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I meant dressed. Come here and shut your eyes.”

I do as he says. I feel a length of fabric wrapped around me like a shroud.

“Are you sure this is a dress?” I attempt a light tone, but now I’m really worried. What is this garment? A toga?

“Almost finished. You’ll see in a second,” he says, pinning the dress in a few places. “Now, voilà. You can turn around.”

I step toward the mirror and gasp.

What was all the fuss about? It appears a normal, conservative dress that falls to the knees and hits me squarely at the neck.

“I had the sensation you were wrapping something around me…”

He struggles to resist a smile. “Sensations can be deceiving. You have me on speed dial. Call me in case of any little emergencies.”

And with that, he takes his leave.

Emergency? What did he mean by that?

CHAPTER 34

EMILY

Stepping out of the gold elevator of the Koko club, I walk toward the host’s podium.

I glance at my image in the mirrored walls.

Fiery hair in the perfect updo.

And wearing the perfect dress.

Lorenzo and Antoine have good taste. The dress is elegant and classy, yet it’s very tight-fitting.

Antoine had wrapped the black stretchy ribbon-shaped fabric around my body layer by layer, until the fabric hugged every curve like a second skin.

I can still feel the pressure of each turn. Would I even be able to take a bite of lunch in this tight outfit?

Well, I think, Antoine did say I could call him in case of an emergency. As I approach the snooty maître d’, I watch his face for any subtle indication there’s something unusual about my dress.

But he simply greets me with a smile. “You look lovely, Mrs. Ricci. Allow me to escort you to your table.”

Heads turn as I cross the room. But that’s normal. I’ve discovered that at the Koko club, being watched is simply the price of membership.

Lorenzo rises when he sees me. Something shifts in his expression as his eyes move from my face down to the dress and back up again. He recovers quickly, but not quite quickly enough.

“Emily,” he says, taking my hand. “You look fantastic.” His thumb traces a small, slow arc across my knuckles before he lets go.

It could be my imagination, but could he be subtly licking his lips?

We make small talk until the waiter arrives. Lorenzo orders for both of us without glancing at the menu.

At first, I’m resentful. Where does Lorenzo get off not even asking what I want to eat? But then I realize I can’t eat a bite in this tight dress.

“This dress is incredible,” I tell him. “But the fabric is so snug I feel like I’ll burst if I eat a morsel.”

“Food is overrated,” he says dismissively, still looking at me in a way I can only describe as anticipation.

“The dress fits you even better than I had hoped,” he says.