Page 7 of Vengeful Vows

As the band transitions into something with a more upbeat tempo, she gives me a quick hug. “Remember our rules.”

In our freshman year at Rice University, we made a pact.

She’ll remain close by for a few minutes, watching me. I’ll signal everything is okay with a thumbs-up, but if anything is wrong, I will drop something.

At the end of the evening, if I leave with him, I have to send her text updates, letting her know when she can expect to hear from me again. Our phones have an app that allows us to share our location with each other, something we’ve done twenty-four hours a day for six years.

One thing I’m sure of… If I miss a check-in, she’ll break down any door to find me.

She winks. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

That gives me a whole lot of latitude. While my virtue is still intact, Amelia lives her life out loud. Thankfully, she shares her exploits with me.

More than once, I’ve consumed an entire bag of popcorn while listening to her stories.

“Have fun.”

So that I don’t look as if I’m waiting for him, I wander out onto the terrace.

August is always hot in Houston, and the night air hangs heavy with humidity. I stand next to a pot of pretty, night-blooming jasmine with its tubular white flowers and their heady, sweet scent. Fairy lights provide an ethereal backdrop, making this spot pure magic.

“May I offer you a glass of champagne?”

I thought I’d been prepared for his arrival, but the sensual sound of his voice wraps me in an intimate embrace.

Striving for a polished smile, I turn.

My breath catches in my throat, and it’s all I can do not to gasp aloud.

From a distance, I’d imagined him to be dangerous. This close, he erases all doubts.

Even though I’m wearing my tallest heels, I don’t quite reach his chin.

His hair is raven colored, harshly brushed back from his forehead, revealing a jagged scar that arrows down toward his right temple.

But it’s his eyes that intrigue me the most. They are as dark as they are enigmatic.

I’m sure I’m being fanciful again, but he seems to look into my soul.

“Champagne?” he prompts once more, extending a flute.

His eyes seem to twinkle as he takes in my reaction to him.

As gorgeous as he is, he’s no doubt accustomed to receiving attention from ladies. In a room full of beautiful women, I’m barely noticeable.

So why has he approached me?

Aware he is waiting for me to either accept his offer or reject him, I attempt to rein in my galloping thoughts and emotions. “Thank you.”

He ensures our fingers brush, making my hand shake with recognition of his power, nearly sending the expensive bubbly over the glass’s rim.

Hurriedly I take a sip, hoping the act also settles my nerves.

It doesn’t.

He remains close, and I draw in his masculine, spicy, amber scent.

“Marcello Donati,” he offers by way of introduction.

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