Night's Honor (Elder Races #7)(52)

Puzzled, she complied. “What are we doing?”

“You are changing outfits,” he told her.

A large garment bag from Nordstrom lay across the queen-sized bed. A smaller Nordstrom bag rested beside it. In the smaller bag, she could just see the tip of a shoe box, and she turned to stare at Xavier. “You bought me a dress? And shoes?”

Completely unmoved by her incredulity, he shrugged. “As I said to Raoul, people do not waltz in exercise pants. You need to wear the right outfit to learn how to dance properly, otherwise you will not know how to contend with the skirt or the shoes, and your poor partner’s feet will never recover.”

“But—but—”

“No buts.” He looked both cheerful and adamant. “Change. I will see you down in the ballroom.”

But you shouldn’t have spent the money. I’m not staying.

The words tangled up in her head. She hadn’t planned on telling him she was leaving until after the dance lesson, and before she could decide how she wanted to respond, he closed the door and left her alone.

She needed to go after him and tell him, if only she could find the right words to say.

But her feet discovered they had a mind of their own, and they propelled her to the side of the bed. Her hands became independent thinkers also, as they unzipped the garment bag.

Her mind followed suit, as she thought, Well, a quick peek wouldn’t hurt.

Pulling apart the edges of the bag, she stared down at the dress. It was a beautiful, deep midnight blue gown ruched at one hip, with a long gauzy skirt. While the gown itself was strapless, it came with a fitted lacy bodice overlay in the same color.

She pulled the shoe box out of the bag and opened it. Delicate, nude-colored sandals lay inside. In a daze, she pulled out one sandal and checked it. It had a bit of a heel, but it wasn’t too high, and it was her size.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn pretty clothes, and this outfit was simply beautiful.

Oh, hell.

TWELVE

Of their own volition, her fingers went out to stroke the gauzy skirt of the dress.

She could try on the outfit, just to see if it fit. If it did, they could try a dance or two. If she tucked in the price tags but didn’t remove them, they could return everything to the store.

And really, in the end, what did it matter if she went through one more dance lesson in her training outfit, or in the dress?

Not giving herself a chance to dither any longer, she toed off her running shoes and stripped, then shimmied into the gown, strapped on the sandals and stepped in front of a tall oval mirror set in a stand in one corner of the room.

If the dress was really hers and she would actually consider keeping it, she would make some changes. While it was the right size across the shoulders and hips, the waist was a bit loose and the length of the arms was a touch too long, but a good tailor could easily fix those issues. The color was simply lovely. It brought out a sheen in her dark hair and highlighted her healthy tan, and the whole outfit emphasized all the right curves in her body.

And she adored the sandals. It felt strange to be out of running shoes, and she’d gotten out of the habit of wearing heels, but the sandals were light, comfortable and made her feet look feminine and slender.

One part of her mind said severely, What on earth are you doing, Tess?

She stuffed a gag in it, left the room and went downstairs.

She heard music before she actually reached the ballroom, a single-note melody that sounded somehow pensive. Whatever it was, it wasn’t waltz music. When she reached the doorway, she found Xavier sitting at the baby grand, his head bent as he watched the keys, and she realized the music wasn’t a recording. He was playing, although not seriously, as he fingered out the notes with one hand.

“I have no classical education,” she said as she walked toward him. “But whatever you’re playing sounds lovely.”

He stopped, and his dark head lifted as he turned to the doorway. When he caught sight of her, he rose to his feet quickly.

The intensity of his scrutiny made her self-conscious. The severe part of her mind spat out its gag and snarled, The dress is only a prop, fool, and it’s not even yours. And why on earth would you care about his opinion anyway. . . .

That was all it got a chance to say before she gagged it again. As she walked toward him, she asked aloud, “Will this do?”

“It will do splendidly,” he said. His voice was warm, the expression in his gaze lit with something that looked like pleasure. “Now you can know what it feels like to really waltz.” When she came close, he held out a hand and she offered him hers. Instead of leading her out onto the floor, he bent to press his lips lightly to her fingers. “And you look beautiful.”

The severe part of her mind broke free of its restraint and took control of her vocal chords. In a quiet voice, she said, “Which is completely irrelevant, of course, but thank you.”

He looked up, over her hand, and gave her a slow smile that was remarkably sweet and sexy, and completely devastating. “I’m afraid I must disagree. A beautiful woman is never irrelevant. She can be the most compelling, most gloriously dangerous creature in all the world.”

Sexy. With the last of her fear banished, for the first time she could see it, sense it, almost reach out and scoop it up in her hands.

He was sexy.

Shaken, she withdrew her fingers and gave a little laugh. In an attempt to deflect that devastating, intent scrutiny of his, she reminded him, “You didn’t say what you were playing just now.”