Page 11 of Vicious Temptation

I take a deep breath, filling my hand with soap from the dispenser on the wall, and go about lathering up the rest of my body. I ignore my cock until the very end, and by then, it’s started to give up, softening as I will my arousal back into submission.

Sex is, and should be, the last thing on my mind right now. I purposefully redirect my thoughts away from Bella’s wide blue eyes and pretty mouth, and towards the reason for seeing her again, focusing on what I really need—hope. Hope that having her here can fill in a missing piece in my family, and give my children something that they very much need.

I often feel guilty for not wanting to marry again. I feel as if I’m cheating Danny and Cecelia out of growing up with a mother, as if my own selfishness in not wanting to be with another woman, even in an arrangement, is reflective of how good of a father I am.

Bella, if all goes well, can fill that role. She can give them what they need, without my having to compromise on the one thing I don’t want. That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway.

And tomorrow night, I’ll know if there’s a chance of that or not.

5

BELLA

“Ew. No. Don’t wear that one. What about that silky light blue dress?”

Clara’s scrunched, disapproving expression is visible from the iPad screen, angled against my dresser so that she has a full view of the dresses I’ve been trying on. I’m currently looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite side of my room, examining the tan cashmere knit dress I just tried on. It’s knee-length, with a high turtleneck collar and long sleeves. I have a pair of dark brown knee-high leather boots that would go perfectly with it. It’s also definitely a dress meant for an autumn wardrobe. Not June in New York.

I know exactly what dress Clara is referring to. A few months ago, I would have happily put it on—a featherlight silky sundress with a floaty hemline that came a few inches above my knees, a slight v-neckline, and thin straps. The light blue color always looked perfect on me, highlighting my eyes.

Now, the thought of putting it on, of being that uncovered, makes my stomach turn.

“That one’s too sexy.” I shake my head. “I don’t think I want to wear that one.”

“Sexy is the point. Didn’t you say he was good-looking? And young?” Clara demands. “Better than that Thomas guy, or whoever you said it was that your dad picked out for you.”

Earlier, I made the mistake of describing the man I collided with in the hallway to Clara. I still don’t know his name. I was too thrown off last night when I was talking to my father to think to ask, and I haven’t seen him all day. I’ve pointedly avoided going to his office. Now it’s six p.m., and I have an hour to finish getting ready.

But one description later, and Clara is fully on board with the idea of this being a real date, not one I agreed to so that I can let him down gently.

“I’m not interested.” I shrug out of the turtleneck dress, tossing it on my bed as I start to rifle through my closet. “At all.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t write this one off so quickly. He asked you out, right? Like a normal person. To be fair, he asked you out through your dad, which is weird—but if you look at it through a certain lens, it could also be a little bit romantic. Like Bridgerton, or something.” Clara lets out a choked noise as I slip on a different dress, this one a black sheath dress with a square neckline and long sleeves. “Oh my god, Bella, you look like you’re going to a funeral. Even if you’re not going to tell this guy, yes, at least make him wish you would.”

I let out a sharp breath through pursed lips. “I’m not wearing the blue one.” The last time I wore it was months ago, at a charity dinner that I accompanied my father to. I remember the way the men in that room looked at me then. I didn’t mind it so much at the time—I felt pretty, sexy, attractive in a way that didn’t feel threatening, because they couldn’t touch me. I was safe.

I no longer feel safe. And most of the time, I wish I could disappear altogether, because I know all too well how quickly that veneer of safety can be stripped away. How little the promises of others mean, especially when they’re the promises of safety from a man, coming from other men.

Clara rolls her eyes. “Okay. What about the dark green? That’s not too sexy, right?”

I slip out of the black dress, sending it to join the tan-colored one as I sift through my closet again, pulling out the dress I think she’s talking about. “This one?”

“Yes. Not exactly what I would pick, but better than what you’ve tried on so far.”

The dress in question is a forest green, with thick straps and a square neckline that accentuate my sharp collarbones, fitted all the way down to just above my knees, with a small slit on either side. By itself, it’s sexy; with a blazer thrown over it, it could work for a business dinner. Which, considering this man is trying to negotiate with my father for a marriage, it basically is.

The thought of this man looking at me and finding me sexy, being aroused by me, makes me feel like refusing to go altogether. Just the idea of his gaze sliding over me, taking me in with that leering stare that I remember so well from those hours after I was taken from the church—it makes my skin crawl. I rub my hands over my arms, trying to chase away the feeling.

There’s no way I’m wearing it out without covering up, and I don’t own a blazer. But I might have something else?—

I slip on the dress, Clara’s approval echoing as I reach up on a shelf for a shawl I inherited from my mother, and rarely wear. It’s beautiful, embroidered with velvet and lace flowers in sprays of green, marigold yellow, and deep blue, with a dark grey fringe. It will go perfectly with the dress, and I fold it over the back of the chair in front of my vanity, sitting down as I move the iPad over so I can keep talking to Clara. I’m hoping, too, that the shawl will seem more like an accessory, rather than a cover. Maybe it will keep him from asking too many questions that I don’t want to answer. I don’t plan on seeing him after tonight, so the last thing I want to do is delve into all the reasons why I feel this way.

“It’s not a real date,” I repeat, as I reach for my makeup bag and dab on a little foundation, squeezing out a few drops of liquid blush onto my fingertips. “I’m just going to hear him out, because I appreciate him actually bothering to talk to me about this face-to-face, and then I’m going to tell him no.”

“What if you like him, though?” Clara presses. “It would be better than whatever other men your dad has picked out for you to choose from, right? Maybe? At least this one you could sort of decide on yourself.”

“Yesterday, you were telling me to just leave.” I reach for my eyeliner, drawing a thin wing on either side. “Now you’re on board the arranged marriage train? Next stop, St. Patrick’s?”

Clara makes a disgruntled sound. “No. But you’re the one who said you didn’t have any way out. That you can’t leave, and you won’t come stay with me. Because you’re worried about being a burden, or whatever. Your words, not mine,” she adds pointedly. “So I’m just suggesting that if that’s the case, maybe this is the lesser of two evils. But my offer still stands. You can come stay with me until you can figure things out.”

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