No one would be surprised, though. She was, after all, the daughter of Linda Valdez and Donald Jones. “I thought men hid their mistresses,” she complained under her breath, “not showed them off.”
“You have a lot to learn, Ashley,” he said as his hold tightened on her waist. “I’m looking forward to teaching you everything.”
CHAPTER THREE
HOW HAD SHE got to this point? Ashley stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Sebastian had brought in a stylist and hairdresser to his penthouse apartment at the top of his office building and they had spent the past few hours getting her ready for the night. Most women would have found it fun and relaxing. She thought it had been pure torture.
Her eyes were wide and her hands were clenched at her sides. The sumptuous walk-in closet faded in the background as she focused on her wild mane of hair. Her gaze traveled from her red lips to her stiletto heels. There was something familiar about the look.
Was this how all of Sebastian’s women dressed? She couldn’t live up to this sexual promise. This outfit, this look, was for a woman whose only goal was to please a man. Who placed her worth on whom she could attract and how long she could keep the man interested. She had seen plenty of women like that while she was growing up.
Ashley frowned and studied the orange dress a little closer. Why would Sebastian want a woman who didn’t make any demands? He didn’t seem to be the type who would surround himself with vapid women who didn’t challenge his intellect. But then, she didn’t know much about his love life.
Love? She snorted at the word. Sex, she mentally corrected herself. His sex life. If she asked him, would he remember all his lovers or were his women indistinguishable, one from the other?
The possibility pricked sharply at her. She didn’t want to be grouped with those women. Nameless and forgettable. She couldn’t go out looking like this. Like one of his mistresses. The dress wasn’t as revealing as she’d feared, but the daring attitude carried more than a promise of sex. It suggested her status and her price.
She abruptly turned her head and a memory collided with the movement she saw in the mirror. She froze. No, no, no! Slowly looking back, Ashley stared at her reflection with a mix of panic and horror. Big hair. Little dress. Bold color.
For a moment, she resembled her mother.
Linda Valdez had always worn bright and daring colors. She had wanted Donald Jones to notice her whether she was watching his tennis match from the players’ box or whether she was in a room filled with nubile women. When that didn’t work, Linda’s dresses started to get shorter and more revealing. She had been afraid to change her hairstyle in case it displeased Donald.
Everything her mother had done was to keep Donald’s interest. If his eyes strayed on to another woman, Linda would become desperate for his attention. Ashley knew her father never cared about her mother’s interests or opinions; his only concern was that Linda was beautiful, sexually available to him, and that everyone knew it. He would dress Linda in cheap and tasteless clothes and publicly discuss their relationship in the crudest language.
Ashley squeezed her eyes shut as she remembered one dress her mother had refused to wear. The bright red dress had been unforgiving. The corset bodice had painfully thrust Linda’s breasts out while the tight skirt had puckered and stretched around her bottom.
Her mother had been extraordinarily beautiful, but that unflattering outfit had exaggerated her curves and made her appear almost cartoonish. Yet what Ashley remembered most was, despite the epic argument about the dress, her mother had reluctantly worn it. That dress represented the inequality in her parents’ relationship. Ashley remembered clearly how Linda had hunched her shoulders and bent her head in shame when she wore that dress, defeated and humiliated.
Ashley’s nails bit into her palms and she choked back the panic. She fought the urge to kick off the delicate heels and rip off the dress. She wanted to get them off before they tainted her.
It was too late. The clothes weren’t the problem. Ashley flattened her hand on the mirror and bent her head as she exhaled shakily. For years she had been determined not to follow in her mother’s footsteps. She didn’t dress up for a man or try to gain his attention. She didn’t barter with her looks. And yet, here she was, a rich man’s plaything.