But Claude Mueller might. "All right," she said.
She was instantly sorry. She knew the moment the words left her mouth that she had made a big mistake, but it was too late. Tamara was thrilled, smiling, leading her by the hand into another bedroom, the bed of which was covered with boxes and bags. "I'll show you the lingerie and the shoes, first," Tamara said.
"Lingerie?" she echoed faintly.
"Of course." Tamara rolled her eyes. "You can't show panty lines under these gowns. And I ordered stockings to match, of course."
A half hour later, Tamara closed the cold weight of the golden dragon torque around Erin's neck and turned her around to face the mirror. "Look at yourself. If Connor McCloud could see you now, he would kneel and beg for mercy."
Guilt and pain stabbed through her. "Please, don't."
"Trouble in paradise?" Tamara asked. She laughed and held up her hand at the look in Erin's eyes. "Sorry. Forgive me for asking. Curiosity is one of my little vices. Don't hate me for it. I don't mean any harm."
"You don't know me well enough to speak to me like that."
"No, but I would like to." Tamara flashed her a quirky, disarming smile. "I find you very interesting, Erin Riggs. Now take a look at yourself. Are you a knockout, or are you a knockout?"
Erin turned to the mirror, and stopped breathing for a moment.
It wasn't that she looked all that different. She was still herself, but a glowing golden haze hovered around her. Her eyes seemed bigger, more deeply colored, more shadowy. Her lips were fuller and redder, her skin glowed with earthy golden tints. Even her hair seemed glossier.
The dress that Tamara had helped her choose was a simple gown of gleaming bronze bias-cut silk with a sheer chiffon overdress. It was tight in the bodice, fluttering out in a deep, voluptuously flared skirt. The plunging neckline was designed to show off both the torque and her cleavage. The dress was off the shoulder, so no bra could be worn, but the bodice was reinforced, and snug enough to hike up her full bosom, offering it up to the eye like a gift.
The dragon torque was cold against her skin, but she felt its strange, ancient energy pulsating against her skin. Her hair flowed around her, unbound. Tamara had brushed out her French twist and run her fingers through Erin's waist-length hair with a murmur of approval. "This doesn't need any help. You're done."
Erin stared at herself in the mirror. She felt vulnerable and exposed, with her femininity, her sexuality, showcased for an unknown man's enjoyment. The heavy, sensual gold torque seemed to exaggerate her looks. Maybe it was enchanted, and she was under a glamorous spell. Certainly she'd never looked like this in her entire life.
She'd been a fool to fall for this, but she'd agreed. It would be silly to be difficult about it now. Now that she thought about it, that had been her exact reasoning when she'd gone to bed with her first lover. She'd forced herself to endure what had happened out of politeness, out of fear of looking silly, of being rude and childish and undignified. She had to learn to accept the consequences of her decisions without whining—that was what it meant to be grown-up, but oh, God, sometimes she felt like she'd been grown-up since the day she was born.
"Are you all right, Erin?" Tamara asked gently.
Erin started to say that she was fine. The impulse petered away into silence. She closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them, they were swimming with tears.
Tamara was ready with a tissue. She carefully blotted Erin's tears without smearing her makeup, and rested a cool hand on Erin's shoulder. "At least you look fabulous," she offered. "That's a powerful weapon to carry into battle, no matter what problems you might have."
Erin let out a soggy laugh. They smiled at each other. Tamara embraced her briefly. "Are you ready to go? Do you need a minute?"
Erin straightened her shoulders. "I'm ready."
She wobbled on the spike heels until she found her stride. Five different sizes of designer shoes had been delivered along with the dresses. A staggering extravagance for a rich man's whim.
Tamara led her down the corridor, past the stairs and into another wing. She flung open the door into a huge, airy salon with floor to ceiling windows, many of them open. Diaphanous white curtains billowed in the breeze. The room was lit up with slanting golden beams of sunset light. Erin was dazzled by the sensation of light and vaulted space as she followed Tamara in.
And of cold. The room was oddly chilly. As if it were refrigerated.
A slender man of medium height stood with his back to (hem, gazing out the window. He turned slowly as they entered. The gesture looked staged, like an ad for European luxury cars. She brushed the thought away as silly and unworthy.
Claude Mueller smiled. He was an attractive olive-skinned man, his dark hair cut severely short, and receding over his temples. His smile was dimpled and charming, and his eyes were electric blue, striking against his tanned skin. He wore a casually elegant dove gray linen suit.
"Mr. Mueller. At last, the elusive Ms. Riggs," Tamara announced.
He glided toward her, took her outstretched hand, and bowed over it. For a dreadful moment she was afraid he was going to kiss it, but he stopped short, his eyes flicking up as if he sensed her alarm.
"Ms. Riggs," he said. "Thank you for humoring me in the matter of the torque, and the dress. I know it was a great deal to ask of you, but the result is breathtaking. Nigel and Tamara told me you were beautiful, but words are insufficient. You put the torque to shame."
He gazed into her eyes, lifted her hand, and pressed it deliberately against his smiling lips. The contact gave her a sharp, buzzing shock. For a split second, it was as if a veil before her eyes became transparent, and the luxurious room seemed as cold and hard as an ice sculpture, leached of color and life. She tugged at her trembling hand.
He did not release it. "Thank you, Tamara," he said, still holding Erin's gaze. "You may leave us now."
Erin felt abandoned as the door shut behind Tamara. The woman was her last link to the warm world of the living, and now she was all alone, in a cold, beautiful tomb. What a ridiculous notion, she told herself. Absurd. She had to get a grip, but her heart raced with sickening panic. She had that falling away feeling, as if she were about to faint. God forbid. She would never recover from the embarrassment.
She forced herself to smile, and thought about Connor.
Thinking about him hurt, but the pain grounded her. The part of her that was bonded with him was earthy and elemental, rooted in her deepest feelings. She clung to it, and the rising swirl of panic subsided.
"I'm glad to meet you at last," she said. "Thank you for the privilege of wearing such a beautiful thing. I'll treasure the memory."
"The dragon torque will remember you, too. Since I began collecting artifacts, I've begun to think that they, too, have memories of where they once were. Of the people who used them. The torque is eager to lie against the bosom of a beautiful woman again. To warm itself with her vital heat, after millennia of isolation in a tomb."
She had absolutely nothing to say to that. Her mind had gone blank. She stared stupidly into his hypnotic eyes, her mouth working.
She finally managed to break eye contact, and groped randomly for something, anything, to say. "Um, I'm really sorry, but I haven't had time to complete my report on the pieces I examined in Silver Fork," she said. "I've had some pressing personal difficulties, so I—"
"It's just as well," he cut in smoothly. "I have another three items for you to assess anyway. You may as well include them in the report."