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

Alison: Consider it done.

Isabella was still gushing over Leo’s travels when I looked up again.

Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Bungee jumping from Victoria Falls. Sailing through the Drake Passage to Antarctica.

Was he a writer or Indiana fucking Jones?

Unmistakable jealousy gnawed at my gut. She’d never smiled at me the way she was smiling at him, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d let him kiss her the way I almost had.

I shouldn’t have left her in the library. My sense of self-preservation and propriety had kicked in at the last minute, but for once in my life, I wished they hadn’t.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. My mouth opened before my brain could stop me. “There’s a big event this Saturday. It’s the VIP opening for a new piano bar in the Meatpacking District,” I said when Isabella paused for breath. “I have an extra ticket, if you’re interested in attending.”

It wasn’t hiking Mount Everest, but it was an exclusive event. Leo wasn’t the only one who could have fun.

“Oh.” She blinked, clearly caught off guard given how our last interaction had ended. It’d been three weeks since I left her in the library without so much as a goodbye. It wasn’t my finest moment, but she had a way of pulling both the best and worst out of me. “Um, thanks for the invite, but I have to work—”

“Hina Tanaka is the opening act.” I banked on the hope that Isabella would know who she was. Hina was one of the top pianists in the world, and she hadn’t performed in the United States in years.

“Oh.” This time, Isabella’s face lit with excitement. “Well, I think I can find someone to cover for me.”

“Apologies, but I only have two tickets,” I told Leo with a forced, polite smile. “Otherwise, I would offer you an invitation as well.”

“No worries,” he said easily. “I’m not a big piano guy anyway.” He checked his watch. “I’m meeting my agent in half an hour so I have to run, but it was nice meeting you. Isabella, I’ll send you the signed copy of The Poison Jar when I get home.”

“He’s a bit full of himself, isn’t he?” I said after Leo left. “All that bragging about his travels.”

Isabella slanted a strange look at me. “Leo? He’s one of the most down-to-earth people I’ve ever met.”

“Yes, well, you only met today. How do you know your assessment of his character is accurate?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you sick? Because you’re behaving very strangely.”

She wasn’t wrong. I was acting like an ill-mannered boor, but I couldn’t stop myself. Seeing her laugh and converse so easily with Leo had triggered my worst caveman impulses.

“I’m not sick. I’m—” I caught myself and took a deep, calming breath. “I’m late for a meeting. But send me your address and I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday.”

“No need. I can meet you at the club.” Isabella paused. “You’re not going to leave me there without saying goodbye, right?”

A flush singed my cheeks at the indirect reference to what’d happened in the secret room. “No.”

“And this isn’t a date?”

“Of course not.”

It was simply a friendly gathering of two acquaintances at a predetermined time and location.

I said a curt goodbye and called Alison on my way back to the office. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said. “In the meantime, please reschedule my dinner with Russell on Saturday. Tell him a personal emergency came up.”

I was supposed to take our company’s visiting COO out this weekend, but plans changed.

“Of course. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine, but I changed my mind about the piano bar opening. RSVP yes for me and a plus-one. Thank you.”

I hung up. I should have been brainstorming strategies to manage the DigiStream crisis, but as the cab sped toward midtown Manhattan, I couldn’t stop my mind from fast-forwarding to the weekend—or my pulse from hammering at the anticipation of a completely innocent, one hundred percent platonic non-date.





CHAPTER 13


Isabella



The piano bar occupied a hidden, speakeasy-style basement in the Meatpacking District, nestled in between a coffee shop and the type of trendy boutique that sold ripped jeans for eight hundred dollars a pop.

Twin bouncers the size of mountains screened invites. Past them, a narrow flight of stairs led to a lavish room that looked like something out of 1920s Chicago, with exposed brick walls, crystal chandeliers, and red velvet booths curved around tables of well-dressed, well-heeled guests in sleek designer eveningwear. An imposing five-tiered wall of liquor anchored one end of the space, while a stage with a grand piano occupied the other.

It was stunning and exclusive and a throwback to headier times.

It was also incredibly, mind-numbingly boring.

I stifled a yawn as another pianist took the stage. The night had started promisingly enough with a dazzling performance from Hina, who’d opened the show early so she could catch her flight to Japan—apparently, she’d agreed to perform at the last minute as a favor to the club’s owner—but the rest of the hours had inched by second by torturous second.