CHAPTER FIVE

"Do you always sleep like the dead?"

The words pierced through my consciousness like a bullet, startling me awake. I jerked upright, my head spinning, mouth dry as sandpaper. Dante stood at the foot of the bed, watching me with an amused expression, a glass of orange juice in his hand catching the morning light.

"What time is it?" I croaked, trying to orient myself. The penthouse suite swam into focus – plush carpets, floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of Los Angeles that probably cost more than I made in a year.

"Just after nine," Dante replied, taking a sip of his juice. "I ordered breakfast. I hope you're hungry."

I was, actually. Ravenous. But years on the streets had taught me never to show desperation, even for something as simple as food. "I could eat," I said casually, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

My clothes from last night were nowhere to be seen, but one of Dante's pristine white shirts was laid out at the foot of the bed. I slipped it on, the fabric soft against my skin, smelling faintly of expensive cologne.

Dante was already seated at the dining table when I emerged from the bedroom, the morning paper spread out before him. A feast was laid out – eggs benedict, fresh fruit, pastries, coffee, and more of that orange juice he seemed so fond of.

"My head is killing me," I muttered, sinking into the chair opposite him. "That champagne last night was a mistake."

Dante's lips quirked. "Hair of the dog?" He gestured to a mimosa beside my plate.

I eyed it suspiciously. "It's not even ten."

"Trust me," he said, folding his paper and setting it aside. "Best cure there is."

I took a tentative sip. The bubbles tickled my nose, and the combination of champagne and orange juice was oddly refreshing. "I hate orange juice," I complained, but took another sip anyway.

"And yet you're drinking it."

I shrugged, already reaching for a croissant. "I'm adaptable."

Dante watched me eat with an intensity that should have made me uncomfortable, but after last night, it seemed almost normal. When I'd polished off the croissant and was halfway through the eggs, he finally spoke.

"I have a proposition for you."

I paused, fork halfway to my mouth. In my experience, propositions from clients never ended well. "I'm listening."

"I want you to stay. For the week."

The fork clattered against my plate. "The week?"

Dante nodded, his expression unreadable. "I have some important business deals coming up. I need to relax, decompress. Having you here would help with that."

My mind raced, calculating figures. A week with one client meant a week of missed opportunities with others, but it also meant guaranteed money, a safe place to sleep, and food that didn't come from a drive-thru.

"Three thousand," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart.

Dante raised an eyebrow. "That seems steep."

"That seems like a bargain for 24/7 availability," I countered. "Plus, I'm missing out on other clients."

He considered this, taking a long sip of his juice. "Two thousand, and I'll throw in a shopping trip. You'll need appropriate attire for the events we'll be attending."

Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Events?"

"Dinners, maybe a benefit or two. Nothing too taxing." He paused, his eyes meeting mine. "I don't want any hassles, Rosella. No drama, no problems."

I leaned back in my chair, studying him. Dante Lewis, billionaire businessman, wanted to play Pretty Woman for a week. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"One condition," I said, watching his reaction carefully. "I'm gonna need a little something to get through the week. Just a little bit of rock. To take the edge off."

Dante's expression hardened immediately. "Absolutely not. I don't do drugs, and I don't associate with people who do."

"Come on, Dante," I cajoled, leaning forward. "It helps me relax, helps me be more... fun."

"The answer is no." His tone left no room for argument. "If that's a deal-breaker, we can end this now."

I sat back, frustration bubbling up inside me. Lora was going to kill me for passing up a week's worth of work, but three grand was three grand. "Fine. No drugs. But the price goes back up to three thousand."

Dante was quiet for a long moment, and I forced myself to hold his gaze, to not show how much I needed this deal to work out.

Finally, he nodded. "Three thousand, for one week. No drugs, no drama, no problems. Do we have a deal?"

I extended my hand across the table. "Deal."

As we shook on it, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making a huge mistake. But the promise of security, even temporary, was too tempting to resist.

Dante stood, straightening his robe. "I have some calls to make. Why don't you take a shower, and then we'll discuss the shopping trip?"

I nodded, already mentally cataloging what kind of clothes I'd need to pass as Dante Lewis's companion for a week.

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the ornate mirror. Dark circles under my eyes, smudged mascara, hair a tangled mess – I looked every bit the hooker who'd had a long night. But for the next week, I'd have to be someone else. Someone worthy of standing next to Dante at fancy dinners and benefits.

I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the sound of raised voices from the other room. Curious, I cracked the bathroom door open slightly.

"--don't care about the timing, Philip. This deal is too important to rush." Dante's voice was sharp, authoritative – completely different from how he spoke to me. "The Morse takeover has to be handled delicately."

I froze. Morse. As in Morse Industries? The company that had been all over the news lately due to financial troubles?

"Listen to me carefully," Dante continued, his voice dropping lower. "By the end of this week, Morse Industries will be ours, one way or another. And no one, especially James Morse, can know what's coming."

My heart pounded in my chest. I'd just agreed to spend a week with a man who was planning to destroy someone's company. And not just any company – Morse Industries employed thousands of people in Los Angeles alone.

As I quietly closed the bathroom door, my mind raced. I had two choices: I could ignore what I'd heard and enjoy my week of luxury, or I could do something about it.

The question was, what could someone like me possibly do to stop someone like Dante Lewis?

As I turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the bathroom, a crazy idea began to form. Dante wanted me to attend events with him this week – events where James Morse and other business people would be present. Events where secrets might be shared, plans discussed.

oh Great.