Even when that person was a spectacular mess who'd secretly agreed to marry Rafael de Luca after he'd caught her dancing at a gentlemen's club.
Pushing the thought aside, I gathered my things and headed down to lobby. The town car Rafe had offered was waiting when I exited the building.
Settling into the leather seat, I told the driver where I needed to go before leaning back against the headrest. While Manhattan traffic as brutal as it always was, I tried to imagine what Rafe's grandparents would be like. Were they as cold and calculating as him? Or were they something else entirely—the source of the vulnerability I'd glimpsed in the music room last night?
My thoughts were interrupted as we pulled up to the store's entrance. Izzy stood on the sidewalk, looking impeccably put-together in high-waisted trousers and a silk blouse with her dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail.
“Look at you, rolling up in a chauffeured car like Manhattan royalty,” she said, linking her arm through mine as we walked through the revolving doors. “Marriage seems to agree with you.”
“It's not what you think,” I muttered, squeezing her arm in silent thanks. “The car is just part of the arrangement.”
“Mmm, the mysteriousarrangement.” She steered me toward the escalator. “We'll get to that. First, let's find you something that screams 'I'm sophisticated enough for your grandson but still hot enough to tire him out every night.'”
Izzy moved through the racks with the confidence of someone who belonged, pulling dresses and holding them against me with a critical eye. “So,” she began, examining a deep blue numberbefore shaking her head and returning it to the rack. “Vegas wedding to a billionaire. Start talking.”
Sighing, I trailed a finger over the delicate fabric of a dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent. “It's a mutually beneficial arrangement. His parents were trying to force him into marriage with someone else, and I... needed a fresh start.”
“Bullshit.” Izzy didn't even look up from the rack she was browsing. “Try again.” She pulled out a sleek black dress with a plunging neckline. “I'm the person who held your hair back when you threw up after six tequila shots and cried about how your dance career was going nowhere.”
Guilt twisted in my stomach. “Izzy...”
“Look, I'm not judging.” She handed me the black dress and a red one with a slit up the thigh. “But I am concerned. One minute you're complaining about him at Sunday dinner, the next you're his wife.”
I opened my mouth to defend myself, then closed it. What could I say? That Rafe had found me dancing at Vice and Virtue? That he'd blackmailed me into marriage to keep my secret and save himself from an arranged marriage? That I'd spent the last two nights building pillow walls between us in bed while fighting an inconvenient attraction that threatened to burn me alive?
“It's complicated,” I finally said, taking the dresses from her hands. “But I'm okay, I promise. This is better for both of us.”
She studied my face for a long moment, then her expression softened. “Fine, keep your secrets. But remember I'm here when you're ready to tell me the truth.”
Nodding, I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Let's try these on.”
The fitting room was a plush oasis, with soft lighting designed to flatter and a three-way mirror that left nowhere to hide. I peeled off my jeans and sweater, avoiding my reflection until I'd slipped the red dress over my head.
“Well?” Izzy called from outside the door. “Are you decent? Or at least covered enough that security won't throw us out?”
Opening the door, I smoothed the fabric over my hips. “What do you think?”
She tilted her head, tapping one finger against her chin. “Too Jessica Rabbit. You look hot, but it's screaming 'I'm sleeping with your grandson' rather than 'I'm a respectable addition to the family.'”
“We're not sleeping together,” I muttered, retreating back into the fitting room.
“Yet,” she called through the door. “Come on, Cece, the sexual tension between you two could power Manhattan during a blackout. Even before this whole marriage thing.”
I fumbled with the zipper as her words hit a little too close to home. “You're delusional.”
“Am I? Because I distinctly remember you watching him at Kate's birthday party last year. He wore that charcoal suit with the blue tie, and you couldn't take your eyes off him.”
“I was watching everyone,” I protested, wiggling into the black dress. “I'm a people-watcher. It's a thing.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I emerged again, this time in the black dress. It hugged every curve like it had been made for me, the neckline revealing just enough cleavage to be interesting without crossing into inappropriate territory. The hemline hit just above my knees, and the fabric had enough structure to make me look polished while still showing off my figure.
Izzy whistled low. “Now that's more like it. Elegant but sexy. Traditional but not boring.” She circled me, adjusting the fabric at my waist. “If this doesn't make the Italian Stallion jump your bones, nothing will.”
Heat crawled up my neck as I turned back to the mirror. The dress really was perfect. Simple enough to be timeless but withenough subtle detail to show I'd made an effort. I looked like the kind of woman who belonged on Rafael de Luca's arm, not some desperate dancer he'd rescued from a seedy club.
“Since it's not a real marriage,” Izzy continued, her voice deceptively casual, “you wouldn't mind if I had a turn on the Italian Stallion, would you? Those dimples alone could make a girl consider doing very, very bad things.”
