Modern Romance June 2019 Books 5-8. Andie Brock
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a woman. He didn’t consider his sexual partners as objects to be “kept,” but he liked to think of himself as a generous partner in bed and in boutiques. More than one lover had accused him of offering material items in lieu of his thoughts and feelings, which he couldn’t refute. He had developed the habit of keeping both of those things firmly to himself.
If asked, he blamed his martial arts training for his circumspection. Deep down, he knew it was simply his nature to be aloof. He had never cultivated close friendships and had always felt a step apart from regular society. Did it stem from a broken heart after losing his mother so young? From fear of turning into the drunken shell his father had become? That was likely part of it, but people who spoke their thoughts aloud or permitted emotion to rule them only got back more of the same. Physical feelings of hunger and sexual desire were distraction enough. He had no wish to yearn.
And sometimes, when he was in a particularly introspective mood, he suspected that the wealth he had accumulated was both a strategy against wanting any of those abstract things that seemed to be so important to other people and a buffer against the world at large. He shouldered immense responsibility for people’s jobs and the infrastructure that served their lives and influenced whether the stock market went up or down on a given day, but he employed armies of people to look after all of that. He spoke to very few people in any meaningful way. A professional of some kind or another could be hired to do almost anything that he didn’t care to do himself so that’s what he did.
But he couldn’t do that with Luli.
She didn’t fit the compartment of employee or lover or any other label he had previously slotted people under—not even estranged blood relative. He’d gone and married her, which made him personally responsible for her. People could be hired to feed his fish, but who would feed her if he didn’t see to it?
Who would tell her, “It’s okay. Go.”
She stayed put, only her nose poking out the open jet door like a cat testing the air, sapphire eyes taking in the pale pink clouds of the evening sky, the car on the tarmac below and the people waiting beside it.
“There’s someone in a uniform down there,” she reported and backed into him.
The feel of her was erotic and enticing and caused a strange sensation to flutter through Gabriel. It wasn’t unlike the aggression that had gripped him in that moment with the butler. Protectiveness, he realized as his hands went to her upper arms in both an effort to reassure her and a claim of warning to anyone who might threaten her.
“The customs agent.” He made himself release her. “It’s fine. Go ahead.”
She cautiously went down the stairs before him. His assistant met her with a smile and an envelope. “Your passport, Mrs. Dean.”
“Really?” She hurried to look inside.
“If I may?” the customs agent asked, taking the passport long enough to glance at the stamp inside it. “Merci. Enjoy your stay.” He handed it back to her. “Mr. Dean, nice to see you again. Toutes nos félicitations.” He tipped his cap and walked away.
“Thank you,” Luli said with bewilderment to his retreating back.
“Your birth certificate is in there with your marriage certificate and my contact details,” his assistant continued. “Please reach out at any time with questions or concerns. I’m Mr. Dean’s feet on the ground here in Europe, but I can quickly direct any inquiries to another party if it’s outside my bailiwick.”
“Thank you.” Luli’s eyes were big as beach balls, glossy and bright. She blinked rapidly.
Gabriel nodded his thanks and steered her into the back of the car.
Luli’s hands shook as she tried to pull the certificate from the envelope without damaging its pristine condition.
“It is my birth certificate,” she said to him with awe. “This is me.”
“Good,” he commented.
Her hands continued to shake as she took great care folding the document exactly right so it fit into a pocket of her blue wallet. She transferred her passport and his assistant’s card and their marriage certificate into the same pocket, then secured the zipper, anchoring the little tab with her thumb.
“Are you cold?” He reached to take hold of her hand, only wanting to test her temperature.
She twisted her hand to squeeze his tightly and turned a wet look on him. “Thank you,” she choked, using her free hand to press the wallet into her navel.
“Why are you crying?” Alarmed, he reached for the box of handkerchiefs, each square of ultrasoft bamboo dyed a different shade from ruby to emerald to amethyst.
“Because—” Her voice broke. She dabbed one beneath her eyes, then beneath her nose. “I don’t know how I’ll pay you back for this, but I will. I promise.”
“For what? It was nothing.” He had paid a premium to fast-track the paperwork, but the fees were a tenth of what his chauffeur carried in his money clip for incidentals.
“No, I was nothing. Now I have the most important thing in the world. Me.” She wrapped both hands around the wallet and pressed it between her breasts, breathing still shaky. “Thank you.”
* * *
You told me what you were worth, Luli. Act like you believe it.
She had been acting. The whole time. Still was, especially as a handful of designers whose names she knew from Mae’s glossy magazines behaved with deference as they welcomed her to a private showroom complete with catwalk.
She had to fight back laughing with incredulity as they offered her champagne, caviar, even a pedicure.
“I—” She glanced at Gabriel, expecting him to tell them she aspired to model and should be treated like a clothes horse, not royalty.
“A full wardrobe,” he said. “Top to bottom, morning to night, office to evening. Do what you can overnight, send the rest to my address in New York.”
“Mais bien sûr, monsieur,” the couturier said without a hint of falter in her smile. “Our pleasure.”
“Gabriel—” Luli started to protest as the women scattered.
“You remember what I said about this?” he tapped the wallet that held her phone. “I need you to stay on-brand.”
“Reflect who you are?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?” she asked ruefully. “I only met you ten minutes ago.”
“I’m a man who doesn’t settle for anything less than the best.” He touched her chin. “The world is going to have a lot of questions about why we married. Give them an answer.”
His words roused the competitor who still lurked inside her. She wanted to prove to the world she was worthy to be his wife. Maybe she wanted to prove her worth to him, too. Definitely she longed to prove something to herself.
Either way, she made sure those long-ago years of preparation paid off. She had always been ruthless in evaluating her own shortcomings and knew how to play to her strengths. She might not be trying to win a crown today, but she hadn’t been then, either. She’d been trying to win the approval of a woman who hadn’t deserved her idolatry.
She pushed aside those dark memories and clung instead to the education she had gained in those difficult years.
“That neckline will make my shoulders look narrow,” she said, making quick up-down choices. “The sweetheart style is better, but no ruffles at my hips. Don’t show me yellow. Tangerine is better. A more verdant green. That one is too pale.” In her head, she was sectioning out the building blocks of a cohesive stage presence. Youthful, but not too trendy. Sensual, but not overtly sexual. Charismatic without being showy.