It was a set of earrings. Diamonds clustered in the shape of a flower. Gorgeous. Not huge. The sparkle and setting saying it all. The fact that the post was screw in laying testimony to how expensive they were. They were not earrings you’d want to lose because the doohickey fell off the back.
The second box held a necklace, a delicate white gold chain on which was suspended a flower cluster of diamonds that matched the earrings. The pendant was larger than the earrings, eye-catching but not ostentatious.
The third, a diamond bracelet made up of the same flower clusters. It was extraordinary and it had to be at least five times as expensive as the earrings and necklace because it was all diamonds linked with thick, white gold links.
I put the first two in and on but couldn’t do the clasp on the bracelet one-handed because it was too complicated.
Then I turned to the last.
The last box I knew what it was by the size. And when I opened it, I saw I was right.
A diamond engagement ring, princess cut, stone not even close to small, white gold, the stone elevated, double rows on an open curve guiding up to it set with an array of much smaller diamonds but a whole lot of them.
I stared at it thinking that Ty Walker was not fucking around.
I held my breath as I slipped it on, lost my breath when it caught on my knuckle, deep breathed as I panicked that it would be too small then it slid over my knuckle and down where it sat at the base of my finger snugly. It wouldn’t ever fall off. Perfect fit.
“Shit,” I whispered, staring at the beautiful ring that looked really fucking great on my finger.
Then a knock came at the door. I jumped then hurried to the door to find a man stood there holding a hanger on which was a zipped-up suit holder and he was balancing four boxes in his other hand.
“One hour tailoring,” he announced.
There you go. In Vegas, you could get anything.
I smiled at him and let him in, he put down the boxes on the top of the cabinet unit, hung up the hanger in the closet, I gave him a ten, he smiled and hustled out. I went to the boxes, white cardboard sides but clear plastic top. I sifted through them. Four dress shirts. One deep gray, one deep lavender, one deep blue and the last a light, dove gray.
The shower went off but Walker didn’t come out so I stopped sifting through his stuff and went about my final preparations, in other words, perfume, deodorant, lip gloss and shifting things I needed from my purse to my new satin clutch with the rhinestone clasp that matched my shoes.
I was sitting in a chair putting on my spike-heeled, deep blush, satin, open-toed sandals with the wrapped heel and ankle strap that had a rhinestone buckle when he came out.
Then my fingers arrested on the buckle when my head came up and I saw my new fiancé wearing nothing but a towel.
I was right. All muscle. Lots of it, all of them big.
I was also right. Perfect skin as far as the eye could see.
That was, the skin not inked but even the inked skin was perfect because the ink was awesome. He had a lot of tats. Lots of them. Or, more to the point, he had two tats but one that curved, slanted and swirled doing all of this while covering a lot of space, from the top of his left forearm, up, covering his upper arm, up, curving over his shoulder and up his neck, curling around his shoulder to his back and across his left lat, at the front snaking across his chest, pec, midriff, abs, most of this halfway across his massive, muscled torso, some of its awesomeness slithering even further to invade the right side of his upper body, more going around his left side to lead to more on his back and even more meandering down to disappear tantalizingly into the towel. The other tat was a line of intriguing symbols that ran from his inner right wrist curving around to end at the top of his outer forearm.
The big tat was amazing, a work of art. The smaller tattoo was not as cool but still fascinating. That said, I was too overwhelmed by all that was him and how beautiful every inch of it was to pay discriminating attention to the tats.
He was digging into the bag Shift packed and pulled out a pair of black underwear.
When the underwear appeared, my head dipped straight back down to my shoe. It took awhile to get them fastened because my fingers were trembling. By the time I looked up, he had on a pair of dark gray suit pants and was shrugging on the dove gray shirt.
“I need your help with the bracelet,” I said and my voice sounded funny, scratchy.
His eyes came to me and he jerked his chin up but kept buttoning his shirt.
“Uh… just wondering,” I went on as I stood. “What’s with the bling?” Then I lifted a hand and touched the diamonds at my neck.
“Man in the lobby?” he returned.
I nodded, knowing who he was referring to.
“Watchin’ me. Watchin’ you.”
I nodded again. I knew this though his confirmation of it still made my gut get tight. I also figured it explained the circuitous route we took to Vegas. That man was tailing us, Walker knew it and was either trying to shake him or play with him.
“Knows me,” he continued.
I nodded again.
“Knows how I am with my women.”