She’d love to think that would be enough, but... “There’s no guarantee that sort of thing sustains,” she argued, crossing her arms. “What if it wears off?”
“Shall we see if it’s still there now?” He took a step toward her.
“No.” She retreated and hugged herself, trying to contain the bloom of excitement that expanded in her. She could barely think when the prospect of sex with him filled her mind.
He stopped, rooted and still, his posture aggressive, and scowled as he narrowed his sharp gaze into some kind of tractor beam that willed her toward him.
“This is what I mean, Zafir! I don’t have any defenses against you, especially physically. Marriage is the biggest decision a person makes. Look where giving in to my hormones has got me so far. Do I really want the rest of my life to be decided by the simple fact that you turn me on?”
“So you don’t want to sleep with me?” he demanded.
“I’d like a chance to think about it!” she cried as she finally identified which door led to the powder room and moved through it.
It was as much an escape as to use it for its intended purpose, but she didn’t come to any firm conclusions until she emerged to find him talking to an attractive brunette. The woman was smiling and nodding and blinking her thick, darkened lashes with flirty awe at him.
A green monster, warty and equipped with dangerously sharp teeth, rose inside Fern. He’s mine, she thought, and knew in that second that she was sunk. The idea of him sleeping with any other woman was abhorrent. He had said to her at the oasis that if he couldn’t have her, no one else would. Well, if she didn’t accept him, someone else would. The only way she could ensure he wasn’t making love to other women would be to lie with him herself.
Such a chore, she chided herself. But there was an insecure part of her that wondered if they really were still as volatile as they’d been. She wasn’t the pristine virgin he’d had eight months ago.
“Here we go,” Zafir said, indicating Fern so the supermodel pivoted on her high heels and gave Fern a once-over with a sharp, critical gaze. “Fern, this is Vivienne Calloway, Amineh’s stylist.”
“I’m delighted to work with you. Please call me Vivienne,” she said as she came forward and shook Fern’s hand. Her stomach was concave and her hips were the width of a soda straw. Her shiny hair slithered with silky, shampoo-ad brilliance. Her perfect teeth practically dinged as she smiled. “May I call you Fern? Amineh and I are on first-name terms and she has instructed me to pull out all the stops for you.”
“Amineh?” Fern repeated, glancing warily toward Zafir.
“I spoke with her while I was loading your things into the car.”
Fern’s knees weakened. Her hand was still in Vivienne’s warm grip and turned into cooked asparagus. “What did she say...?”
“That you would need something to wear tonight,” Zafir answered blithely. “We dress for dinner.”
“She suggested the blue dress from her own wardrobe and I agree, now that I’ve seen you. The color will bring out your eyes. Let’s try it on, see if it needs adjustment.”
Minutes later, Fern was in a silver slip with a powder-blue lace sheathe over it. The sleeves were a demur three-quarter length, the collar scalloped across her plump breasts. Shoes were another matter, but Vivienne brought a bag filled with a variety of sizes and styles from her car.