The dress Adrian sent to Beacon Hill arrived in a flat black box tied with a single silk ribbon. No card. No instructions. Just the dress and, nestled beneath a layer of tissue, a strand of pearls so lustrous they seemed to glow against the white paper.
Elena lifted them with trembling fingers. They were heavy, each pearl perfectly matched, the clasp a discreet platinum hook. She understood immediately what he wanted. The dress was a sheath of midnight silk that slipped over her head like water, its neckline plunging to the hollow between her ribs, its hem kissing just above her knees. It concealed everything and revealed everything. Every curve, every breath, every tremor of her body would be visible through the thin fabric.
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