Chapter Two

Celine

I had butterflies! A wild kaleidoscope of color swirled within me. I was drunk on lust, an intoxicating rush of something warm and thrilling saturating my thoughts and my body.

I'd be freaking out, counting the chairs in the room, and searching out pink dresses if it weren't for the man sitting next to me with his penetrating eyes and soft mouth. His lips hypnotized as he spoke. I didn't forget he'd been speaking to my father. For a moment, I ignored the warnings in my head.

I didn't flirt. I could barely hold a conversation with a stranger. I'd never sat next to a beautiful man and had him hang on my words. Never felt the sizzle of arousal the way I did with Stefano Bruno.

He was next-level gorgeous, and I'd touched him, felt the heat of his skin against mine. He'd wanted to keep talking to me, and I couldn't stop listening to him. His Italian accent slipped under my skin, an aural aphrodisiac. I kept my legs crossed because the unfamiliar tingle between my thighs made my panties wet and sticky.

He was dangerous, but not because he had something nefarious to do with my father. Stefano Bruno made me want, and the only thing I'd ever wanted was to run.

Maybe he'd paralyzed my anxiety with his mysterious aura. I only knew what I felt, and next to him, I didn't feel like myself, but more of the girl I'd always wished I could be.

Servers collected the dinner plates. Slices of strawberry cheesecake and wedges of chocolate mousse desserts were served, and the bidding would close in fifteen minutes.

I turned to the auction tables. My painting wasn't a charity piece. This one never should have left the sanctity of my studio. No one could see my cracks.

People lingered around the auction tables making their final bids. With every minute that ticked by, my heart pounded a little harder. Part of me was scared to check the current amount on my painting. What if I lost the bid?

Losing Emancipator would be like losing a piece of myself. No one would understand. I didn't paint for profit. I painted to keep from giving in to the dark thoughts that dwelled in my head.

I had to know. "Excuse me," I said, pushing my chair back and standing.

Stefano clasped my hand in his and also stood. "Are you leaving?"

Those wild butterflies took flight in my belly. His hand was large and tanned. His olive skin folded over mine, the rough callouses of his fingertips in contrast with the air of privilege from a designer tux and diamond cufflinks. Dark whorls of hair dusted his scarred knuckles. He had the hands of a fighter.

My tummy tumbled as I slipped my fingers from beneath his. "I'll be back in a minute. I have to know."

He nodded toward the balcony. "I'm going to step out to smoke. Please, don't leave."

"I won't. I love strawberries."

He glided across the room, past the bar, to the double glass doors leading to the outdoor area.

I found it hard to take a deep breath as my chest tightened. I didn't want to give up the moments I could have with Stefano for the ones that would come after if I lost my painting. But I couldn't ignore the gnawing uncertainty of not knowing.

He disappeared through the doors, and I crossed the room to the auction tables. A gentleman slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he gawked at my painting. I recognized him as an associate of my father's, but I couldn't recall his name. He spun around and noticed me standing behind him.

"Beautiful."

"Thank you." I assumed he meant my painting.

"And talented."

My skin prickled as his gaze raked down my body. Unlike the way Stefano's voice had feathered over my skin, this man's lecherous vibe gave me the creeps. His words were too breathy, his tone too familiar. I didn't like him standing so close to me.

I was careful to avoid looking directly into his eyes. He had a thick head of burnt red hair and a full but tightly groomed beard.

"There was a mix-up in the seating arrangements this evening." He took a step toward me and spoke like he knew me.

I didn't want to chat with strangers. I just wanted to check the bid and get back to Stefano.

"Oh, um." A thread of panic pulled at my thoughts. I followed my instinct and took a step back.

He countered and leaned into me. "An unfortunate last-minute change because I was looking forward to sitting next to you."

"Perhaps another time. Excuse me." I pointed to the table behind him. "I just want to check the bid."

"Of course."

"Thanks." I stepped around him and approached the table.

"Perhaps we could talk about art. I'd love to know where you find your inspiration."

Oh no. I had another silent conversation with God. Please, no. Don't let this be happening. My throat tightened and a cold wariness chased over my flesh. My vision reduced to the blurred number on the tablet.

"Your father planned to introduce us." He closed the space between us, his chest provocatively close to my back.

An icy chill slipped through my veins. I was too stunned, too frozen to move.

"My name is Ian Byrne. And your painting is as beautiful as you are."

Yes, like me, my painting was edgy, angry, and broken. The jagged lines cut like glass, the colors bold and without form. Like me, not beautiful.

"Did you bid on my painting?" I could barely form the words.

"Of course, and it's worth every penny. It will look stunning in my office."

I couldn't breathe. Fifteen thousand dollars. Oh my god.

"Excuse me." I turned and fled the auction area. Panic gathered force within me. I lost the bid. I lost my painting. I couldn't breathe. Anger and fear crashed within me. I couldn't stop this.

I burst through the glass doors leading to the balcony. I'd only known Stefano for an hour, but he was the only one I wanted to see my tears.

He was alone, standing at the edge of the balcony, leaning against the concrete baluster. As if sensing my presence, he turned. Lips that had tilted like the devil pursed as he brought a cigarette to his mouth. The cherry glowed as he inhaled. I stood mesmerized by the shape of his lips and the flare of heat in his eyes.

Smoke escaped through his mouth and nose, billowing into the night air.

My knees were weak as I crossed the balcony. I didn't want to cry, didn't want to lean on a stranger for strength, but there was such power in his presence. His darkened gaze centered on me. Heavy brows furrowed over deep-set eyes.

I stood in front of him. Goosebumps crawled across my flesh. My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes. "I lost the bid."

"Ah, angel." He opened his arms.

Living with my father, fear was a constant companion. But something about Stefano countered the anxiety that fueled my insecurity. I stepped into his warmth. His arms banded around me. "Please, don't call me that."

He hooked a finger under my chin and lifted my face. "You look like an angel to me."

Maybe it was the way he said angel, or maybe, for a moment, I wanted to pretend to be someone else. Tonight, right now, I could hide in his shadow with him. We were alone. He didn't know me, not really. And I didn't really know him as long as nothing reminded me of his connection to my father. For tonight, I just wanted to pretend he was only interested in me.

I shivered with his touch. Stefano clamped his cigarette between his lips, shrugged out of his tux jacket and draped it over my shoulders. His knuckles grazed my flesh sending tingles over my arms. I peered into his eyes. I must be drunk.

I knew the thick, suffocating, and bitter taste of fear. Whatever trepidation I typically felt with strangers had morphed into something hot and wildly sweet. I burned with need and desire, but for what, I wasn't sure.

I only knew I belonged in this moment with this man.

A breath caught in my chest as his touch became deliberate, tracing my collarbone, gliding over my exposed skin, and then falling away. The silk lining of his tux coat caressed my skin. The cut of the jacket surrounded me, draping to my thighs. I crossed my arms, gripping the lapels and holding them closed, covering the hard pebbles of my nipples. "Thanks."

The warmth from his body soaked into me. A cocktail of scents surrounded me, cigarettes, his cologne, and the masculine smell of his skin. I breathed deeply, drinking him in. I was freefalling into reckless wants that would leave me vulnerable.

But he was too beautiful, his voice too tempting, and the need to feel more was too much to resist.

"What is the bid?" he asked as he inhaled off his cigarette again.

"Fifteen thousand dollars." The words stuck in my throat.

"It's worth more to you."

"Much more." I didn't need to open my clutch to loosen the tightening coil around my chest. I just needed to peer into Stefano's eyes. "But the painting is lost to me." I couldn't believe the devastating words slipped from my lips. "Some associate of my father is going to hang my soul in his office. I'd rather see it set on fire, in a dumpster, or hanging in a men's bathroom."

Stefano leaned forward, resting his forearms on the thick concrete railing. I stepped closer to him. Those butterflies were drunk because I accidentally—on purpose—let my arm brush against his.

"I can't go back in there," I said, dipping my head. "Everyone will thank my father for his donation, praising him for having a talented daughter." Resentment coated my thoughts and my feelings. But worse was the man who'd have my painting.

Stefano stubbed his cigarette into the decorative ashtray, and I faced the acres of manicured grounds surrounding the building. I had to accept that my painting was gone because I didn't have that kind of money, not yet.

With no choice, I had to accept it. The man's words seeped back into my head. Another one of my father's associates. But unlike the chief of police who had a beautiful wife sitting next to him, or the mayor who was busy kissing ass, my father had conspired to put me in Ian Byrne's path.

Anything my father wanted for me wouldn't be good for me, but beneficial to him.

"Fuck this, Celine. It's your painting."

I grabbed his arm before he could storm back into the banquet room and fight my battle for me. "No. Please. Trust me. If there was a way, I would. It's not worth the trouble." Not for him and not for me. My father was vengeful, and I didn't want to fight fate.

"You're worth the trouble." He stared at where my hand gripped his arm. He exhaled. I inhaled.

His gaze lifted, and for a moment, lingered on my mouth. I was drowning in him, his scent, his warmth, his fierce defense of my emotions.

He leaned into me, and my heart stuttered. His lips moved closer. We were alone, cloaked in the shadow of the night. He smelled so good. Muscles in his forearm flexed beneath my palm sending an answering pulse between my legs.

I didn't move, and it didn't seem like he did either. We were drawn together, two magnets colliding because suddenly I was pressed against him. I'd dreamt of my first kiss, never imagining the way my tummy tumbled, my body trembled, or the rush of heat pooling low in my belly and slipping lower.

Maybe this moment would be worth losing my painting for. I lost my fear in him the way I escaped when I painted. My world reduced to him, to this moment, to this wild beating of my heart.

But this would only be a moment. And I still had fourteen months and thirteen days. "I shouldn't be out here with you."

His hand slipped under my hair, his fingers curled around the back of my neck, and he tilted my face to his. "Do you want to be somewhere else with me?"

A soft gasp floated over my lips. He was too handsome, too darkly enticing, and I was too afraid to say yes. "I can't."

"Do you always do as you're told?"

His gaze drew me in, made me want to be reckless.

"I…I…yes," I softly said. It was easier that way, and I'd never been willing to risk upsetting my father. There were three hundred thousand reasons to stay out of my father's way, to keep my mouth shut, and do as I was told.

I had lost my painting, but I couldn't lose my freedom.

But then his lips brushed mine. The gentlest of touches. Had I imagined the faint pressure of his mouth on mine? I'd never wished for this but now I never wanted it to end. He ghosted another kiss against my lips.

Stefano Bruno was more than my imagination was capable of, and I didn't want to wake from this beautiful dream. Not yet.

His breath was warm as he ran his nose along my face. "So sweet. Fuck. If I was a good man, I'd stay away from you, Angel."

"I don't want to be an angel."

He stilled. "And I'm not a good man." His lips crashed into mine.

Did I open my mouth? Move my lips? Could I even breathe? He didn't give me a choice. His lips parted mine. I whimpered with the first taste of his tongue.

His grip on my skull tightened as he angled my head and devoured my mouth. Oh my god, he was a dangerous paradise. His pelvis ground against the cradle of my hips. The hard ridge of his erection crushed between us.

A low growl vibrated up his chest, through his kiss and into me. Hot licks of his tongue coaxed my mouth to open more. He kissed me deeper, hot, wet, and filthy dirty. His palm gripped my hip with bruising strength and anchored me hard against him.

"Fuck them. Let's leave."

Stefano was toxic and addicting. This was when my fears overwhelmed my wants, when panic twisted in my chest, stole my breath, and snapped painfully in my gut.

Only I felt none of the triggers. I burned as I fought a silent war in my head.

"You fear your father."

It was more of a statement than a question. One I wasn't ready to respond to. I rose onto my tiptoes and kissed him again. A moan from him sounded in concert with a mewling whimper from me.

With a hand to my hip, he turned me toward the railing and pressed closer. My back braced against the upper rung, and his thigh sliced between mine.

His mouth slid onto my neck. "Come home with me."

Before I could respond, he kissed me again, sweeping into my mouth in a possessive claiming. I tasted the hint of cigarettes and alcohol, and he was just as addicting. But I couldn't forget that this man was somehow connected to my father. Enough had been said to know they weren't friends.

No matter how good being out here with him felt, no matter how desperate I was to leave with him, at the end of the day, I was more afraid of my father.

I broke the kiss, gulped a ragged breath, and rested my forehead against his chest. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

His throaty chuckle rumbled against me. I inched back and tilted my face to his.

He sifted my hair through his fingers. "I'm sorry you lost your painting."

"Thank you." I took a step away from him and slipped his tux jacket from my shoulders. "This was nice, but I should go back in." I turned.

"Celine, wait." His fingers slid along my arm until he held me by my fingertips. "Can I see you again?"

"I can't." I smiled. "But maybe we'll meet again, one day when I don't always have to do what I'm told. Be good."

"Too late for that, Angel." He slipped his tux jacket back onto his shoulders. "Tonight doesn't have to end yet. We have the rest of the gala."

"I'm not going to be good company." I fought for a small smile. "I think it's better if I go in alone." I'd lost enough tonight. I'd lost my painting. I couldn't risk my freedom.

I was afraid he'd follow me inside, that I'd become a piece in the game he played with my father, but he stood at the rail and watched me leave. Rather than return to the table, I headed to the ladies' restroom. Once the auction was closed, I'd find my father and beg him to take me home.

***

Silence filled the car as we drove home. My dad gripped the steering wheel.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not really sure what I was apologizing for but wanting the tension building between us to go away. Throughout dinner, I'd contained my anxiety. Five minutes alone with him and I was ready to take the pill resting in the crease of my clutch.

Silence stretched between us for several agonizing minutes. Maybe he realized I never spoke to the mayor or Chief Williams. But I'd met the creep that won my painting. Why was I sorry? He was the one who owed me an apology? Not that I would accept it.

"Where did you go?" His voice cut through the hum of the engine and the pounding of my pulse.

"When?"

"Don't play with me, Celine." His voice grew louder. "What happened tonight? What did Bruno say to you?"

My brows furrowed. Had he heard Stefano call him a dick because I'd steered the conversation as far away from my father as I could. "We just talked."

"Don't fucking lie to me."

I flinched from the venomous tone, shrinking back against the passenger door. "I'm not lying."

"Where did you go? One sniff of you, and he scented opportunity like a fucking dog. Where were you, Celine? Did you think I wouldn't notice when you both left the table?" Spittle flew from his mouth. "He used you to taunt me. And you chased him like a bitch in heat. Jesus Christ. You're smarter than that. You'd think common sense would tell you to stay away from the likes of Stefano Bruno."

Emotions clogged my throat. Was he right? Had I been a convenient weapon for Stefano? I replayed the way he'd spoken to me, the way he'd found ways to touch me throughout dinner. The same way I'd found ways to touch him. I pressed my fingertips to my lips. Had my first kiss been nothing but a manipulation?

I stared out the window. I didn't want to believe it, but my father's accusations rang with truth. I couldn't escape his influence. Why was I surprised? Stefano Bruno wouldn't be interested in a girl like me. Even if he was, my dad would find a way to manipulate the situation to benefit him.

I hated him. I bit the inside of my cheek from spitting the words hovering on the tip of my tongue.

"That bitch Elise Jilani had her hand in this."

"Who is Elise Jilani?"

"A pebble in my shoe. Insignificant and annoying." He cursed under his breath. "I asked for one fucking thing from you. All I needed was for my daughter to carry on a fucking conversation with anyone except Stefano Bruno."

I turned away from the window. In the glow of the car's dash, I shuddered as his gaze narrowed and a muscle ticked in his jaw. "He spoke to me first. I couldn't ignore him. He was sitting next to me."

And he had been disarmingly irreverent. Sexy in ways I couldn't think about without feeling a twitch between my legs. And with him, I wasn't a socially awkward disaster. At least, I hadn't felt like one. Or maybe I'd just liked him because he seemed to be annoyed with my dad, and he'd had a fuck them attitude. His words, not mine.

"In your private little conversations did he happen to mention what he does for a living?"

We'd talked about family, but I hadn't asked him about his work. I didn't want to know how he was connected to my father. Ignorance was sometimes bliss.

"He's Italian mafia, as in organized crime. As in no one my daughter should associate with, not even at a black-tie event. Christ, Celine, you spent the evening cozying up to a criminal."

Hearing the truth should've caused me concern, but I'd already come to the conclusion he was a risk I couldn't take.

"You disappointed me tonight. I'd made arrangements for you to sit next to Ian Byrne. He's a businessman, and I'd spoken to him about you."

My hand tightened into a fist in my lap. "Is that why he bid on my painting?"

"You want to talk about your painting?"

A spark of anger flared into an inferno of hate. "Yes. My painting," I spat. "How could you take it and not tell me? Why would you do that?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake. It's one painting out of hundreds, and they all look the same."

"Well, your friend thought it was worth fifteen thousand dollars. I hope he enjoys seeing a piece of my soul hanging in his office. And you get to be the big donor of the night."

"Fifteen thousand dollars?" He shook his head. "Ian Byrne isn't going to hang your painting in his office or anywhere else. There was a last-minute anonymous bidder."

I couldn't keep the quavering from my voice. "How much?"

"Fifty thousand dollars."

"What?" I stammered. "Who would do that?"

"Someone who wanted to make an impression. Someone with considerable wealth. Someone who clearly had an agenda. Stop lying to me, Celine. Tell me what Stefano Bruno said to you."

I told him the only thing that seemed safe. "He said you're a dick."