Page 51 of Filthy Promises

I return with the jacket, holding it open for him to slip his arms through. As I settle it onto his broad shoulders, smoothing the fabric across his back, I allow myself one moment of weakness.

One moment to imagine that this is real. That I’m helping my lover dress for an evening out. That, later tonight, I’ll help him undress again.

The fantasy is so vivid it makes me ache.

“Perfect,” I whisper, stepping back to admire the finished look.

And he is. Perfect in a way that hurts to look at. The tuxedo fits him like it was painted on, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist. With his dark hair and those piercing blue eyes, he looks like he stepped out of a James Bond film.

A villain, not a hero. But all the more alluring for it.

“Not quite perfect,” he chides. “Something’s missing.”

He crosses to his desk, opens a drawer, and removes a small velvet box. From it, he withdraws a pair of sapphire and platinum earrings—identical to the ones he’s already wearing.

“For you,” he says, extending the box. “Since you’ll be accompanying me tonight.”

I stare at him in shock. “Excuse me?”

“The gala,” he explains, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’ll need to be there to manage introductions, take notes on potential donors, keep track of my schedule.”

“But I—I don’t have anything to wear,” I stammer. “I can’t just?—”

“Already taken care of.” He gestures to a garment bag I hadn’t noticed before, hanging on the back of the door. “I took the liberty of guessing your size.” His eyes drag up and down my body. “I think I got it exactly right.”

I should be outraged at the presumption. At the invasion of privacy. He’s calmly rearranging my evening without so much as asking if I have plans.

Instead, I’m fighting a ridiculous rush of pleasure at the thought of spending the evening at his side.

“The car will be here in twenty minutes,” he adds. “I suggest you get ready.”

He turns back to his desk, dismissing me without another word. As if he hasn’t just upended my entire evening or spent the last half hour making me question every life choice that led me to this moment.

I take the garment bag to the executive bathroom and close the door behind me with trembling hands.

When I unzip it, I can’t hold back a gasp.

Inside is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. Deep emerald green—the same shade as the dress I wore my first day. But this one is pure silk, with a price tag that would cover a month of my mother’s treatments.

Beside it hangs a delicate gold necklace with a small emerald pendant.

I touch the fabric reverently, then catch myself. I shouldn’t accept this. It crosses boundaries I’m not sure I want crossed.

But then I think of my bank account, slowly filling with enough money to give Mom the care she deserves. I think of Diane’s advice:Keep your head down. Do your job. Forget what you saw. That’s how you survive in this world.

And I think of Vince’s hand on the back of my neck. His lips against my palm. His eyes darkening to pitch black when he looked at me.

I start unbuttoning my blouse.

I have a gala to attend.

16

VINCE

The limousine glides through Manhattan traffic like a shark through dark water. Rowan sits across from me, the green dress clinging to her curves exactly as I’d imagined when I ordered it. It’s fucking torture to have it here and now in front of me, to watch my dream take on the precise shape I wanted it to—and to stop myself from touching it. I’ve got my hands tucked in my pockets just so I don’t do something fucking rash.

But it’s tempting. Very tempting. Her eyes, her scent, all of it is calling to me, trying to drag me across a distance that shouldn’t be crossed. Even the emerald at her throat catches the passing streetlights, winking at me like a co-conspirator.

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