Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
My pulse picks up speed. Maybe that's the appeal. He’s obviously the bad boy who doesn't follow the rules. James Dean and Elvis rolled into one delicious package.
He surely must comprehend I could have him fired in a heartbeat.
I stride over and lean a hip against the rail beside him. He’s even more good-looking up close. His eyes are the shade of whiskey, and his lashes are thick and long for a man.
“Give me a drag,” I demand.
He arches a dark brow. It’s a sexy look on him. Almost swoon-worthy. I don’t breathe during the four interminable seconds it takes him to react, but eventually, he turns the cigarette around and holds it to my lips.
There’s something intimate about the action. He doesn’t hand it to me–he controls the way it comes to my mouth. When it leaves. I smell the clean soap of his washed hands, along with the tobacco and ash.
I’ve never smoked before in my life.
I realize, belatedly, that this is a terrible idea. The scent will be all over me–in my gown. On my breath.
I’m supposed to return to the deck dance floor to be the society darling of the night, and I’m making a faux pas that could cause every woman in my mother’s circle to cluck their tongue. Smoking!
But the handsome waiter’s looking at me with a challenge in his shrewd gaze. I realize he sees it all–my naivete, my foolish rebellion.
I don’t think he’s amused, either. He’s not finding me cute. In fact, there’s a note of scorn behind those dark eyes.
So I rise to the challenge. I close my pink-lipsticked mouth around the butt of his cigarette and suck.
And choke.
Cough.
Try to drag fresh air in to cool my heated throat and lungs.
Cough some more.
When I steal a look at the stranger’s face, I find him still regarding me coolly.
He takes another slow drag of the cigarette, watching me the entire time. He turns his head to blow the smoke away from my face but doesn't break eye contact.
“This your ball?”
The fist that’s been in my solar plexus since the moment I woke up and my mother started berating me about everything I had to do, everything that wasn’t perfect about me yet, tightens. I stare past him into the inky black of the water below. “Supposedly.”
He catches the bitterness of my tone, and the corners of his lips turn up. The resulting smile is devastating. My knees weaken, and heat swirls in my core.
“So you’re back here rebelling?” His grin grows. It transforms his face, giving him a more open, boyish look.
I take the cigarette from his fingers and attempt another drag. Cough some more. “I guess.”
“Well.” He gives me a sweeping, critical gaze. “You wear it well.”
I lift a surprised gaze to his face, trying to gauge if he means it. I wasn't expecting a compliment. I thought for sure he’d throw derision.
Once I look, I find it impossible to look away. I’m blasted by his good looks. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a Roman nose, and a square jaw. Large hands that look like they could inflict great damage.
Or pleasure…
He takes the cigarette from my fingers and tosses it into the water. “Well, then.” He holds out his palm like a gentleman.
I’m suddenly dizzy as I contemplate taking it. As if I know, somehow, that if I do, my life will never be the same.
“Come on.” He tips his head away from the rail like he has some plan. “Let's see if we can get you into some real trouble.”
Chapter One
1964 (7 years later), Newport, RI
Antonio
“Your time is up.” Clad in a tuxedo tailored to fit my broad-shouldered frame, I lean against the brownstone church wall of St. Mary’s Cathedral. There’s no gun in my hand. I don't need one.
Benedict King knows me. He knows why I’m here. That I represent the don of the Beretta family. He probably also sees I have men stationed everywhere around the churchyard, mingling with the eight hundred guests streaming in for the society wedding of the season.
“Please, please.” The man holds up plump, shaking hands. Sweat drips from his hairline. “It's my daughter's wedding. Just let me walk down the aisle with her. Please allow me to get her married before you kill me.”
My upper lip curls at the mention of his precious daughter. “Who says I'm not here to kill her, too?” I ask casually.
Terror flares in the fat man's eyes. He blinks rapidly, his pupils tiny pricks of black in his pale blue eyes. He's in a white tux, as if he's the virgin being sold off in matrimony today, rather than his spoiled daughter.
“Don't touch Dahlia.” Spittle flies from his mouth.
“The moment you fucked the Berettas, your life, your wife’s life, and your daughter’s were forfeit. And I'm here to collect.”