Adam glared into the full-length mirror. “But then you had to go and recommend wedressfor the occasion.” Ben hadn’t been shy about it either, bringing the subject up in front of Bella with Mrs. Poole there to agree right quick. They may have been excellent employees—friends, even—but they were not subtle.
“Ah, Adam. Didn’t you see Bella’s eyes light up? What woman can resist the opportunity to wear a ball gown? And I have it on good authority that she made full use of the stylist I arranged for her. Even now she is trying on beautiful dresses and being spoiled with chocolate.”
Adam’s lips twisted into a full smile. “I truly did not peg Bella as a fashionista.”
“She’s not,” Ben said simply. “But I believe she thought dancing with you in a pretty dress might be—dare I say it?—fun.”
Adam broke out in a cold sweat. He fell onto the overstuffed chair and slouched. “Be honest with me, Ben. Is there any chance she could possibly, maybe, perhaps, I mean—”
Ben slapped his hands on both Adam’s shoulders, jolting him out of his stuttering foolishness. “Yes. But if you make her wait, I think she may question your devotion.”
Adam was on his feet in a blink.
* * *
Bella
Bella lifted the mounds of golden fabric as she paced back and forth in front of the oblong mirror in her room, a sense of the surreal swished right along with the fabric.
A tray of gourmet chocolates andpetit fourslay untouched in the corner. The door that led down the stairs and into the private salon was open, and the sound of women draining the footbath and vacuuming the floor could be heard. She’d been massaged, oiled, painted, brushed, combed, plucked, curled, and otherwise treated like a princess for two hours. The woman she was when she climbed up those steps was quite different than the one who had gone down them. This Bella had flawless skin, her few laugh lines were erased by some magic cream that probably cost more than her car, and she tingled all over with anticipation.
Marci, a woman sent over from Gucci to be her style consultant, walked over and shut the door, allowing Bella to hear the soft violin music piping through hidden speakers in the wall. She tipped her head this way and that as she watched Bella move. “Well, I dare say you won’t have a problem dancing in that gown. You’re surprisingly spry.”
Bella stopped suddenly and twisted her hands together. “I’m just so nervous.” She paused, wondering if she should say anything in front of this woman. Marci was polished, had the skin of a porcelain doll and the figure of a dancer. But she was a stranger. Before living with Adam, she hadn’t imagined being a part of his world, where employees lived a few feet away from you and yet were not allowed to enter your life—well, except for a select few who had become friends. Where you didn’t wash your own clothes or cook your own meals. Where a large iron gate and a security team of fifty men and women were needed to ensure your safety. Where you could make a phone call and the dress department came to your house, complete with a seamstress and personal style consultant.
Adam was possessive with his privacy; telling this woman that she was in love with her boss and they were about to spend a romantic evening dancing might not be the best course of action.
Bella suddenly wished for her mother. “Forgive me. This isn’t why you’re here.” She turned to consider the dress. She’d already tried on five. One was a light blue that looked like a cupcake. One was dark green that made her skin glow but was too tight in the hips. The third was deep rose red and itchy like it had thorns. The next one was black: classic, but nothing special. The one before this one had been a ghastly shade of pink that she’d only tried on because she was too nice to tell Marci it was ugly.
But this dress, this gold dress, fit every inch of her. It allowed movement in all the right places, but it didn’t constrict her breathing. Most importantly, she felt pretty. On my gosh, she felt stunning. Her hair was done in 1940s pin curls, but instead of tucking her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, the stylist had draped the large waves over her left shoulder. It was soft and silky, touchable, and elegant. And so not like her. She was anI’ve got work to do messy bunkind of girl. But that girl wasn’t the type of woman who ran in Adam Moreau’s circle.
The scary thing about the woman standing in the mirror was that she was the type of woman who dated a billionaire. And not just any billionaire, but Adam Moreau. The Beast of the legal world. A man whose family could be found on every page of Seattle history. The woman staring back at her was poised and elegant.
“This is the one.”
Marci clapped her hands in excitement. The seamstress descended on Bella, tugging, puffing, and inspecting every inch. Her elderly hands moved with the precision of someone who understood fabric, fit, and design. “I could lower the hem a quarter of an inch, but I don’t believe it is necessary.”
Bella glanced down, unable to see the golden slippers on her feet. “Thank you for the offer, but I like it just the way it is.”
She nodded once and backed off to pack up her rolling case of supplies. The tape measure around her neck was the first thing to go.
Marci’s assistant had already swept away the unchosen gowns.
Bella mentally fumbled. Was she supposed to pay these people? The dress didn’t have a price tag. She cringed. Not that she had enough money to buy something this expensive anyway.
Mrs. Poole stepped into the room, efficiently shuffling everyone out and not saying a word about payment. Marci didn’t either. Bella shook her head in amazement. “How much did this cost?” She waved her arm down her body, starting from the top of her head, and poked her foot out from under the skirt.
“Don’t even blink an eye about that.” Mrs. Poole flapped her hands as if a designer gown didn’t cost any more than a bag of flour. “Let me look at you.”
Bella spun in a circle, enjoying the feel of the silky fabric against her smooth legs. She hadn’t worn anything so, so … delicate in quite some time, perhaps in all her life. Her prom dress had been red velvet, formfitting with a slit up the leg that made her blush every time she had to get out of the car.
As refined as this dress may be, it was not flimsy. On the contrary, sewn into the bodice were support rods that could hold up the castle walls. They did a mighty fine job of holding her in in all the right places. She pressed her hand against her belly to see if she could feel them and was surprised to find she couldn’t. Which meant, as they danced, Adam wouldn’t be able to feel them either. She felt the blood drain out of her face and her cheeks grow cold.
Mrs. Poole watched her for a moment. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I think I’m going to faint.”
“Goodness!” Mrs. Poole took her elbow and steered her to the padded bench, where she fell with a plop and a whoosh. Once she was certain Bella wouldn’t topple over, she trotted over to pour a glass of water.
