candlelight and wine.”
No alcohol. Ever.
“Sorry, I mean sparkling cider,” Gia corrects herself quickly.
“I knew what you meant.”
Gia sighs. I hear so many nuanced things from that one snippet of sound.
“It'll be fine. You're only in Norway for a week. Then you return here. I'm sure the Club Alpha fantasy doesn't really heat up right away.”
“Zaire said it could be anytime within the ninety days.”
The silence, instead of words, fills the conversation.
“Knock his socks off, Greta. Have fun. Allow yourself to feel happiness again.”
I nod then realize she can't see it. “Okay, you're right.”
“Phone me tomorrow.”
“I will. Thank you, Gia.” Thanks for pulling me from Hell's gallows.
“You bet. Talk tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
I swipe her grinning face away.
Determined, I jump out of bed and walk briskly to the closet. Tearing open the doors, I scan the clothing.
My eyes land on a rich midnight-blue dress so dark it's nearly black, very simple. It's sleeveless. I hesitate, hand on the hanger. It won't cover the scars.
Finally, I jerk it off and lay the beautiful dress out on the bed. I walk away before I can turn chicken and decide against wearing it. I move to the shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it.
It won't wash the memories away. Nothing will.
But I'm determined they won't steal my freedom.
The happiness Gia promises is there for me if I trust again.
If.
*
A pearl gray limo prowls to a stop beside the high curb in front of my hotel.
A light shawl covers my shoulders. Like my shoes, it's nude. October in Norway feels like the promise of winter, and I'm instantly aware I'm not dressed warmly enough. The spiderweb of fabric gives the illusion of coverage but no real warmth. A huge coat would have marred the line of the dress, so I chose my shawl.
Beauty is pain . I smirk.
The hemline rides three inches above my knees and wraps at the high point of my hip. The subtle v-shape neckline is not exceedingly low, but it offers a glimpse of cleavage as I move.
I stride to the limo as the driver rounds the front and heads me off at the pass to open the door with a flourish.
“Thank you,” I greet him in Norwegian.
“You're welcome,” he returns like a perfect volley in English.
I forget how so many Europeans speak English. So much for practicing my Norwegian.
I give my best effort to hang on to modesty as I fold myself inside the plush interior.
Tor Aros waits inside.
Like a cat catching sight of a mouse, his energy seems stretched taut, reaching for me on invisible strings.
His eyes flare as they settle on my figure. Tor leaves nothing untouched or unseen.
“Hello,” he says in a rich baritone timbre, sliding forward and capturing my hand.
He kisses it as he did earlier today. This time, there is electricity like a painful spark.
His eyes meet mine over the bend of my hand.
Just as the exchange might become uncomfortable, he gently places my hand against my knee. “How are you this evening, Ms. Dahlem?”
My lips lift. “I am well, Mr. Aros,” I say, ducking my head slightly.
“Tor,” he says. A whisper of brows meet, then his face clears.
My smile widens. “Greta.”
“Touché,” he says.
I swing my slim briefcase around and begin to fiddle with latches.
“No, Greta. Let us wait on things of business until such time after we've dined.” His deep auburn brow rises in question.
“Sure,” I reply a little breathlessly.
He's so handsome, I feel like the oxygen is depleted in the back of the limo.
I try to not to stare—and lose that battle soundly.
Tonight the suit is soft black, so cool against his warm skin and hair. His brown eyes blaze into mine across the seat. It feels as though we're mere inches apart instead of almost four feet.
“Champagne?” He indicates the bucket behind him.
I shake my head. Just seeing the bottle makes my heartbeat skate erratically.
Alcohol equals waking up bound and afraid. It brings the
No alcohol. Ever.
“Sorry, I mean sparkling cider,” Gia corrects herself quickly.
“I knew what you meant.”
Gia sighs. I hear so many nuanced things from that one snippet of sound.
“It'll be fine. You're only in Norway for a week. Then you return here. I'm sure the Club Alpha fantasy doesn't really heat up right away.”
“Zaire said it could be anytime within the ninety days.”
The silence, instead of words, fills the conversation.
“Knock his socks off, Greta. Have fun. Allow yourself to feel happiness again.”
I nod then realize she can't see it. “Okay, you're right.”
“Phone me tomorrow.”
“I will. Thank you, Gia.” Thanks for pulling me from Hell's gallows.
“You bet. Talk tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
I swipe her grinning face away.
Determined, I jump out of bed and walk briskly to the closet. Tearing open the doors, I scan the clothing.
My eyes land on a rich midnight-blue dress so dark it's nearly black, very simple. It's sleeveless. I hesitate, hand on the hanger. It won't cover the scars.
Finally, I jerk it off and lay the beautiful dress out on the bed. I walk away before I can turn chicken and decide against wearing it. I move to the shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it.
It won't wash the memories away. Nothing will.
But I'm determined they won't steal my freedom.
The happiness Gia promises is there for me if I trust again.
If.
*
A pearl gray limo prowls to a stop beside the high curb in front of my hotel.
A light shawl covers my shoulders. Like my shoes, it's nude. October in Norway feels like the promise of winter, and I'm instantly aware I'm not dressed warmly enough. The spiderweb of fabric gives the illusion of coverage but no real warmth. A huge coat would have marred the line of the dress, so I chose my shawl.
Beauty is pain . I smirk.
The hemline rides three inches above my knees and wraps at the high point of my hip. The subtle v-shape neckline is not exceedingly low, but it offers a glimpse of cleavage as I move.
I stride to the limo as the driver rounds the front and heads me off at the pass to open the door with a flourish.
“Thank you,” I greet him in Norwegian.
“You're welcome,” he returns like a perfect volley in English.
I forget how so many Europeans speak English. So much for practicing my Norwegian.
I give my best effort to hang on to modesty as I fold myself inside the plush interior.
Tor Aros waits inside.
Like a cat catching sight of a mouse, his energy seems stretched taut, reaching for me on invisible strings.
His eyes flare as they settle on my figure. Tor leaves nothing untouched or unseen.
“Hello,” he says in a rich baritone timbre, sliding forward and capturing my hand.
He kisses it as he did earlier today. This time, there is electricity like a painful spark.
His eyes meet mine over the bend of my hand.
Just as the exchange might become uncomfortable, he gently places my hand against my knee. “How are you this evening, Ms. Dahlem?”
My lips lift. “I am well, Mr. Aros,” I say, ducking my head slightly.
“Tor,” he says. A whisper of brows meet, then his face clears.
My smile widens. “Greta.”
“Touché,” he says.
I swing my slim briefcase around and begin to fiddle with latches.
“No, Greta. Let us wait on things of business until such time after we've dined.” His deep auburn brow rises in question.
“Sure,” I reply a little breathlessly.
He's so handsome, I feel like the oxygen is depleted in the back of the limo.
I try to not to stare—and lose that battle soundly.
Tonight the suit is soft black, so cool against his warm skin and hair. His brown eyes blaze into mine across the seat. It feels as though we're mere inches apart instead of almost four feet.
“Champagne?” He indicates the bucket behind him.
I shake my head. Just seeing the bottle makes my heartbeat skate erratically.
Alcohol equals waking up bound and afraid. It brings the
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