“Stop calling me that.” I spin to face him, which is a mistake. Now, I’m trapped between his body and forty stories of nothing. “I’m not your little bird.”
“No?” His eyes drop to my throat, where my pulse hammers against my skin. “You’re certainly dressed like one. All these feathers. All this delicate silk.”
The dress was supposed to be part of my strategy. I bought the most expensive thing I could find at Bergdorf’s—yards of crimson-colored silk charmeuse that floats around my body, with white ostrich feathers trimming the high collar neckline.
But the way he’s looking at me now makes me feel like I didn’t dress to kill; I dressed to be killed.
His fingers trace one of the feathers, barely grazing my skin. “Did you wear this to tempt me? Or to torture me?”
“Maybe I didn’t think of y
