Chapter 13
SAbrINA
Did I have sex last night?
Without opening my eyes, I ran a hand over my body.
Shirt. Check. Bra. Check. Panties. Check. Pants. Pants?
Damn it.
Three out of four wasn’t bad.
Still, if I’d had sex with Sebastian last night, I’d remember.
No amount of champagne could wipe that kind of experience from memory.
Deep down, I knew Sebastian didn’t have sex.
He didn’t make love.
He fucked.
If it had happened, I’d be sore in places I wasn’t ready to think about.
The thought made me blush. I groaned into the pillow, my head pounding in protest. Champagne hangovers were the worst. A bartender once blamed the sugar, but I believed it was the bubbles. Twenty-something years without waking up in a strange bed without pants, and now this.
I buried my face deeper into the pillow, muffling another groan. Had I really called Sebastian Diamanti…a teddy bear?
Just kill me now.
Wait. Even if we hadn’t had sex…had he…?
Lurching upright, I checked the other side of the bed. He hadn’t slept in it. I ran my hand over the cool sheets and double-checked for any indentation in the pillow. Nothing.
Only the dull hum of traffic from outside reached my ears.
Was he still here?
I wanted him gone. I needed him gone. But if he left without a word? That would say more than anything he could’ve whispered in the dark.
What the hell was I thinking?
Of course I didn’t want him to be here.
Not when I didn’t have my pants on or even know where they were.
Facing Sebastian Diamanti right now was the last thing I could handle.
This was bad.
Really bad.
Career-ending bad.
I opened my eyes and took in my surroundings. The bedroom was beautiful, decorated in cream and gold. On the nightstand, a tiny tent card displayed an elegant logo: Hotel Shangri-La.
Damn it.
Could there be anything trashier than getting drunk and passing out in front of Sebastian? Sure. Waking up alone in a hotel afterward.
I slipped out of bed, moving slowly and silently.
I needed to find my pants, shoes, and any shred of dignity I had left, and then get out of here.
On my knees, I crawled across the lush carpet, searching under the bed, around the furniture, and through the covers.
Nothing. No pants. No shoes. No purse. No phone.
My eyes widened. My phone. I threw my head back with yet another groan. I remembered grabbing my purse before leaving the café—or, more accurately, being dragged out of it—but I’d left my phone on the table.
I was alone in Paris, and no one even knew where I was…with no one to call for help.
The café. My friends. The party. Henri.
Sebastian showing up furious.
Like water torture, the memories dripped back, one agonizing drop at a time. The kiss.
Oh God, the kiss.
Sebastian had kissed me. Again.
And I had freaking liked it. Again.
What the hell was wrong with me? Whenever this man came within my orbit, I lost all self-control.
Focus.
He'd kissed me.
I was an idiot for kissing him back…and then what?
That was where things got fuzzy.
Something about why he was in Paris.
Something about me.
The memory hovered just out of reach.
Whatever it was, it had alarmed me.
Fear and shock ripped over me…before he kissed me again, erasing everything else.
Well, not everything.
The universe was cruel enough to leave me with the vivid memory of the teddy bear comment.
I stared at the closed door that must lead to the rest of the suite.
As I braced myself, I saw my reflection in the bureau mirror.
It was as if a shadow stared back.
I smoothed my hair, wiped away the mascara smudges under my eyes, and pinched my cheeks. After grabbing the blanket from the bed, I wrapped it around my torso.
I pressed my ear to the door, straining to hear any sign of life.
Silence.
Biting my lip, I reached for the knob, slowly cracked the door open, then peeked out.
Empty.
With a push, I opened the door to the enormous suite.
No sign of Sebastian. Thank God.
How had I allowed myself to get into this mess? I knew Sebastian was dangerous.
It was practically the only thing everyone could talk about last night: how the House of Diamanti secretly controlled huge elements of the fashion industry.
Designers trashed their entire collections if the House of Diamanti deemed them unworthy of their diamond jewels.
I knew from personal experience édouard had been beside himself when the head stylist showed up with red-and-gold Cartier boxes instead of the signature black velvet and gold cases of the House of Diamanti.
Apparently, the Diamantis also acted as a shadow bank to many luxury brands, loaning billions in exchange for secret ownership percentages.
Then there were the mafia connections.
At first, I wanted to dismiss what they were saying as cheap gossip.
As an Italian American, I was used to people quoting The Godfather at me and assuming my entire family was "mobbed up." It was an undeserved but familiar stereotype of all Italians.
The problem was, the rumors about the House of Diamanti didn’t sound like just rumors—at least not to my friends. They said it was one of the worst-kept secrets in the fashion industry: crossing a Diamanti could have deadly consequences.
I didn’t want to believe any of it, but after spending even a short time with Sebastian, I couldn’t deny the truth behind their words.
Even I had noticed my body’s almost primal fear reaction to his presence.
There was something too intense, too imposing, too powerful about the man.
Power and money corrupted. Everyone knew that.
And when you handed that much power and money to someone as handsome and charming as Sebastian Diamanti…I trembled, unable to even complete the thought.
I twisted my fingers into the blanket I clutched to my chest.
I’d known I needed to stay away from him, and yet, somehow, I’d managed to jump out of the frying pan and into the damn fire. How the hell had I gone from avoiding a dinner invitation to waking up in the man’s hotel room? Stupid champagne.
This was so bad.
I slumped onto the edge of the sofa and took a deep breath.
No pants. No shoes. No purse. No phone.
I couldn’t even call a friend on the hotel landline because I didn’t know my own mother’s number by heart, let alone any of my new friends’ numbers in Paris.
The blanket slipped lower. I looked down at my wrinkled shirt in disgust.
What I really needed was a long, hot shower.
Everything wouldn’t seem so bleak after a shower.
And I’d probably have an easier time convincing the hotel front desk clerk to help me if I didn’t look like a whore who had just crawled out of a bottle.
Back in the bedroom, I paused over the neat row of suits in the closet while grabbing a hanger.
Feeling a little silly, I lifted one sleeve to my nose and inhaled. The scent of Sebastian’s cologne clung to the cashmere. There was something strangely intimate about looking at his clothes.
My gaze wandered to the bureau. The temptation to learn whether he wore boxers or briefs aroused my curiosity. He probably wore Calvin Kleins. My imagination went wild: all that tall, olive-skinned muscle in a tight pair of Calvins, which would hug his…
I swallowed.
Shower. I needed a shower—maybe a cold one now.
The bathroom was, of course, over-the-top luxurious: all white marble and glass, with high-end hotel touches like a phone by the toilet, a separate bidet, and multiple gold showerheads.
After steaming my shirt on the hanger in the shower for a few minutes, I hung it on a nearby towel rack and stepped inside.
The hot water was heaven.
It soaked my hair and scalp before running down my back.
I rolled my head, easing the tension in my neck and shoulders. While it had been lovely sleeping in a bed for the first time in two weeks instead of on a mat on the floor, it hadn’t undone all the soreness from the show.
But this shower definitely helped.
It was another luxury. All of us at the flat had to take quick five-minute showers to preserve hot water for the next person.
To just stand and let the powerful jets pound into my skin and unwind me as I soaked in all the steam and heat...I could almost forget the enormous mess I was in.
No. Don’t think about it.
Just enjoy the shower.
The soap provided by the hotel smelled like lemongrass and eucalyptus.
The silky bubbles foamed over my skin while I ran a washcloth along my arms and legs, erasing last night with every swipe.
When I got out of the shower, reality would crash down on me like an icy bucket of water, but for now… for now, I could just be in the moment.
I tilted my head back and let the water stream over my face as I smoothed my freshly washed hair back.
“Bellissima.”
The smooth timbre of his voice sent a jolt through my body.
With a startled cry, I spun around, my bare feet slipping slightly on the slick tiles, catching myself when my back hit the cool, unforgiving marble. Water streamed down my face, blurring my vision, and I frantically wiped at my eyes.
Sebastian stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame as though he had all the time in the world.
The epitome of effortless power, dressed in a crisp white dress shirt left tantalizingly open at the collar, revealing a hint of his tanned, muscular chest. The soft glow of the bathroom lights reflected off the fine fabric, making it seem almost too pristine for someone like him.
The dark-blue dress slacks hugged his long, lean legs, perfectly tailored to highlight his commanding frame. Every inch of him screamed control, authority, and an arrogance so unshakable it left no room for argument.
A wicked smile curled his lips—sharp, knowing, and laced with amusement.
“Enjoying yourself?” he drawled.
Heat surged through my veins, though whether from embarrassment or anger, I couldn’t tell.
“How—” My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and tried again, clutching the edge of the glass shower door for support. “How did you get in here? The door was locked.”
His smile deepened, a quiet, unspoken reminder of how meaningless a locked door was. His presence filled the space, an overwhelming weight that seemed to sap the air from the room.
“What do you want, Sebastian?”
He held my gaze for one agonizing moment, the air between us crackling with unspoken tension. Then his lips curved. “What I always want,” he murmured. “Everything.”