cool and smooth as it slips over my body.

It clings like a second skin, the bodice snug, tapering to my waist before flowing to the floor in a scarlet cascade. The dress whispers with each movement, a sensual sound that seems to fill the quiet room.

I know exactly what Paul will say when I slip it on.

I step out of the dressing room, breath catching at Paul’s reaction.

Paul rises from his seat, his eyes blazing as they drink me in from head to toe. Circling me slowly, my heart pounds louder with every step he takes. His gaze is heavy and molten, and when he lifts his hand, his fingers trace the line of my collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

My breathing fractures at his touch, uneven, ragged, and shaky.

“This one,” he growls, his voice low and rough, vibrating through me.

Madame élise claps her hands in delight. “ Magnifique! You have impeccable taste, Monsieur.”

But I barely hear her. All I can focus on is Paul—his proximity, his touch, the way his fingers linger just a moment too long against my skin. His breath is hot against my neck as he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmurs, his voice sending a shiver down my spine.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and the woman staring back at me is transformed. She’s sensual, powerful, and desired. The red silk emphasizes the paleness of my skin and the gold of my hair.

It’s revealing without being overt, hinting at curves rather than flaunting them, but it’s more than the gown.

There’s something in Paul’s gaze, in the way he looks at me, that makes me feel powerful and desired in a way I’ve never felt before.

Tears prick my eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. Before I can stop myself, the words slip out.

“You make me feel beautiful.” My voice is soft, barely a whisper. “Prescott never…”

Paul’s arms encircle my waist, pulling me flush against him, and for a moment, the world tilts.

His hold is firm and possessive, but it doesn’t scare me. It ignites something deep inside, something raw and visceral.

“Forget him,” Paul murmurs, his breath hot against my neck. “You’re mine now.”

His possessiveness should frighten me. Instead, his words send a spark straight to my core, and I curse myself for how easily I melt into his touch, how much I crave the closeness of him.

The dress, the room, the lines we’re crossing—it all fades away as I stand here, lost in the feel of him.

This dress transforms me. I’m no longer Vivianne Faulks, heiress and art expert. In Paul’s arms, I’m a woman awakening to her own power and sensuality.

As Madame élise busies herself with the purchase, Paul’s hand remains on my lower back, a constant reminder of his presence. The air between us is charged, every small touch sending sparks across my skin.

We step out into the late afternoon sun; the weight of the garment bag in my hand is a reminder of the role I have to play.

But with Paul’s hand resting on the small of my back, guiding me into the Parisian twilight, I can’t bring myself to care about the blurred lines or the danger ahead.

He guides me to a nearby café, his hand a constant, warm pressure on the small of my back.

The café is tucked away on a quiet street, cozy and intimate, with the rich aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries swirling around us.

Paul pulls out a chair for me, his movements smooth, practiced, and I sit down, feeling the weight of his presence as he takes the seat across from me.

“We have time for a light meal before we need to get ready,” he says, his voice calm, but a glimmer of something in his eyes makes my pulse quicken.

We sip espresso, the dark liquid warm and bitter on my tongue, and nibble on delicate macarons, their sweetness melting in my mouth. The café feels like another world, a quiet escape before the storm that tonight will bring. But even in this peaceful setting, the tension between us is impossible to ignore.

Paul leans in close, his voice low and intimate. “I can’t wait to see you in that dress later,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. “But even more than that, I can’t wait to take it off.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, my heart pounding in my chest at the casual, deliberate way he says it. His words send a thrill straight through me, a dangerous current I can’t seem to resist.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. The air between us thickens, charged with the weight of his statement, and all I can do is meet his gaze, breathless, caught in the pull of him.

Before I can fully process the effect he has on me, Paul shifts, his tone turning businesslike, though the fire in his eyes hasn’t quite dimmed.

“Tonight is crucial,” he says, his voice steady now. “This is a test run. We need to be convincing— perfect —if we’re going to pull off the main event at Lac Léman. Every glance, every touch, has to sell the idea that we’re together. No hesitation. No doubts.”

His eyes darken. “Follow my lead. React naturally to my touch, my words. Don’t shy away from intimacy.” His finger traces the rim of his coffee cup, a sensual movement that captures my attention. “Can you do that?”

I meet his gaze, my heart pounding. “Yes,” I breathe.

The ride back to the hotel is charged with anticipation. Paul’s hand rests on my knee, a seemingly casual touch that sets my nerves on fire. We separate to prepare for the evening, but the memory of his touch lingers.

As I slip into the red gown hours later, I feel the weight of the night ahead. This is more than an auction, more than a job. It’s a test of our ability to convince the world—and perhaps ourselves—of the depth of our connection.

A knock at my door sends my heart racing. I open it to find Paul, devastatingly handsome, in a tailored black suit. His eyes widen as they take me in, desire plain on his face.

“Ready?” he asks, offering his arm.

I take a deep breath, stepping into my role—and into his embrace. “Ready.”

Tonight, I step into a world of danger and deception, of art and intrigue. But with Paul’s hand on my back, guiding me into the Parisian twilight, I feel equal to the challenge.