King of Pride (Kings of Sin #2) by Ana Huang

“I’m not sure you have a love life,” Isabella said. “I’ve never heard you talk about women or seen you at the club with a date.”

“I like to keep my private life private, but it’s nice to know you’ve been keeping such close tabs on my alleged lack of female company.” My mouth curved, an automatic response to her adorable sputter before I wrangled it into a straight line.

No smiling. No thinking anything she does is adorable.

“You have an overinflated sense of your own importance.” Isabella canted her chin higher. “And FYI, the private life excuse only works for celebrities and politicians. I promise there are fewer people interested in your paramours than you think.”

“Good to know.” This time, my smile broke free of its restraints at her tangible indignation. “Congratulations on being one of those lucky few.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“But imagine how much more insufferable I’d be if I were a celebrity or politician.”

A glint of amusement coasted through Isabella’s eyes. Her cheeks dimpled for a millisecond before she pursed her lips and shook her head, and I was struck with the overwhelming urge to coax those dimples out of her again.

Beside us, Dante and Vivian’s heads swiveled back and forth like spectators at a Wimbledon match. I’d almost forgotten they were there. Dante’s brows knotted in confusion, but Vivian’s eyes sparkled suspiciously with delight.

Before I could investigate further, our server approached, bread basket in hand. The cloud of tension hovering over the table dissipated, and as dinner progressed, our conversation eased into more neutral topics—the food, the latest society scandal, our upcoming holiday plans.

Dante and Vivian were heading to St. Barth’s; I was undecided. I usually returned to London for Christmas, but depending on how things went with DigiStream, I might have to stay in New York.

Part of me relished the idea of a quiet season with only work, books, and perhaps the occasional Broadway show to keep me company. Big holiday gatherings were highly overrated, in my opinion.

“What about you, Isa?” Vivian asked. “Are you heading back to California this year?”

“No, I’m not going home until February for my mother’s birthday,” Isabella said. A brief shadow crossed her face before she smiled again. “It’s so close to Christmas and Lunar New Year that we usually wrap all three celebrations together into one giant weekend. My mom makes these amazing turon rolls, and we go to the beach the morning after her party to unwind…”

I brought my glass to my lips as she talked about her family traditions. Part of me hungered for insights into her background the way a beggar hungered for food. What had her childhood been like? How close was she to her brothers? Were they similar to Isabella, or did their personalities diverge as siblings’ so often did? I wanted to know everything—every memory, every piece and detail that would help solve the puzzle of my fascination with her.

But another, larger part of me couldn’t forget the shadow. The brief glimpse of darkness beneath the bright, bubbly exterior. It called to me like the light at the end of a tunnel, heralding salvation or damnation.

A booming laugh from another table pulled me out of my spiral.

I gave my head a tiny shake and set my glass down, annoyed by how many of my recent waking moments were occupied with thoughts of Isabella.

I reached for the salt in the middle of the table, determined to enjoy my meal like it was a normal dinner. Isabella, who’d ceded the conversation to Vivian’s recounting of her and Dante’s sailing adventures in Greece, reached for the pepper. Our hands brushed again, a facsimile of our elevator graze.

I stilled. Like the first time, an electric shiver ran up my arm, burning away logic, rationality, reason.

The restaurant faded as our eyes locked with a near audible click, two magnets drawn together by force rather than free will.

If it were up to free will, I would continue with dinner like nothing happened because nothing had happened. It was simply a touch, as innocent as an accidental bump on the sidewalk. It shouldn’t have the power to turn my blood into liquid fire or reach inside my chest and twist my lungs into knots.

Fuck.

“Excuse me.” I abruptly stood, ignoring Dante’s and Vivian’s startled looks. Isabella dropped her hand and refocused on her food, her cheeks pink. “I’ll be right back.”

A bead of sweat formed on my brow as I strode through the dining room. I pushed my shirtsleeves to my elbows; I was burning up.

When I reached the bathroom, I removed my glasses and splashed ice-cold water on my face until my pulse slowed to normal.

What the hell was happening to me?

For a year, I’d successfully kept Isabella at an arm’s length. She was the opposite of everything I considered proper, a complication I didn’t need. Her flamboyance, her chattiness, her incessant talk about sex in public venues…

Her laugh, her scent, her smile. Her talent for piano and the way her eyes light up when she’s excited. They were the most dangerous kind of drug, and I feared I was already sliding down the slippery slope of addiction.

I let out a soft groan and wiped my face dry with a paper towel.

I blamed that cursed Monday two weeks ago. If I hadn’t been so caught off guard by the CEO vote’s announcement and timing, I wouldn’t have sought out Isabella at Valhalla. If I hadn’t sought her out, I wouldn’t have overheard her in the piano room. If I hadn’t overheard her in the piano room, I wouldn’t be taking refuge in a public restroom, trying to hold myself together after a two-second touch.