King of Wrath (Kings of Sin #1) by Ana Huang

I hadn’t seen her this animated since she scored a seat on the Boston Society Wine Auction’s planning committee last year.

“That’s…great.” My smile wobbled from the effort of keeping itself intact.

At least my match probably had all his teeth. I wouldn’t have put it past my parents to marry me off to some decrepit billionaire on his deathbed.

Money and status came first; everything else came a distant second.

I took a deep breath and willed my mind not to spiral down that particular path.

Get it together, Viv.

As upset as I was at my parents for springing this on me, I could freak out later, after I got through the evening. It wasn’t like I could say no to the match. If I did, my parents would disown me.

Plus, my future husband—my stomach lurched again—would be here any minute, and I couldn’t make a scene.

I wiped a palm against my thigh. My head felt dizzy, but I clung to the mask I always wore at home. Cool. Calm. Respectable.

“So.” I swallowed my bile and forced a light tone. “Does Mr. Perfect have a name, or is he known only by his net worth?”

I didn’t remember everyone who’d been on Mode de Vie’s list, but the people I did remember didn’t inspire much confidence. If he—

“Net worth by strangers. Name by select friends and family.”

My spine stiffened at the deep, unexpected voice behind me. It was so close I could feel the rumble of words against my back. They slid over me like sun-warmed honey—rich and sensual, with a faint Italian accent that made every nerve ending tingle with pleasure.

Heat slipped beneath my skin.

“Ah, there you are.” My father rose, a strangely triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”

“How could I pass up the opportunity to meet your lovely daughter?”

A hint of mockery tainted the word lovely and instantly washed away any budding attraction I had to a voice, of all things.

Ice doused the heat in my veins.

So much for Mr. Perfect.

I’d learned to trust my gut when it came to people, and my gut told me the owner of the voice was as thrilled about the dinner as I was.

“Vivian, say hello to our guest.” If my mother beamed any harder, her face would split in half.

I half-expected her to prop her cheek on her hand and sigh dreamily like a schoolgirl with a crush.

I pushed the disturbing image out of my mind before I lifted my chin.

Stood.

Turned.

And all the air whooshed out of my lungs.

Thick black hair. Olive skin. A slightly crooked nose that enhanced rather than detracted from his ruggedly masculine charm.

My future husband was devastation poured into a suit. Not handsome by conventional means, but so powerful and compelling his presence swallowed every molecule of oxygen in the room like a black hole consuming a newborn star.

There were generically good-looking men, and there was him.

And, unlike his voice, his face was eminently recognizable.

My heart sank beneath the weight of my shock.

Impossible. There was no way he was my arranged fiancé. This had to be a joke.

“Vivian.” My mother disguised her rebuke as my name.

Right. Dinner. Fiancée. Meeting.

I shook myself out of my stupor and summoned a strained but polite smile. “Vivian Lau. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I held out my hand.

A beat passed before he took it. Warm strength engulfed my palm and sent a jolt of electricity up my arm.

“So I gathered from the multiple times your mother said your name.” The laziness of his drawl played off the observation as a joke; the hardness of his eyes told me it was anything but. “Dante Russo. The pleasure is all mine.”

There was the mockery again, subtle but cutting.

Dante Russo.

CEO of the Russo Group, Fortune 500 legend, and the man who’d created such a buzz at the Frederick Wildlife Trust gala three nights ago. He wasn’t just an eligible bachelor; he was the bachelor. The elusive billionaire every woman wanted and no one could get.

He was thirty-six years old, famously married to his work, and up until now, showed no intention of giving up his bachelor lifestyle.

Why, then, would Dante Russo of all people agree to an arranged marriage?

“I would introduce myself by my net worth,” he said. “But it would be impolite to categorize you as a stranger given the purpose of tonight’s dinner.”

His smile didn’t contain an ounce of warmth.

My cheeks heated at the reminder he’d overheard my joke. It hadn’t been malicious, but discussing other people’s money was considered uncouth even though everyone secretly did it.

“That’s very considerate of you.” My cool reply masked my embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Mr. Russo. If I wanted to know your net worth, I could Google it. I’m sure the information is as readily available as the tales of your legendary charm.”

A glint sparked in his eyes, but he didn’t take my bait.

Instead, our gazes held for a charged moment before he slid his palm out of mine and swept a clinical, detached gaze over my body.

My hand tingled with warmth, but everywhere else, coolness touched my skin like the indifference of a god faced with a mortal.

I stiffened again beneath Dante’s scrutiny, suddenly hyperaware of my Cecelia Lau-approved tweed skirt suit, pearl studs, and low-heeled pumps. I’d even swapped out my favorite red lipstick in favor of the neutral color she preferred.