Law didn’t know where to look first. Formal occasion, she’d told him. Tuxedo a must. He figured he’d look like a gorilla in a penguin suit. But he wasn’t prepared for what formal looked like on her.
The sleek braid Jori most often wore had been swept up into a high shiny ponytail that cascaded down her back in a sexy mane of loose curls on her shoulders. The tiny chandeliers hanging from her ears were catching brilliant bits of light and casting rainbows on the wall. Her dress, a stretchy lace thing the color of pearls, clung to her curves. Bands of fabric hugged the corners of her shoulders, anchoring the plunge of her neckline. Modest yet sexy as hell. That dress made him itch to snag a finger in the crisscross lacing cinching her waist, drag down her zipper, and peel her out of it. But mostly he was fascinated by her legs, looking a mile long in gold sandals with ankle straps and fuck-me heels. Her face was shadowed and mascaraed and lipsticked just enough. He’d known she was a pretty woman. He hadn’t realized she was a gorgeous one.
Just as quickly, he realized he would have competition for her attention this evening, and probably every day after.
“Do I look okay?” She did a little turn for him, a hopeful smile on her red mouth.
“Yeah.” He looked away, feeling the rare sensation of intimidation. Hell. He’d already made love to her and knew she liked it. Why was he feeling out of his league when he looked at her now?
This is the real me. He’d said those words to her about his state police uniform. Was this the real Jordan Garrison, the former sorority college girl at home in expensive clothes, polished makeup, and mile-high stilettos?
“You don’t like it.” She sounded surprised, and just a little bit hurt.
“No.” He looked back at her, unable to keep his hunger from showing. “I like it. A lot!”
“Oh.” She said the word softly, as if it hadn’t occurred to her before that she might have taken his breath away. She had no idea the power she possessed. He knew he’d get on all fours—threes—and crawl to her if she asked. Which she never would. She wouldn’t see her influence over him as power to be used to gain the upper hand. Lucky him. Even so, he rented a damn tux!
He looked to lighten the moment. “Your shoes match.”
Jori looked down and cocked her foot to show off a heel. “I thought, for the occasion, I’d try to be normal.”
She looked up at him, a little secret smile on her face. “Actually, I’ve made a vow to myself to never wear completely matching clothing.”
“I noticed. Want to tell me why?”
A tiny frown deepened between her eyebrows. “Last time you said it didn’t matter.”
“It didn’t. Then.”
Jori took a careful breath. She shouldn’t read too much into that statement. Yet she felt it, too. Things had changed between them. “Since prison, I can’t stand the idea that someone else decides what I wear and can’t wear. That was the toughest part inside. Having no control. Once out, I felt the need to do things daily to remind myself that I was back in control.”
Law got that. A little bit of rebellion every day to remind herself that she had her freedom back. “I used to count my fingers and toes after every surgery. Just to be certain nothing else had been taken from me while I was unconscious. Those remaining five ugly toes were sometimes the best sight I’d see all day.”
Jori let herself absorb that confidence without comment. No one needed to tell her Law didn’t give away pieces of himself, even the tiny ones, easily or often.
“So, what doesn’t match today?”
Jori offered him a flirtatious smile instead of an answer. “You’re not dressed.”
He looked down at himself. He wore a stiffly starched shirt hung open over his impressive bare chest, and the pants to his rented tuxedo. Filling one leg was his second-best prosthesis. His bionic wonder was on its way to the manufacturer for repairs. This one didn’t fit as well as it should because of the residual swelling. But he wasn’t going to meet a Tice on crutches.
“There aren’t enough buttons on this shirt. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these.” He opened his fist and held out a palm full of studs and cuff links.
Jori smiled. “Want some help?”
He gave her a short upward motion with his head.
His lids fell half shut as she approached him and took a piece of metal from his hand. “These are called studs. They take the place of buttons.”
As she worked the first stud into the hole in his shirt, the knuckles of her hand skimmed the trace of dark hair on Law’s chest. He sucked in a shallow breath, not wanting her to know how much her nearness affected him. She smelled of jasmine and vanilla. Jesus. She was killing him.
To keep herself from turning her hand around and skimming the broad shadowy contours half hidden by his shirt, Jori made herself talk. “You really never wore a tux before?”
“Never.”
She slanted a questioning look up at him. “What about prom?”
“What about it?”
“You didn’t go?”