Reckless In Love(30)

His heart stuttered at her elegance and beauty. She wasn't a model or a  celebrity. She had no artifice. She was simply real, utterly perfect  without any help from makeup or fancy clothes, and she made him crazy  hot, hard, and reckless. When they finally came together, he knew worlds  would collide. Oceans would overflow. Hell, volcanoes would probably  erupt.         

     



 

His mind whirling with images of her, he couldn't find the clasp on the  pearls slung across the plunging back of the black dress.

"I see how it works now." She took the dress from him, standing so close  that her all-Charlie, all-woman scent short-circuited his brain. "It  unzips down here, then goes over my head."

His heart started again, beating harder, faster as she pulled it on, all  that beautiful, creamy skin disappearing from view. She presented her  back for him to do up the short zipper until the velvet material hugged  her figure, and his fingers trembled. When she stepped up on the dais  again and slowly spun in a circle for him, he was unable to tear his  eyes away from her.

She was dazzling, as if the dress had been made for her and no one else.  The neckline scooped down to edge her cleavage and almost bared her  shoulders. The bodice hugged her breasts, her waist, and the skirt  flared gracefully as she twirled for him. But it was the rear view that  did him in. Three strands of pearls draped the flawless skin of her back  and the velvet plunged low, making him ache to put his hands and his  mouth all over her.

"That's the one." He wanted her, needed her, in that dress, then out of  it, the velvet lying on the plush carpet of his bedroom with Charlie  spread out on his bed as the delicious main course.

She smoothed her fingers down the fabric, surveying herself in the  mirror. Did she have any idea how badly he wanted the hands running over  her body to be his? He might go completely insane if he had to wait  another moment. He was certifiable for her.

And yet the waiting made his desire for her electric. It sizzled in the air around them.

"I like it too," she said softly.

"Then it's done." He pushed a buzzer on the side table and the designer  appeared so quickly she must have been standing right outside the  dressing room. Her momentum swung her reading glasses on the end of  their lanyard across her ample breasts.

"We'll take it." He needed to move quickly before the woman said anything about the price. "Can you wrap it up?"

"Certainly. Would you like an accompanying wrap or-"

"Wait." Charlie cut her off. "How much is the dress?"

"Twenty-five."

Charlie's eyes bugged. "Twenty-five hundred?"

"Thousand," the woman answered.

Charlie fumbled with the back zip, unable to get the dress off fast  enough. "No. I'm sorry. I can't buy this," she said emphatically. "And  you can't buy this for me, Sebastian."

"Charlie." He had to have her in that dress. In every single possible  meaning that statement contained. "Please, it was made for you and you  alone."

But she was already stepping off the dais, tugging the dress up and  over. Women had never said no to Sebastian. Hell, no one said no to  Sebastian for any reason. They always happily took whatever he wanted to  give them.

"I can't." She put the dress back on the hanger. "I'll come up with  something else." She fastened her jeans, pulled on her T-shirt.

He would have continued to argue his point about the dress, but just as  he opened his mouth, Susan's words rang in his head. Don't push was what  she'd said. But he knew her real meaning: Be careful not to push  Charlie away.

"I promise I won't embarrass you," she said softly.

He couldn't keep his hands off her, holding her shoulders, forcing her  to look up at him. "You could never embarrass me. No matter what you do.  Do you understand that?"

He counted five beats before she nodded. Before he could give her a  kiss, before he could do one single thing to fix whatever it was he'd  just broken, she said, "I need to get back to the workshop. Have a good  meeting." And then she was gone.

* * *

"I just couldn't take the dress, Mom." Charlie threaded the needle and stuck it into the pincushion.

"I understand, dear. But you do realize he probably earns that much in half an hour?"

"I know." She'd wanted to wear the velvet and pearls for him so badly,  wanted him to tear it off her too. But even as she'd felt the gorgeous  fabric like a caress against her skin and his gaze heating her from the  inside out, she couldn't let him spend that much money on it. On her.  Even if she could look beyond the price of the dress, the woman who'd  gazed back at her from the mirror hadn't been anyone she recognized.

All these years of dating, she'd been so determined to remain true to  herself, even when the men had hoped she'd change to please them.  Sebastian had repeatedly told her how much he loved the way she looked  in jeans and boots, but at the same time, it was clear he wanted her to  shine in his social circles.         

     



 

Was there a way for Charlie to shine while remaining true to herself?  She didn't know the answer, but she could only hope that it would end up  being yes. The thought of things falling apart with Sebastian made her  stomach twist even tighter than hearing the price of that dress.

She and her mom sat in Shady Lane's lounge, as usual, but only for  another two weeks. Magnolia Gardens had called yesterday. They finally  had a room available. It needed fresh paint, new carpet, and new  furniture, and then it would be Mom's. Charlie's fingers had trembled as  she'd written the check for the remainder of the entry fee. She still  felt slightly sick about it, especially with the monthly charges  looming. She hadn't even told Sebastian the news yet, as though not  saying the words aloud meant she wouldn't be on the hook for such a huge  amount every single month from now on.

"This dress is lovely," her mother said, blissfully unaware of all the  thoughts making Charlie's stomach roil. Charlie had taken a short break  from working on the chariot yesterday and had been lucky enough to find a  dress she thought might work. Her mother held up the garment in her  gnarled fingers. "We can certainly do something with it."

But it wouldn't be we. Mom's fingers had flown with a needle and thread,  creating beauty from scraps, but she'd had to give up sewing long ago.  Fortunately, she'd taught Charlie to sew, both by hand and by machine.

"What we're going to do," her mother said in her usual upbeat  way-indomitable was the word Sebastian had used, "is take in a couple of  darts to mold the bodice of the camisole to your chest." She pinched  the material, demonstrating. "Think an Anne Boleyn style. Almost a  bustier."

"I like that."

Her mom pointed to the matching skirt. "We'll take a little nip here, a little tuck there, and size the waistband down."

Charlie tried not to wince that it had come to this, her mother verbally  directing her on how not to screw up the inexpensive outfit she'd  bought at a consignment store. She'd found a pair of high-heeled sandals  too, and a clutch with some of its beads ready to fall off. She'd told  Sebastian she wouldn't embarrass him. Her mother was her only hope of  keeping that promise.

"Put the camisole on over your T-shirt and pin it." Mom held up the  pincushion. Her fingers were no longer nimble enough to hold a pin  without dropping it.

Charlie finished pinning. "What do you think?"

"Perfect." The smile on her mother's face was as big as if she were  viewing a model at a fashion show rather than the daughter who had  always been far more comfortable in steel-toed boots than she would ever  be in heels and dresses.

Her mother had adored sewing. She'd loved baking. There were so many  things she'd had to give up. It was like losing a piece of herself every  time another thing she loved was taken away.

But she still walked that mile every day. And she always did it with a smile.

Charlie undid the short zipper at the back and shrugged out of the camisole. "Sebastian made you famous the other day."

"He did?" Her mother sipped her tea.

"He gave a talk in Los Angeles to thousands of people, and he told them  about your arthritis and how you force yourself to walk a mile a day.  Then he challenged the entire audience to walk their own mile every  day."

Charlie started the dart, using a backstitch to secure it. She poked a finger, then sucked on it so the material wouldn't stain.

"That's sweet of him. But a mile isn't very much." Mom pointed at the dart. "Go over it once more with a backstitch."

Charlie switched directions, rolling the material over her index finger.  "It depends on how far your mile is, doesn't it? And how hard it is."

"I suppose." Her mother was quiet for a long moment. "How long is your mile, Charlie?"

She tied off the thread and snipped the ends, laughing a little as she admitted, "I'm not even sure what my mile is."