Page 97 of Brutal Heir

“The ones who always greet the plane. Of course I won’t introduce you as the new star employee of the House of Diamanti on a dirty tarmac. We’ll do an official press release later, but you’ll want to look good for the photos.”

I pulled on the collar of his shirt. “Me? Why would they want a photo of me?”

“Because, Signora Badalamenti, you will be with me.” He gestured with a nod. “Second bedroom on the left has your things.”

My suitcase, purse, and the clothes he'd bought me lay neatly stacked on the bed. I stared at the garment bags with all the luxury logos, then at my reflection in the mirror.

The color on my face topped my cheekbones. My hair was a mess of tangles. I rubbed my fingertips under my eyes to clean up the smeared eyeliner, then I ran them over my swollen lips.

There was no denying it, I looked like a woman who had been thoroughly fucked.

I turned and opened my suitcase. Fishing through my clothes, I found my makeup bag and pulled out my foundation stick and brush. With deliberate precision, I muted the color on my cheeks until they looked dull and borderline lifeless. I dabbed foundation over the outline of my lips, turning the bright cherry into a neutral pink.

In no time at all, I had obscured all remnants of Sebastian’s lovemaking.

No, not his lovemaking—his fucking.

There was no point in adding even a shred of sentimentality to what we'd done. It was raw, animalistic sex. Sex that unlocked kinks I didn’t even know I had.

After selecting the Armani sheath dress, I slipped on a pair of red Ferragamo flats. Then I put on my set of rose-gold Bvlgari band rings, a barter payment for my very first stylist gig. The designer, bitter over a breakup, had passed them on to me, and I’d treasured them ever since.

I took another look at my reflection.

I'd tamed my hair back into a low ponytail. My makeup was simple, but professional. I looked every inch the polished stylist I needed to be.

When I returned to the lounge area, Oliver was there clearing the trays. His face gave no trace of judgment, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew exactly what had happened earlier.

I returned his amiable smile. “Please tell the chef lunch was wonderful.”

He bowed. “I’ll pass on your compliments. You look very nice, Signora Badalamenti.”

I smoothed my hand over my dress. “Thank you. I was told to be ready for the paparazzi.”

He paused, his hands full of trays and spoons. “The paparazzi?”

“Yes, Sebastian—that is, Signore Diamanti—told me the paparazzi always greet the plane.”

Oliver placed the trays into a rolling cart bin and bent to unplug the espresso machine. “With all due respect, you must have misheard. Signore Diamanti takes security very seriously. There is no way a photographer would get past his private guards, and for obvious reasons, his travel plans are never made public.”

Why on earth would Sebastian lie?

To be absolutely certain, I asked, “So paparazzi never meet the plane?"

Just as Oliver opened his mouth to respond, Sebastian walked in.

“That will be all, Oliver.”

Oliver bowed and left without another word.

What could possibly be the purpose of making sure the paparazzi photographed us together?

I turned to ask Sebastian, but I lost my train of thought.

He had changed into a bespoke gray suit with thin purple pinstripes, accented by a striking purple silk tie. The sharp tailoring highlighted his broad shoulders and trim waist. The color of the suit complemented his olive skin and dark eyes, making them gleam with intensity.

His cell rang. Keeping his gaze on me, he answered.

“Have you done as I asked?” He checked his watch. “Yes. Fifteen minutes. Good.”