Chapter 17
SAbrINA
“Idon’t believe you.”
His brow arched as he stepped forward, pushing me farther into the closet. He stretched his arms over my head and gripped the empty hanger bar. “Are you calling me a liar, Sabrina?”
As his robe shifted, it revealed more of his olive-toned chest, lightly dusted with black hair. I also had a better view of the tattoo over his heart. It appeared to be some sort of crown in the middle of a spiky purple flower.
I refused to let my gaze drop any lower.
“No, I…I just don’t think…I’m too early in my career for someone of your notoriety to notice me.”
He reached for the top button on my borrowed shirt. “The use of antique mirrors and shadow in the shoot for Venom and Velvet.”
He flicked the button open.
His hand moved to the second button. “The shattered glass and metal sculptures in the Obsidian Reverie collection window display in New York.”
The back of his hand brushed the curve of my breast as he moved to the third button. “The silhouettes and halos of light in the Eclipse Noir purse catalog.”
He recounted some of my most successful projects—projects I had assumed were far beneath the notice of the House of Diamanti.
His fingertip traced my collarbone, then down between my breasts. “Does that…satisfy your curiosity, mia sospettosa piccola americana?”
I clutched at my shirt. “Okay, fine. You know my work, but that doesn’t prove you’re not offering me this position just to sleep with me.”
“The last thing I want to do is sleep with you.”
I pushed my hair forward over my shoulders, shielding my exposed skin. “That’s not what I meant. I meant…I meant…”
He leaned down, his tongue tracing the edge of my ear. His hand slipped around my waist as he rasped, “Sex, dolcezza. You meant sex.”
I ducked under his arm and backed away. “Yes, that.”
Before he could respond, I turned, intending to head out of the closet.
As I buttoned my shirt, I raised my chin and faced him instead. “I know I’ll probably regret this, but I’m sorry. I can’t accept your job offer.”
“Are you saying no?”
I twisted the ring on my finger, avoiding his stern gaze.
Keenly aware Sebastian was not used to hearing the word no, I wanted to be crystal clear that my mind was made up.
Or at least sound that way.
“I’m saying thank you, but no,” I whispered.
His lips lifted into what should have been a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not accustomed to accepting the word no.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Fuck. I needed to get out of this closet before he…
Sebastian advanced toward me.
Crap.
A man’s voice called from the suite beyond, “Signor Diamanti, ci sono alcune donne qui con i vestiti che ha richiesto.”
Then a woman’s voice interjected, “Excusez-moi. Monsieur Diamanti? Je suis ici avec les vêtements que vous avez demandés.”
While I didn’t understand the Italian, the French was simple enough even for me.
The clothes he'd ordered had arrived.
His gaze moved over me slowly. “Looks like you’re saved…for now.”
As he turned to address the woman calling out for him, I slumped against the closet wall, closing my eyes as I tried to process what had just happened.
I couldn’t decide whether I’d been offered a legitimate job or threatened.
A chance encounter less than twenty-four hours ago, and suddenly this man knew all about my career and wanted to hire me?
What was I missing?
Several women, dressed head to toe in severe black with tight hair buns, wheeled four racks of clothing into the bedroom. Unzipping the cloth covers, they revealed garments from some of the world’s best designers: Gucci, Versace, Valentino, Prada, Armani, Biagiotti.
All Italian, of course.
Sebastian stepped up to the racks and flipped through the hangers. The woman in charge pulled out outfits, showing them to him as he nodded yes or shook his head no.
After several minutes, I inched forward and gestured toward an Armani sheath dress. “I’m fine with the Armani.”
It was clear I had no choice. If I didn’t want to walk the streets of Paris in his dress shirt, I’d have to choose an outfit.
The sheath dress was simple and elegant. My gold heels wouldn’t look out of place with it, and it was from Armani’s off-the-rack workwear collection—not outrageously expensive.
“If you can just get my purse, I’ll give you a credit card.”
All the chatter stopped.
Every person turned to stare at me as if I’d suggested a dress with two collars for my second head.
To mask my embarrassment, I fluffed my hair. “I’m sorry, do you not take credit cards?”
The woman in charge turned to Sebastian, speaking rapid-fire French with animated gestures. Though too fast to catch everything, I understood the key phrases.
“Insult.”
“New wardrobe.”
“Valued client.”
“Diamonds.”
Sebastian raised a hand, silencing them all. He then spoke in clear, deliberate French.
My mouth dropped open.
I had to have heard him wrong.
There was no way he had just told her he’d take everything.
But judging by her self-satisfied smirk and the way she bowed and literally kissed his signet ring, he had.
The woman gestured to a small trunk, which one of her attendants opened. It was filled with lingerie. A second trunk held shoes, and a third, purses.
With a flourish, the women filed out, leaving us alone.
I crossed my arms over my middle. “What just happened?”
Sebastian brushed past me into the closet. He revealed a distracting view of his tight ass in black Calvin Kleins as he shrugged out of his robe.
I knew it.
He selected a pair of slacks and stepped into them.
As his long fingers zipped and buttoned them, he asked, “What do you mean?”
I threw an arm toward the racks. “Did you just tell her you’d take all these clothes?”
It was my job to know the cost of reputable designers, and there was easily over a hundred thousand dollars' worth of high-end merchandise in the room.
He threaded a black leather belt through the loops. “You’ll need an acceptable wardrobe for your new position at the House of Diamanti. And I insist you only wear Italian designers.”
He unfolded a soft gray cashmere sweater and pulled it over his head.
Still vulnerable in his oversized shirt, I marched to one rack and found the cheapest item: a Prada black tracksuit with nylon stripes and a cropped hoodie. Behind the rack, I quickly changed into the sweatpants and hoodie before coming back.
Sebastian, now wearing dress shoes and fastening a heavy silver Rolex around his wrist, glanced at me as I rummaged through the shoe trunk for sneakers.
I laced up the white Prada sneakers I'd found. “I already told you I don’t want the job. And the only reason I’m taking these clothes is because you stole mine.”
With as much authority as I could muster, I straightened and faced him. “I’d like my purse, please.”
Sebastian chuckled and ruffled my hair. “You’re adorable when you’re angry.”
My eyes widened. “This isn’t funny, Sebastian. I want to leave.”
He winked. “I think I know exactly what you want, Sabrina, and it isn’t to leave.”
I inhaled sharply through my teeth.
The arrogance of this man.
There was confidence, and then there was sociopathic confidence.
Sebastian clearly leaned toward one side of the spectrum.
“Don’t presume to tell me what I do and don’t want. Now, are you going to let me leave?”
His eyebrow arched. “I’m not stopping you.”
“You have my purse.”
He gestured with his head to the main room. “The safe is open. It has been all morning.”
The humiliating truth of his admission hit me.
“You’re a real bastard, you know that, Sebastian?”
“It takes one to know one, Sabrina.”
I stumbled backward.
He couldn’t possibly know that I was illegitimate.
I didn’t think for a second that he knew all about my fashion stylist gigs before we met, either. Clearly, he had researched me since then.
I needed to get the hell out of here.
After I stormed past him into the main suite, I found the large safe inside the foyer coat closet.
It was open, just like he'd said.
Once I snatched my purse from the safe, I crossed to the hotel suite doors and wrenched them open.
Immediately, two large men dressed in S.W.A.T gear closed ranks, blocking my exit.
From behind me, Sebastian’s deep voice commanded, “Let her go.”
The men fell back.
I barely glanced at him as I fought back tears. “Goodbye, Sebastian. I’d rather you didn’t try to contact me.”
As I stepped over the threshold, Sebastian called out, “Sabrina…”
I stopped but didn’t turn.
“I will be at Sauvage-Lafleur’s studio at noon to pick you up," he said sharply. "We’ll head straight to the airport from there.”
This man was impossible.
Knowing that I could tell him no until I was blue in the face and he wouldn’t listen, I realized there was no point in continuing to argue. He would accept my answer when I refused to leave with him later.
At least at the studio, there would be witnesses.