Page 22 of Brutal Heir

I didn’t care.

I wanted it.

Now.

And what I wanted, I got. “Maintenant. Vous avez quinze minutes pour l’amener ici.”

The manager gave in, as if he had a choice. “Tout de suite, Monsieur Diamanti."

I ended the call and turned my attention to Sabrina.

The odd position of the mirrors throughout the room gave me a tantalizing glimpse of skin despite her trying to conceal herself.

A gentleman would let her know.

I wasn’t a gentleman, certainly not where she was concerned.

“Sabrina, I’m running out of patience.”

One of her hands held the unzipped dress at her throat while the other hiked up a fist of fabric to prevent it from dragging on the floor as she came out from behind the mirrors. “How do you know my name?”

Fuck.

A part of me yearned to abandon secrecy and confess everything I knew about her, from her middle name to her breakfast preferences to where I would find a faint scar from her teenage appendectomy.

Things would be a lot simpler if I could just deal with this like a business negotiation.

I would just pay her to help me fuck over the father whom she had never met and therefore couldn’t possibly love or feel any loyalty to.

Done.

Except it would be too easy for her father’s people to learn that it was fake, ruining all my plans.

For this to be successful, her feelings needed to be genuine.

I stepped closer, noticing her soft inhale and the way her body tensed at my nearness.

I cupped her shoulders as I spun her around.

Her silky black hair hung in long waves halfway down her back.

I tightened my hand, fighting the urge to wrap her hair around my fist, a feeling I'd harbored since those initial photographs.

She’d been walking through Central Park in New York on a blustery autumn day. Her hair whipped around her throat and lashed her cheeks as she laughed.

Had I not known she was going to Paris soon, I would have flown to New York to claim her that very day.

My hand shook slightly when I pushed her hair to the side, exposing the gentle curve of her back.

As I zipped up the dress, I leaned over to rasp in her ear, “You Americans and your suspicious natures and wild imaginations, always seeing zebras instead of horses.”

I spun her back to face me.

Since I towered over her slight frame, I grasped her chin to force her to look up at me. “Édouard shouted your name as I approached.”

He hadn’t, but hopefully, given her agitation in the moment, she wouldn’t remember.

She stepped back, breaking my grasp. “Why are you here?” She gestured to the gown she wore. “What is all this about?”