“I think, even more than that, you’re worried that you actually are using me for my money. Subconsciously, maybe. If that’s the case, then know this: it’s not a crime to enjoy nice things, Lily. I’m lucky, I have a lot of nice things in my life – but they’re not worth a damn unless I can share them with somebody I care about. I want you to enjoy what I can give you, because I enjoy giving it to you. Partly because you’re the first person I’ve ever met who has tried so desperately to convince me that you want me for me, and not what I can give you. I already know that. So quit worrying about it.”
I relaxed a little. “That’s not the whole – ”
“I’m not finished yet. I also think that you’re uncomfortable with wealth, and nice things in general. For one, you haven’t been around it much. It’s new to you. It’s like being dropped in a foreign country where everything’s different, and you haven’t quite acclimated to it yet.”
I tilted my head slightly to the side. “…kind of.”
“But more than that, you think you shouldn’t enjoy it, because you’re acutely aware of less fortunate people. You were struggling just a few days ago, and you know there are people struggling even worse than you were, and you feel like paying two thousand dollars for a dress is wasteful and wrong, because it could be used to help people a whole lot less fortunate than either of us.”
I sighed. “…yeah, kind of.”
“Okay. I haven’t gone into it much, because I don’t like to brag – ”
“Reeeaaally.”
He grinned.
“About some things, maybe.” Then he got serious again. “But not about this, although I’m going to do it now to prove a point. Of the companies I own, they rank among the highest in charitable giving on the Fortune 500. By a long shot. And I’m not talking about symphony halls, or art museums, or whatever other welfare programs for rich people you want to name. I’m talking clean water in developing countries, school programs in Africa, scholarships for the poorest kids in America. And that’s just my companies. I have a charitable foundation that gives away twenty percent of everything I make, every year – to the same causes I just mentioned, not to mention medical research, Doctors Without Borders, natural disasters around the world. They’re excellent causes, all of them, and I’m proud to support them. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to put on a sackcloth and sit around and eat beans and rice the rest of my life. I have money, and I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going to use it for good, yes, but I’m also going to indulge myself when I want. I may not be a saint, but I can tell you this: I do a lot more good for a lot more people than all the self-appointed scolds who lecture me about my lifestyle, and I’m going to enjoy what I’ve got while I’ve got it. When they donate a hundred million dollars a year, every year, then they can take it up with me.”
I felt bad that I’d come across that way. “I wasn’t lecturing you about – ”
“Which brings us to the final issue: I think, deep down, you’re freaking out about this because you don’t feel like you deserve it. That you, Lily Ross, don’t deserve to wear an expensive dress. That somehow, you’re not worth it.”
I jerked slightly, like I’d touched a live electrical wire.
What he’d said cut deep. Deeper than I wanted to admit.
“Which is bullshit,” he continued. “I came across you doing an incredible job, for a boss that abused you, for a company that didn’t support you or recognize you for what you did for them. But you stayed in that position for some reason, which I think is a particularly toxic combination of low self-esteem, a desire to please others at your own expense, and the mindset that you shouldn’t question or rebel against authority. All of which you’ve got to get rid of.”
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, OUCH.
“I told Klaus off,” I said defensively – though a bit morosely, too, because I knew what he was going to say next.
“Which was great – but you did it because you had nothing to lose.”
“Except my self-respect,” I pointed out.
“And I applaud what you did – but next time, do it on the first day of the job instead of the last. In fact, do it in the interview and set some boundaries going in.”
I glowered at him. “I didn’t give you what you wanted last night.”
He burst out into a grin, and for a second I thought he was going to throw the $50,000 in my face and say Nyah-nyah, yes you did.
But he didn’t.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that I seem to be the main exception to your rule,” he said drily. “You challenge me all the time, you definitely don’t seek to please me at your own expense, and you constantly put me in my place. Which leads me to believe there’s hope for you yet.”
I dropped my eyes and then looked up coyly. “I please you some ways without worrying about me,” I whispered.
He laughed, then stepped forward and kissed me – wrapped me up in his arms right there in the Prada store, in front of God and everybody, and laid one on me.
And took my breath away.
When he finally broke off the kiss, he was grinning. “Yes, you do,” he whispered in my ear, sending a shiver through me. “Yes, you do.”
I sighed. “I didn’t think I was going to get psychoanalyzed when I walked in here.”
“And I didn’t think I was going to have to play therapist just to take you shopping.”
I glanced over at the saleslady, who was standing about thirty feet away, pretending to look at a display instead of us. The dress shone like a ruby spun into shimmering cloth as it dangled from her arm.
“Connor, it’s beautiful, but I – ”
“Lily,” he said insistently, put a finger under my chin, and raised me up to look in his eyes. The next words he said might sound harsh in black and white, but he said them with impish good humor and a sparkle in his eyes:
“Pretty please. For me. Wear the fuckin’ dress.”
So I wore the fuckin’ dress.
And it was absolutely amazing.
13
Not only did I get the dress, I got a black wrap that offset the dress beautifully. Los Angeles is basically a desert, and the temperature can swing between extremes from day to night – so imagine what it’s like with Las Vegas, which is all desert. At this time of year, once the heat from the day radiated off and the night really took hold, it was going to get really chilly.
That was how I rationalized the wrap, anyway.
There wasn’t much of a way to rationalize the shoes, though. (They were absolutely jaw-dropping, though.)
Or the seductive bra and panties. (Although I guess you could say Connor was going to really enjoy them later. Or enjoy taking them off, anyway.)
At any rate, I left the store a completely new woman – sashaying around in luxury, feeling like the clothes were kissing my skin with every step, and looking like a million bucks.
At least it didn’t cost that much.
A million bucks, I mean.
Because I’m sure it cost plenty.
Although I have no idea what the final price tag was. Connor refused to let me see the bill when he signed it.
I’ll do charity work, I bargained with the universe. I’ll donate to widows and orphans.
Then I remembered what he’d said about feeling like I didn’t deserve nice things, and I tried to shut out the guilty voices and enjoy the moment.
And oh my God, what a moment it was.
We got back in the Bentley and drove to the MGM Grand – not far away at all, though with the heavy traffic on the Strip, it took a while. It gave me a chance to watch the fountains outside the Bellagio. If you’ve never seen them, they’re almost worth a trip to Vegas just by themselves. They were gorgeous as they pulsed in time to an opera song, twining around each other and exploding like aquatic fireworks.
A few minutes later we drove up outside the MGM Grand – but not the main building, with its emerald glass exterior. Instead, it was a circular drive in front of a building that looked like some kind of Italian mansion – which made sense once I saw the lettering ‘The Mansion at MGM Grand.’ Johnny left the Bentley with the valets and accompanied us inside. After a short passageway, we entered a tiny jewel-box of a restaurant lobby with black-and-white tiled floors, crystal chandeliers, and antique furniture lining the walls. A maître-d’ whisked us away to a room that looked like it was out of a picture book of decadent French salons in the 1800’s. The whole place was done in purple – though if you’re having visions of an adolescent girl on an out-of-control decorating spree, I can assure you, this wasn’t it. It was much pricier. Purple velvet curtains framed windows that looked out over a lush green courtyard of trees. The purple wallpaper had the faintest of raised textures, barely visible except at the edge of shadows. The carpet was black with long, elegant loops of white throughout, and crystal chandeliers cast everything in a subdued glow.
In retrospect, I guess it was a tad gaudy, but this was Vegas. And somehow the lighting and the luxury of the place made it seem otherwordly.
There was a line I read once that said, A little too much is way too much, but WAY too much is just right. I had never fully understood until I saw that room.