place.
He did not believe in any of that, either. He knew exactly who she was and why she was here. What he must do, and would. Still, he did not push her away.
“Neither do I,” he said.
And then stood there, holding her, much longer than he should.
Any leftover feelings Tristanne might have had from their interaction in the rain—and his devastatingly tender kisses—were obliterated the moment she saw herself in the dress.
“I brought you something to wear tonight,” he had said when they entered the flat. His distance and cool tone should have alerted her, but did not. “I will leave it for you when you are finished with your shower.”
“Tonight?” she had asked, her emotions still in a nearpainfuljumble. She’d told herself that was why his suddenly brusque tone seemed to rub her the wrong way, after those unexpected moments in the archway. Or perhaps it was just her impatience with herself, for being so emotional when she could so little afford it.
“It is a small business function,” he had said with a dismissive shrug, and she had thought no more about it until it came time to pull the dress from the hanger where he had left it, suspended from the door inside the guest suite he had indicated she should use to get ready.
Now, her hair dried and blown out to hang in a straight, gleaming curtain, cosmetics carefully applied to accent and emphasize her eyes, she stared at herself in the full-length mirror that stood at an angle in the corner of the richly furnished room. But she could not see the royal blue and gold accents that graced the walls and brocaded the commanding, four-poster bed. She could hardly catch her breath. She could only stare at her reflection, literally struck dumb.
She felt herself flush, deep and red and panicked, so red she nearly matched the scarlet fabric that barely made up the dress she wore. He could not mean that he wanted her to wear what little there was of this dress, could he? She could not go out in public dressed like this! She could not leave the room dressed like this!
She tried to take a deep breath, and made a sound like a sob instead. She squeezed her eyes shut, and her hands into fists. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes and forced her hands to open, too.
The dress was obscene. There was no other word for it.
It clung to her body like paint, leaving nothing to the imagination. There was not a single curve that was not outlined by the tight, clinging garment that slicked its way from tiny capped sleeves to her midthighs. If she tried to cover a decent amount of her breasts, the hem rose to a scandalous height, and if she tugged the hem lower, she risked having her breastsfall out of the tiny bodice. There was no happy medium. It required that she remove her undergarments entirely, or risk calling more attention to them, so clearly outlined were they by the tight, too-tight, material.
There was only one kind of woman who wore a dress like this, Tristanne thought, humiliation thick in the back of her throat, and she was pretending to be one of them. Was this Nikos’s goal? Did he want her to feel this way? Did he take pleasure in imagining Tristanne walking into a public event like this? So scandalously, tackily, barely attired?
Or, she thought, fighting back the angry tears that flooded her eyes, that she refused to shed, perhaps she was missing the point entirely. Perhaps he was not trying to embarrass her, necessarily—perhaps this was how he preferred to see his women dressed. Perhaps he liked to make his mistress’s position perfectly clear to everyone he encountered. It need not be personal at all. It should not have felt like such a slap.
She glanced at the clock and saw that she had wasted far too much time, and was once again late. She bit at her lower lip as she looked at herself again, but she knew she had no choice but to brazen it out. She had to do what he wanted for just a little bit longer. Her mother had made it sound as if Peter was
He did not believe in any of that, either. He knew exactly who she was and why she was here. What he must do, and would. Still, he did not push her away.
“Neither do I,” he said.
And then stood there, holding her, much longer than he should.
Any leftover feelings Tristanne might have had from their interaction in the rain—and his devastatingly tender kisses—were obliterated the moment she saw herself in the dress.
“I brought you something to wear tonight,” he had said when they entered the flat. His distance and cool tone should have alerted her, but did not. “I will leave it for you when you are finished with your shower.”
“Tonight?” she had asked, her emotions still in a nearpainfuljumble. She’d told herself that was why his suddenly brusque tone seemed to rub her the wrong way, after those unexpected moments in the archway. Or perhaps it was just her impatience with herself, for being so emotional when she could so little afford it.
“It is a small business function,” he had said with a dismissive shrug, and she had thought no more about it until it came time to pull the dress from the hanger where he had left it, suspended from the door inside the guest suite he had indicated she should use to get ready.
Now, her hair dried and blown out to hang in a straight, gleaming curtain, cosmetics carefully applied to accent and emphasize her eyes, she stared at herself in the full-length mirror that stood at an angle in the corner of the richly furnished room. But she could not see the royal blue and gold accents that graced the walls and brocaded the commanding, four-poster bed. She could hardly catch her breath. She could only stare at her reflection, literally struck dumb.
She felt herself flush, deep and red and panicked, so red she nearly matched the scarlet fabric that barely made up the dress she wore. He could not mean that he wanted her to wear what little there was of this dress, could he? She could not go out in public dressed like this! She could not leave the room dressed like this!
She tried to take a deep breath, and made a sound like a sob instead. She squeezed her eyes shut, and her hands into fists. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes and forced her hands to open, too.
The dress was obscene. There was no other word for it.
It clung to her body like paint, leaving nothing to the imagination. There was not a single curve that was not outlined by the tight, clinging garment that slicked its way from tiny capped sleeves to her midthighs. If she tried to cover a decent amount of her breasts, the hem rose to a scandalous height, and if she tugged the hem lower, she risked having her breastsfall out of the tiny bodice. There was no happy medium. It required that she remove her undergarments entirely, or risk calling more attention to them, so clearly outlined were they by the tight, too-tight, material.
There was only one kind of woman who wore a dress like this, Tristanne thought, humiliation thick in the back of her throat, and she was pretending to be one of them. Was this Nikos’s goal? Did he want her to feel this way? Did he take pleasure in imagining Tristanne walking into a public event like this? So scandalously, tackily, barely attired?
Or, she thought, fighting back the angry tears that flooded her eyes, that she refused to shed, perhaps she was missing the point entirely. Perhaps he was not trying to embarrass her, necessarily—perhaps this was how he preferred to see his women dressed. Perhaps he liked to make his mistress’s position perfectly clear to everyone he encountered. It need not be personal at all. It should not have felt like such a slap.
She glanced at the clock and saw that she had wasted far too much time, and was once again late. She bit at her lower lip as she looked at herself again, but she knew she had no choice but to brazen it out. She had to do what he wanted for just a little bit longer. Her mother had made it sound as if Peter was
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