Recovering like a true professional, Francis raised the Saks shopping bag, her smile turning bright and cheery. “This is from Mr. Donovan. Your outfit for this evening.”
First Juti, now Francis. Two beautiful women from Warren’s world had graced Jenna’s apartment in less than forty-eight hours. Jenna didn’t want her insecurities to get the better of her, but it was hard not to wonder—however irrationally—whether Juti and Francis knew what Warren was and if they’d had the pleasure of experiencing his unique talents.
Jenna took the bag, and Francis peered politely into her apartment as if expecting an invitation to enter.
“Mr. Donovan asked me to wait while you tried it on,” she said.
When Jenna didn’t immediately step aside and invite her in but merely frowned in confusion, Francis added, “In case the dress he chose for you doesn’t fit.”
“Oh.” Jenna fluttered her hand as if she had nothing to worry about. “I’m sure the fit will be fine.”
She preferred to spend these last few hours before meeting Warren alone, not resisting the temptation to ask Francis if he had taken her to his dungeon.
Francis’s smile turned into patient determination. “Mr. Donovan insisted.”
Her eyebrows popped up. “Oh, he did, did he?” Jenna puffed out an indignant exhale.
Maybe the fact that she still hadn’t seen his face and didn’t know certain aspects of his life when he knew so much about hers was getting to her. Or—okay—maybe she was a little jealous of the modelesque women he’d sent to her apartment like he was flaunting his harem.
Which was so unfair to him, because he’d never once given her a reason to think he was seeing anyone or that he would treat her so disrespectfully.
But she couldn’t help how she felt. Until she saw him, heard his reassuring voice, and felt his exhilarating touch, she was going to be a bit of a mess. There was so much at stake tonight, and she was more nervous than she wanted to admit.
So Francis was just going to have to forgive her for being a bit snippy.
“When you return to Mr. Donovan, perhaps you can tell him that, in the future, if he wants to ensure that the clothes he chooses for me fit, he should allow me to try them on before he spends an obscene amount of money on them.”
A twinkle lit in Francis’s eyes as if she approved of Jenna’s feisty attitude. “Of course, Ms. Spencer.”
“Please call me Jenna.”
Francis tipped her head in deferral. “Jenna.”
Jenna allowed her in and offered her something to drink, then excused herself to her bedroom, set the shopping bag on the bed, and pulled out two boxes.
The smaller box held a pair of Saint Laurent black patent-leather slingback sandals with three-and-a-half-inch heels.
Saint Laurent. As in Yves Saint Laurent!
Okay, so maybe the dress had cost Warren more than a few hundred dollars, given that the shoes he’d picked out were at least six-hundred-dollar shoes.
Just what did Warren do for a living that he could afford shelling out this kind of money on an outfit she might only wear once or twice?
Pulling herself together after realizing her feet were going to be dressed by one of the top designers in the world, Jenna took a deep breath and lifted the lid off the bigger, square-shaped box.
And nearly fell to her knees.
Oscar de la Renta. The black dress he’d bought her had been designed by the one and only Oscar de la Renta.
This had to have cost more than two thousand dollars, probably closer to three.
Jenna owned a couple of couture pieces, including the dress she’d worn to the Met, but she had never been able to afford designer royalty like this.
As she held her breath and lifted the dress from its regal nest of gold tissue paper, delicate angles of layered chiffon unfolded like liquid silk. The exquisite garment was topped by a backless, asymmetric bodice, and a cascade of black silk chiffon draped over one shoulder and down the back.
The dress looked perfect all on its own, but when she put it on, it looked and felt even better. The hem extended longer on one side than the other, as well as in the back versus the front, with the layers flowing down her body at varying lengths. But the real beauty of this masterpiece was the way the fabric swished softly over her skin as she moved, flaring as she twirled. Very elegant. Very sophisticated. Very classically and fashionably sexy.
And even sexier when she put on the shoes.
Warren had a good eye and impeccable taste. Not bad for a man who had only seen her once. He’d made a better choice than she would have.
Francis was equally impressed when Jenna did the obligatory parade and twirl to prove the dress did, in fact, fit perfectly.
“You look lovely,” she said.
“Will Mr. Donovan be pleased?” Jenna couldn’t keep a bite of sarcasm from her voice.
“Yes, I believe he will.” Her gaze settled on Jenna’s hair, which she had already meticulously pulled into a relaxed french twist like the one she’d worn to the Met, only a little more elegant. “However . . . about your hair . . .” She spoke carefully, slowly, as if she feared Jenna might not like what she was about to say.
Jenna’s eyebrows rose as she reached up and gently cradled the loose curls she had so artfully added to the strands falling around her face. “What about my hair?”
Francis gave her the practiced smile she’d worn when she’d insisted on waiting for her to try on the dress. “Mr. Donovan asked me to tell you that he would like for you to wear your hair down this evening.”
She raised her hand to her coiffed locks. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Maybe Jenna’s irritation at being kept in the dark about so many things for over a month was catching up to her. Either that or she wasn’t as ready to be a submissive as she’d thought. Because her free will stepped forward with its hands on its hips and a like-hell expression on
