“He’s not watching,” she whispers. “Take off your clothes and I’ll help you put it on.”

Still doubtful, I close my eyes and prepare for a snicker when I pull off my shirt.

Nothing. I crack open an eye. Eva is staring at my jeans. Or maybe she’s contemplating my muffin top and how many scarves will be needed to hide it.

“Jeans too,” she says without a hint of humor.

Maybe she’s seen worse. Taking a breath, I strip down to my bra and panties. At least they match and it isn’t my granny pants time of the month. “Do you have any foundation or support garments? Maybe a Spanx bodystocking?” I whisper. “I don’t think this dress is going to adequately hide my…whole self.”

Eva slides the dress over my head. “You don’t need any. You have a beautiful body. You should show off your curves, not hide them.”

Like she would know. Whenever she turns sideways, she almost disappears. “I don’t want to hide them, just smooth them out. I’m going for the loaf look instead of the muffin top.”

Ignoring me, Eva makes a few adjustments and hands me a death-defying pair of matching stilettos. I don’t know much about shoes, but the simple, elegant, emerald encrusted stilts do something miraculous to my legs. Suddenly, I have some. She pulls out my ponytail holder, fluffs my hair, and gives me the fastest makeover I’ve ever had. Then she pulls back the curtain and I step out into the arena.

I bite my lip and hold my breath. Max is focused on his space-age communicator, no doubt sending secret messages to galactic emperors with thin and sophisticated daughters. Eva clears her throat and he looks up. His eyes rake over my body and his mouth curls into a smile. “You look beautiful.”

My cheeks flame, but it is a pleasant burn.

“Turn around.” His low, husky voice sends a tremor through my body.

I spin and catch sight of myself in the mirror beside the changing room. What the hell? Where’s my muffin top? The woman in the mirror is tall and elegant. The sheer, sparkly dress gives her curves to rival even Pinkaluscious. Dark, thick eyelashes frame rich, emerald green eyes, and the rosy tinge on her cheeks brings out the color of her ripe, pink lips. And her legs take no prisoners.

“Look at me,” I breathe. I twist and turn in front of the mirror. Even my bottom looks succulent. No wonder rich people always look so good.

“I’m looking, baby, and I like what I see.” He turns to Eva, who has the self-satisfied smile of a woman who is just about to make a whole lot of money. “Do you have something she can wear if she gets cold?”

Eva hands him a matching piece of material and Max stands behind me and wraps it around my shoulders. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” he murmurs. “I’ll be too distracted beating off your admirers to talk.”

I smile and look up at us in the mirror—his tall broad body enveloping me like a blanket. “I guess I’ll have to go myself then. I wouldn’t want to waste all Eva’s effort.”

The low rumble of Max’s voice carries through the confined space. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

Chapter 9

You’re different

An hour later, we arrive at Bianco Nero. Still reeling over the price of the dress and shoes, I ease myself carefully out of the car and allow Max to assist me across the sidewalk. One brush against the wrong surface or one misstep, and five thousand dollars will be down the drain. I should have told him I have a tendency to be less than coordinated.

The manager races out to fawn over Max and ushers us inside. My eyes dart from side to side seeking a flash of color in the cavernous room, but everything is decorated in white—even the staff. I am a brilliant green paint smudge in the middle of an otherwise perfect canvas.

“Are you sure this is a restaurant?” With only twenty tables in a space that could easily accommodate one hundred, and no one speaking above a hushed whisper, the place has the feel of a modern art gallery, and we are the art.

Max laughs. “It was designed that way. The idea is to keep the focus on the food.”

Food sounds good. After the disaster of a lunch, my stomach is protesting the lack of sustenance at an increasingly loud volume.

Our waiter for the evening is small, thin, and blond with a narrow face and the tiniest mouth I have ever seen. He introduces himself as Brad, and his dark, cold eyes flick over me dismissively as if he knows I don’t belong. Brad plods through the fixed price menu in a nasal monotone. After two minutes, Max interrupts him and excuses himself to take a call. The second Max is out of earshot, Brad stops his monologue and stares at me with sudden intensity.

I swallow hard. “Is there a problem, Brad?”

“You’re different.”

“Different as in I’ve got two heads, or different as in I’ve changed since we last met, which I’m sure was never?”

“Definitely different.” He purses his tiny lips and tilts his head to the side.

I can’t tell if Brad’s comment is an insult or a compliment. Maybe I should let Max know that Brad thinks I’m different and ask him what he thinks. I suspect Max wouldn’t give Brad the benefit of the doubt. Wouldn’t that be fun? For me. Not for Brad.

Max takes his seat and Brad finishes his menu monologue with a smile. He has such a tiny smile. I’m not sure if he even has teeth.

I excuse myself and go to the restroom. I can’t get Brad’s comment out of mind. I’m pretty sure he means I clearly don’t belong. My eyes water and I dab them with a tissue. Maybe I could pretend I’m ill and ask Max to take me home. No. Damn it. I won’t give Brad the satisfaction. I redo my makeup, but I can’t hide my red eyes.