When Connor sees me, his gaze sears me. It’s the dress—the silky shift that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. He’s clearly imagining what’s under it.

I don’t have the luxury of stripping for him right then and there because I see a petite, fortyish woman behind him in a dark pink suit that looks like it came from the Kennedy era. I cross my arms over my chest, hiding my clearly aroused nipples.

She doesn’t give me more than a first look as Connor steps aside so she can bustle in, pulling a wheeled rack with a garment bag hanging from it. There are boxes piled on the bottom.

“Frannie Bradford,” she says in passing. “Now let’s get moving!”

Some greeting. I glance at Connor.

“Frannie’s been my personal image consultant for years, so she can be a little familiar.”

She disappears into the doorway of my room, and I ask, “Is she delivering the dress you mentioned?”

“And doing your makeup and hair.”

From Goldilocks to Cinderella once again. I smile at Connor in appreciation, then let my hands fall to my sides, revealing my breasts puckering against the silk. His eyes focus on my stimulated nipples, then skim lower until my pussy pounds out its own hello.

“Are you sure you want to go out?” he murmurs.

Clearly there’s nothing he’d rather do than stay inside.

Yet I don’t think it’s only because he wants to have sex with me. He still seems reluctant to put me in the spotlight, but I’m going to make him proud. I can be just as good as any of his women.

I swallow, still wondering if I really can match up to the kind of dates everyone thinks he belongs with.

“Yes, Connor,” I say. “I’m positive that I want to go out with you.”

“You have no idea what’s in store.”

“But I do because you already told me.” I start to list off what I know. “No matter where you go, there’re cameras, and you don’t go anywhere except high-profile places because it’s good publicity for your business. If you were caught taking one of your women someplace that isn’t swanky, that would tarnish your product.” I shrug and make air quotes with my fingers. “‘People who buy from Kenyon Motors in particular don’t slum.’”

His expression humors me, but then Frannie’s voice echoes from down the hallway.

“My husband is waiting for me at home!”

“Noted, Ms. Bradford,” Connor calls, then he looks at me. “I’ll be getting ready while you’re doing the same. Now go to her before she sends a search party.”

With one final look at me in my silky shift, he lets out a sigh filled with such friction that I feel it drag down my skin with rough lust. Nerves and need swirl in my belly as I leave him.

What follows is a different kind of education for me: Frannie Bradford has a definite idea of what I need to look like when I step out of this penthouse, and I quickly learn that expertly applied makeup and a sexy hairstyle with the right dress and accessories can turn a pixie into a siren. Or at least the facsimile of one.

In the end, I stand in front of my full-length mirror looking at what Frannie has created. I’m wearing a gorgeous, floor-length, black lace halter dress with a daring cutout in back and a tasteful slit up to my thigh. Strappy designer pumps and expensive diamond earrings add sophistication along with an upswept ‘do that gives my blond hair some movie-star style.

I don’t recognize myself, especially with all the makeup that transforms me into the image of a woman Connor would escort around town.

I think I might give off the impression that I’m in his league, but I feel as if I’ve put on a disguise. Now, more than ever, I see Allyson Barnes, a girl who’s gotten into someone else’s closet and played dress up. Maybe I’m the only one who will see that.

“Lovely,” Frannie says, walking around me, clapping her hands together. “I’ve outdone myself.”

“You have?”

“In my younger days, I was a makeup artist on film sets. I dabbled in hair and wardrobe until the Kenyons snatched me up to consult for them. Normally I don’t dress Connor’s dates, and I have no idea why he secretly enlisted me to do it tonight, but I haven’t lost my touch.” She beams. “I can certainly turn Tinkerbell into Taylor Swift.”

Tinkerbell? Goldilocks? I must’ve cornered the market on fairy-tale gamines.

I look at myself again, and I guess I’ve fooled Frannie the stylist into thinking that I can be a bombshell. But the realization isn’t comfortable at all.

What am I doing? I think again. What if she’s seeing what she wants to see and everyone else out there sees right through me? What if they say I don’t belong with Connor?

But the alternative is unthinkable. I’m darned sure not going to sit in his home and wait for him as he takes someone else out on dates. I already promised myself that I won’t go through that again, and he agreed.

With a rush of heat, I feel him behind me. He’s standing with his hands in the trouser pockets of a fresh, dark designer suit with a blue tie. There’s a tug of war going on with his expression, as if he doesn’t recognize me.

Welcome to the club.

He begins to leave the room, barking a single order over his shoulder. “Take about half of that makeup off her face.”

As he disappears, I want to tell him that this is what the world expects—I look like one of his showpieces. He sure paid enough for me to be his master showpiece, so why not flaunt me?

Frannie only presses her lips together in obvious disagreement with his command, but she brings me back to the vanity table. She takes off some of the thick eyeliner and mascara I was wearing before, then replaces the sophisticated red lipstick with a creamy pink shade.

She sighs, and I know it’s because the more subtle cosmetics make me look more like…me.

Did Connor not like me with a high-style makeover? Or maybe he saw that I hadn’t fully bought in to the goddess act and he doesn’t want the paparazzi to record my discomfort for all the world to see. Even so, I have to admit that the dress could wear itself, and it clings to me in beautiful ways. It might not make me a sex goddess, but I feel like a bombshell in my own right.

When I next see Connor, he’s in the elevator lobby, checking the fancy watch on his wrist. He brings his gaze to me as my heels click on the marble tile.

He surveys my makeup. I fidget with my dress as waves rise and fall in my belly. Then he gives me one of those looks that tell me he wants to get me back inside to have his way with me, but he also seems torn.

“Is this okay?” I ask.

“Okay?” he asks. “You’re…”

What? I hold my breath for his answer, but his gaze becomes remote, and he presses the elevator button.

“You look gorgeous, Allyson,” he says.

Gorgeous is good. Really good. But I have the feeling that he still doesn’t want to take me out into the spotlight. When he looks at me again with fiery blue intensity, I know that he’s aware of what I’m thinking.

“Come on,” he says, crooking his arm for me to take it. “Time to hit the town.”

I slip my arm into his, my nerves going on and off like nighttime neon in the city, anticipation sizzling in me with the same wonderful heat.

* * *

A limousine waits for us outside. It’s the Kenyon Motors electric prototype sedan I rode in before, complete with two sets of dark leather seats facing each other, a sound system that’s playing serene yet worldly music, a bar, and a sensually dim atmosphere.

I take a seat next to Connor, breathing in his soapy scent. I could bury my face against his skin right now and inhale him until I’m high, but I’m already there. High as a kite, giddy as a schoolgirl.

After he raises the partition that separates us from the driver, he gestures toward the iced champagne bucket.

“No thanks,” I say. “I still haven’t gotten over those martinis.”

“Then don’t mind if I do.”

He gets a flute, pops the champagne cork with practiced ease, then pours the fizzy, golden nectar. He drinks it down, then pours some more while restlessly sucking in air between his teeth. Then he sits back and watches the night-lit streets go by.

I’ve been around Connor enough to know when he’s on edge, and I’m sure he’s that way now because he’s wary of the flashbulbs that are about to go off around us as he escorts me into the restaurant.

I just want to soothe him, so I rest my hand on his hard thigh. He presses his large hand on top of mine, enveloping me in warmth.

“Where are we going?” I ask as my belly feathers with tickles.

“A new Japanese fusion restaurant down in Tribeca. It’s trendy and, as you’d say, swanky. It’s been all over the news. You’re going to get what you asked for.”

Cameras, plus a place alongside the other women he’s not embarrassed to parade around town. Yup, I asked for it. “Are you regretting this?”

“What? Putting you in the line of fire?” He makes a negligent motion with his free hand. “It’ll be a new adventure to add to the one you started with. It’ll be something to tell your grandkids about after you find the true love you mentioned this morning.”

He makes everything sound so empty, and a hollow pit forms in my belly as I realize that maybe going out with him to prove that I’m as good as his usual dates isn’t what I really want.

What do I want from him then?

There are no questions I want to ask him this time, no comments I want to make. And as the drive continues, my anxiety grows in a different way.

I look out the tinted window at the bustling city. I’m going to be a part of it tonight. Finally.

The limo finally slows down in front of a restaurant with a red awning and a crowd outside on the sidewalk. I see cameras flashing as a glamorous couple huddles against the paparazzi while forging inside the door, and my pulse shrieks.

This is happening.

Connor takes my hand, and I cling to it, my eyes wide as I look at him. He lifts his free hand and strokes under my chin with a finger, and for a moment, I think he might be reassessing how I’ll look for the public.

Then I realize that his gaze isn’t cold, it’s warm, and the sensation spills through me like the night has turned sunny.

He kisses me softly, then lightly grips my chin.

“Smile for the cameras, Allyson.”

When the driver opens the door, flashes wash over my sight, and in a flurry of seconds, everything speeds up: Connor is guiding me out of the limo, I’m standing on the sidewalk, voices are calling for my attention, cameras are clicking amid the chaos.

I feel Connor’s hand tightening over mine, and my heart taps in a fierce rhythm as he unhurriedly leads me forward as if I’m his…

Wow. I don’t feel like a highly paid, adventure-seeking escort. Right now, I’m his queen. And when he pauses in front of the doorway that the doorman is holding open for us, Connor looks down at me. He smiles in a secret way that only I can understand.

The man of mystery with a woman who’s just as much of an enigma.

The paparazzi goes nuts, shouting out more questions. I hear two of them above all the others: Who is she, Connor? Where did you two meet?

In a final, flashing burst, Connor ushers me into the restaurant where a seductive waterfall greets us in the lobby. I hear someone’s voice—the maître d’—say, “You made it in just after a Kardashian. The wolves outside were hungry for more.”

I feel everyone watching us as we’re taken to a booth, but then I recognize famous faces—politicians, actors, singers, athletes. And they all greet Connor with a deference that impresses me.

As we’re seated, Japanese music plays over the trickle of water that flows down the rock walls, and after our waiter greets us and leaves us with our menus, I finally calm down enough to enjoy the serene ambience.

Connor’s gaze connects with mine. “You’re glowing. Blushing.”

“You can tell under my makeup?” I laugh, giddy all over again. I made it. “You know, that wasn’t as bad as you made it out to be.”

His jaw tightens. Then he lifts his menu. “I wonder if you’re truly ready for what comes after this.”

“I’m prepared for anything.”

He shakes his head, but I’m too on-top-of-the-world to really heed this warning from a man who knows better.