Betsey stepped inside. The room was transformed.
The bloody towels were gone. The crystal vase was back on the table. A set of expensive leather luggage was stacked neatly by the door.
Celestino Franklin stood by the window.
He was no longer the wounded animal on the sofa. He was wearing a fresh, crisp white shirt, tucked into dark trousers. He held a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
He turned slowly. His face was clean shaven, radiating power and wealth. But the eyes were the same. Storm gray. Amused. Dangerous.
"You didn't jump out the window," she said. The words left her mouth before she could stop them. She was bold despite herself.
"I own the window," he replied smoothly. He took a sip of his drink.
He walked toward her. The limp was barely visible now, just a slight hesitation in his stride. He stopped a foot away, invading her personal space.
He reached for the chair next to him. His ruined suit jacket was draped over it.
He picked it up and tossed it to her.
Betsey caught it reflexively.
"Disposal," he ordered. "And... thank you."
The "thank you" was a whisper, intimate and low.
Betsey clutched the jacket to her chest. It was heavy. And it smelled of him.
That scent. Sandalwood and Scotch.
Her brain stuttered. It was the same scent from her dream. She dismissed it again, more forcefully this time. A coincidence. A popular, expensive cologne. Nothing more.
She looked at him sharply. Her eyes searched his face. The man in Vienna had been a shadow, bearded and rough. This man was polished, a prince of finance. It was impossible.
Celestino watched her reaction. He was gauging her. He saw the flicker of confusion in her eyes.
He decided to push.
"Call me Celestino."
Betsey stiffened. "I can't, sir. It's against protocol."
"I am the protocol here," he said. "Say it."
His voice was a command. It triggered a shiver that ran down her spine.
"Celestino," she breathed out.
The name tasted familiar on her tongue. It felt right.
He smiled. It was a satisfied, predatory smile. "Good. Now, pour me another drink."
He turned and walked back to the window, dismissing her like a servant. But the air between them was electric. He treated her like a butler, but he had looked at her like something more.
Betsey moved to the bar. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the bottle of scotch. She realized, with a sinking feeling, that she was trapped in a cage with a very large, very intelligent predator.
