“I expected something ornate,” he said, but she didn’t think it was criticism.
Molly turned in a full, slow circle for him before he asked—or twirled that finger of his—so he could see the full effect. “You asked for starry-eyed adoration. And I think we can agree that I’ve delivered it.”
She already knew how the pictures would look. She had picked the simplest gown on offer, in a deep, luxurious blue. It looked like nothing much on a hanger, but she knew the designer well and had known at a glance that it would hug her perfectly and more, make her skin look luminous. She had the makeup artist make her look fresh and dewy, with a little bit of glamour around the eyes, on the off chance she couldn’t quite pull off full-on adoration at all times. And to top it off, the hairstylist had created a breathtaking bit of ponytail art that made her look like the girl next door.
Molly looked like innocence personified, and next to Constantine, she might as well have taken out a billboard announcing that she was Little Red Riding Hood, and he the Big Bad Wolf.
She could see by the way he grinned, slow and sure, that he agreed.
“The only question,” he said as he drew close, then took her arm in a possessive grip that made her whole body tighten, then melt, “is whether or not anyone will believe that a woman such as Magda could ever be innocent.”
“Love makes innocents of us all,” Molly said quietly, wishing those words sounded as arch as they had in her head. “Isn’t that the story you’re selling here? Magda, a known whore who is also the daughter of whores, is rendered into a Disney heroine at one touch of your wicked hand. What tabloid could resist such a lovely tale?”
He was still holding her arm, that hard palm of his wrapped around her bicep, which meant he was much too close. She knew his scent, now. She knew his heat. And the danger of his heavy-lidded gaze that only seemed to grow worse with time.
Or perhaps it was that she grew more susceptible with each day that passed.
“Why would anyone resist?” he asked, his voice rough.
And for a moment, while he gazed at her, she forgot where she was. She forgot who she was. The California sun streamed all over them both, but all she saw was the rich dark of his gaze. Her heart thudded. Her blood seemed to sing in her own veins, loud and clear.
When he turned away, steering her toward the door, she realized she had been holding her breath. And more, that she’d wanted absolutely nothing in that moment but to feel his mouth on hers again.
But Constantine did not kiss her that night. He waited.
First there was the red carpet in Los Angeles. Then it was a jaunt across the Pacific to Singapore, then on to Dubai, and then, in quick succession, Rome, Madrid, and then finally to Paris.
They had made exactly the splash Constantine had wanted. The world was obsessed with them. No one had ever seen Magda look so sweet, so smitten. No one had ever seen Constantine look even remotely possessive—of anything.
The public was hooked.
What worried Molly was her dawning realization that she was, too.
She was careful to remind herself—she tried to remind herself—that if he expected her to put on an act, he was likely doing the same. No matter how it felt sometimes.
In all, the trip took two weeks. It was a jumble of time zones, flashbulbs, and the flights in between, tucked up in that jet of his. Kept stocked, after the first week, with tabloids from too many countries to count. All featuring their faces.
“It makes a difference to actually try to make it on the cover of the tabloids, I suppose,” Molly had said somewhere in the beginning of their second week. “A bit inside out, if you ask me.”
“I want to be certain that for the rest of your career, no matter what happens, you will be asked about me,” Constantine had told her, with that smile of his that let her know this was a part of his revenge he loved the most. He liked to study her over the edge of his laptop, where he did who knew what. “Of course, a girl can only model for so long. As you might imagine.”
Molly had not shared with him that no one knew the expiration date on a model’s career more intimately than the model in question.
“Handy, isn’t it, that you can go right on being a bastard forever,” she replied instead, smiling wide.
And had pretended not to notice it when she’d gotten a real laugh out of him for her trouble.
Because all the while, the tension between them grew. A tension she tried to tell herself had to do with his great revenge and only that revenge...but she knew it didn’t. It was rooted in the way he touched her. Every time skin met skin, an electricity that only seemed to rage brighter and longer between them flared. And never dimmed. It was every event where they were stood next to each other, always touching, always gazing adoringly at each other.
Always acting, she told herself.
Only acting, surely—though more and more, she feared that wasn’t what she was doing at all.
They landed in Paris in the early afternoon and because it was Paris, Molly took extra time preparing herself for the evening ahead. That night, she went for more drama overall, but compensated for that with an understated face and a flat shoe that would be seen as edgy. Particularly amongst the fashionistas of France.
It was a typical evening. Too many pictures taken. Too many faces, all of them avid and insinuating, not much more than
