Chapter 2 2

Basile narrowed his eyes.

He looked at her as if she were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve, or perhaps a bug he hadn't decided whether to crush yet.

"Suit yourself," he muttered.

He threw the covers off and stood up.

He was completely naked.

Celeste felt the heat rush to her cheeks, but she forced herself not to look away.

She watched his gaze sweep over the silk sheets where she lay, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. He deliberately walked around the bed, giving it a wide berth as if it were contaminated.

She watched him walk toward the bathroom, his movements fluid and unashamed.

He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

"You have five minutes to disappear before I call security," he said. "And don't touch anything. I have a thing about germs."

The bathroom door clicked shut.

The sound of the shower started a moment later.

Celeste scrambled off the bed.

Her legs felt weak, but they held her.

She scanned the room desperately.

Her dress from the night before-a silver cocktail number-was lying in a heap on the carpet.

It was shredded.

The zipper was torn out.

Daniela.

It had to be her sister.

She couldn't walk out of the Plaza Hotel in a torn dress.

Not with the press waiting downstairs.

She needed armor.

Celeste walked into the walk-in closet.

Rows of impeccably tailored suits hung in color-coordinated precision.

She grabbed a crisp white dress shirt from a hanger.

She slipped it on.

It swallowed her frame, the hem hitting her mid-thigh.

She buttoned it up to her neck, rolling the sleeves up her arms.

It smelled like him.

Sandalwood and expensive tobacco.

She reached into the pocket of a charcoal gray jacket hanging nearby.

Her fingers brushed against a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

She pulled them out.

She didn't smoke.

She hated the smell.

But her hands were shaking again.

She needed to do something with them.

She lit a cigarette, taking a shallow drag, coughing slightly as the smoke hit her lungs.

The nicotine rush made her head spin, but it steadied her nerves.

The bathroom door opened.

Basile walked out, a white towel wrapped low around his hips.

Water droplets clung to his chest hair and trailed down his abdomen.

He stopped dead when he saw her.

Celeste was sitting in the velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other.

Smoke curled from her fingers.

She looked like a disaster, but a composed one.

Basile leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

"Is the cosplay over?" he asked, his voice dripping with mockery. "Your fiancé is waiting at the altar."

Celeste crushed the cigarette into the crystal ashtray.

She stood up.

"Bryce Colon is a piece of trash," she said.

Basile raised an eyebrow.

This was new.

The Celeste Franco he knew-or thought he knew-was a puppet, a trust fund baby who worshipped the ground Bryce walked on.

"I know you're buying up the scattered shares of Franco Group," Celeste said.

The mockery vanished from Basile's face.

His expression hardened into stone.

He pushed off the doorframe and took a step toward her.

The air in the room suddenly felt heavier.

"Who told you that?" he asked softly.

Too softly.

"It doesn't matter," Celeste said. "I own fifteen percent of the company. My grandmother left it to me in a trust that unlocks today."

She took a step toward him.

They were inches apart now.

She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

"I can give them to you," she said.

Basile reached out.

His hand was large, his fingers calloused.

He gripped her chin, tilting her face up further.

His thumb brushed against her lower lip.

"And the price?" he asked.

Celeste didn't blink.

"Marry me," she said. "Right now. Today."

Basile's grip tightened slightly.

He studied her face, searching for the lie, for the trap.

"You're high," he said. "Or you're still drunk from whatever they slipped you last night."

He let go of her chin and turned away, reaching for a pair of trousers draped over a chair.

"Get out, Celeste. Before I lose my patience."

Celeste moved.

She put herself between him and the trousers.

She looked like a cornered animal, desperate and dangerous.

"Account number 744-Bravo-X-Ray," she said. "Cayman Islands. The shell company is 'Orion Holdings'."

Basile froze.

His hand hovered over the fabric of his pants.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned back to face her.

That account was a secret.

A secret that could land him in federal prison if mishandled.

A secret only three people in the world knew.

And she wasn't one of them.

Until now.

He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time.

The fear was gone from her eyes.

In its place was something cold.

Something burning.

"Start talking," Basile said.