Pretty dresses. Tight tops in bright colors. Skinny jeans paired with silk blouses and sky-high heels. That’s what I love to wear. It makes me happy. The heels especially because I feel less like Thumbelina from the fairytale Mom liked to read to me when I was a kid. Too bad that’s exactly what makes people see me as an empty-headed bimbo every time I doll up.

“You don’t want Albini to end up in the emergency room on such a lovely day, do you?”

“Fine.” I cock my hip and point a finger at him. “But just so you know—buying me a shitload of expensive clothes won’t make me like you any better.”

A small smile tugs on Rafael’s lips as he props his chin on his palm and watches me with amusement dancing in his eyes. “You have no idea how astonishing I find that little fact.”

Ugh. I pivot and storm off toward the rack with blouses while Raphael’s deep laugh chases me. As I’m browsing the nearest selections, out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Albini and the three sales ladies peeking around the slightly opened dressing room door, their heads stacked in a row like tilted face emojis.

It looks like my little hacker is trying to get back at me for making her buy more clothes . . . by picking up everything at the store that’s available in her size.

I fold my hands behind my head and take in the sea of white bags spanning the floor around the front counter. There must be at least fifty. She’s made Albini one happy camper, that’s for sure. I don’t recall ever seeing him as excited as he is at this moment while ringing in the twenty-third pair of heels.

“I think that’s the last one, Signor De Santi,” he says as one of the saleswomen places the box in a bag.

“Not yet.” I rise from the couch and walk up to Vasilisa, who looks like a deflated balloon amid the whiteout of her purchases. When she started piling items on the counter over two hours ago, she was looking very smug. She threw me a look that said You asked for it, beaming a rascally smile at me. I bet she expected me to stop her. When I did nothing to curtail her efforts, she kept bringing more and more things to the front, and her face slowly shifted from that mischievous grin to an exasperated countenance. Now she just looks tired. No wonder, after nearly three hours of trying on clothes and shoes.

“I don’t think they have anything else in my size,” she grumbles.

“You forgot a dress.”

“I don’t need one.”

My eyes sweep the store, halting at the display of elegant gowns. The centerpiece is a floor-length gold dress. The square neckline exposes the shoulders and instantly brings to mind timeless beauty and elegance. The sheer tight-fitting bodice and long sleeves are embroidered lace, featuring an intricate floral design, but the pleated skirt is all flowy solid-colored silk. And, along the front on the right side, a full-length slit that reaches the upper thigh. The dress is sophisticated and decadent at the same time. It would look beautiful on any woman. On this one in particular—it would look sexy as fuck.

So would a pair of black stilettos with a wide ankle strap adorned with a gold clasp. The shoes are sitting on the small nearby stand, but I can already see them on the shapely legs of my unwilling houseguest.

“Albini,” I say and nod toward the gown. “Shoes, as well.”

“That won’t fit,” Vasilisa mumbles following my gaze.

“Albini will make sure it’s adjusted. Go try it on.”

Vasilisa’s dainty teeth sink into her lower lip, brutalizing that soft pillowy flesh as she regards the store attendants removing the gown from the display. With her eyes twinkling and filled with wonder, she exudes pure innocence and ravenous yearning, similar to a child longing for their favorite candy while knowing they can’t have it before finishing their lunch.

“Okay,” she whispers and trails behind Albini as he carries the gown toward the dressing room.

I wait a few of minutes, then follow. The owner has stationed himself at the door, hands clasped in front of him.

“It’s the most exquisite garment we have, Signor De Santi. Every stitch is made by hand, sewn with a golden thread. I’m sure the lady will—”

I turn the knob and step inside the fitting room, closing the door in Albini’s face. The drapes on the far side are drawn, but there’s a narrow gap between the panels. As I approach, I catch a glimpse of Vasilisa. Those sexy black stilettos are on her feet, and she’s got the skirt of her dress pulled up a bit and seems to be twirling in place.

“Um . . . I think I’ll need help with the buttons.”

I cast a look at the saleswoman who was just about to offer her assistance. “Out,” I whisper.

She tenses, then rushes out of the room, taking the other two attendants with her.

“Well, it’s not as bad as I figured. Only half a foot too long,” Vasilisa continues from behind the curtain.

Seizing the two sides of the heavy drapery, I slide them apart, revealing Vasilisa as she holds up the skirt and examines the hem.

“But these buttons at the back are hard to”—she looks up, her eyes widening upon seeing me in her space—“reach.”

“Turn around.”

For a few moments, Vasilisa remains unmoving, her onyx-colored eyes staring into mine before she slowly pivots. Our gazes clash again in the mirror, and I hold her eyes captive while finding the first button at the small of her back. It’s tiny and round, and it takes me two tries to fasten it.

Is it because of my big fingers?

Or is it simply her, messing with my concentration?

I move my hands up to the next button, lightly brushing the silky skin along her spine with my fingertips. She trembles at my touch.

Is it in fear?

Button number three, done.

Another shiver.

Or is it from the uneasiness of having someone like me touch her? Does she find me repulsive?

I gently stroke along her skin, languidly this time, and enjoy the prolonged contact.

Vasilisa’s breathing becomes rapid. Maybe the dress isn’t enough. It’s just a piece of cloth, hardly suitable compensation for her consideration of my advances. More jewelry, perhaps? She hasn’t worn the necklace I bought her. Maybe it’s too heavy for every day? A bracelet, then. I’ll drop by my jeweler and see what he has in his latest collection.

There’s only one button left, the final one between her shoulder blades. I place my thumb at the base of her neck and slide it down, over the peaks and valleys of her spine, marveling at the feel of her soft skin. Then, I fasten the last button and just watch my Russian princess in the mirror.

The delicate floral lace wraps her upper body like a second skin, the pattern accentuating her little waist and elegant arms. The flowy silk skirt falls around her gorgeous legs, hiding them from my view, except for her right foot, which peeks out from between the folds.

She looks ethereal. Like she came from another world.

I take a step closer, so my front touches her back, and bend until my chin rests on top of her head.

“Tell me, Miss Petrova, how many hearts of men have been stomped by your tiny feet so far?”

Those dark eyes narrow in the mirror. “None.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“To be able to crush someone’s heart, it must be given to you first, Rafael. But, male pride on the other hand . . . Yeah, there have certainly been a few victims who saw theirs trampled.”

“That, I do not doubt.” I reach out and lightly stroke the dip of her neck. Her bare neck. “Where is the necklace I bought you?”

“In the box. Back in your office.”