One Summer Night: An Indecent Proposition / Beholden to the Throne / Hers For One Night Only?. Carol Marinelli
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on his yacht with him would somehow dissipate the hurt, would have her falling into his bed again, he was wrong.
So wrong, Charlotte thought, and a small smile spread across her lips.
A smile that became more devilish.
A smile that, as she looked in the mirror, reminded her of the old Charlotte. Apart from her work clothes she was so behind with fashion these days, what heaven it would be to update. How wonderful to keep her head with Zander and look brilliant while doing so.
She stood in the boutique, facing a full-length mirror. Ethina, the owner, was far from gushing, was critical. Clearly it was Zander that Ethina had to impress, and, from the purse to her lips as she ran her eyes over Charlotte, she had her work cut out. She had to transform the lily-white body that hadn’t so much as set foot in a gym into the groomed beauty expected by the wallet the boutique was attached to.
How many clothes did a signature from a billionaire require?
‘Too harsh.’ Ethina held a blood-red bikini up to Charlotte’s shoulder and then a jade one and then white. Had her mind not been made up as to her course of action, Charlotte would have run out of the exclusive boutique rather than take the shame.
No doubt that was what Zander was expecting.
For her to make do with what was in her case or to grab the first offering Ethina held up. Instead, she stood there and fought down the shame. She listened and watched and slowly, very slowly, marvelled at the skill of the snooty Ethina.
She learnt that the dull silvery-gold string bikini that looked so tacky on the rack looked sensational on her, that it did not clash with the paleness of her skin and that it blended in with the gold of her hair.
‘With the right sunglasses …’ Ethina continued, ‘the right sandals …’ There were beautifully cut shorts and cool linen shirts and then for the first time since her project had entered there was a smile on Ethina’s face as she eyed Charlotte in the mirror. ‘My work is done.’
Even a bag was purchased for her and Ethina said that she would pack it. Charlotte was led to the salon, the oils washed out and her hair brushed, straightened and then curled, all to create one, oh, so casual ponytail, and she felt casual and elegant and possibly a little bit beautiful as she picked up her new bag and headed to the jetty.
Yes, she felt ready to face him.
Zander watched her walk along the jetty.
Saw her ponytail swishing in the breeze. He had expected hesitation, for her to stop and fiddle, to find a mirror, but it was a confident Charlotte who walked towards the boat—and she looked stunning, even with those gorgeous eyes shielded.
She did her best not to sulk.
Instead, she played the game and accepted champagne and the delicacies on offer, laughed at his comments, spoke with him—but not for a second was she herself, and he missed her, he craved her, he wanted her back.
‘That is Lathira …’ he pointed to the island in the distance ‘… where Nico grew up.’
‘Oh.’
‘You know that,’ Zander said. ‘It was the wealthier of the islands then.’ She examined a manicured nail instead of commenting. She was at work, Charlotte reminded herself, there to gather information for Nico. There to confuse Zander with her confidence, there to reclaim some pride.
‘And you grew up on Xanos,’ Charlotte said. ‘What about …?’ She swallowed, for she felt like a spy. ‘What about your parents?’
‘What did he ask you to find out?’ Worse than a spy, she felt like a double agent.
‘I was just making conversation.’
‘You blush when you lie,’ Zander said. ‘Not a lot, but your neck goes pink.’
They dropped anchor and she didn’t feel so brave any more, but tried not to show it.
He took off his shirt and she yearned to do the same, to feel the breeze on her shoulders, but her body thrummed in his presence and it was safer covered. He smiled as she sat on the bench, trying to look detached, trying to ignore the scent of him as he leant over to pick up the sun lotion.
‘Could you do my back?’ He asked as if he were innocent, as if that olive skin could possibly burn, as if a man like Zander Kargas could possibly feel pain if it did.
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