One look in his dark, cold eyes, and I can tell I’ve made a terrible mistake. I should not have taken those tequila shots. I should not have expected Al’s ugly-ass uncle to come to collect. No, this guy is so much worse. He’s not some old guy who can be manipulated into doing my bidding with insincere flattery about how hot and young he still is. This guyisstill hot and young. Too fucking hot, and way too fucking young. He’s not going to be dying of too much cream sauce anytime in the next fifty years.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. My marriage won’t be over before I’m twenty-five. It will never be over. This isn’t a sacrifice for the family. It’s a life sentence. I can feel the shackles around my ribs tightening with each breath I try to draw as he holds me pinned with his gaze, the cold cruelty in his expression boring into me as if he already hates me more than I hate him. He is a Valenti, after all. My family has killed as many of them as they have us. And now I’m at his mercy. He’s probably already thinking up what sadistic tortures he’ll inflict upon me for the rest of my life.
Oh god. I’m doomed.
He strides to the sofa and stands over me like he’s lording his height over me, just looking down at me expectantly. When I don’t jump up to bow at his feet and tell him how happy I am that I’m being sold off like a head of cattle to an absolute no one, he frowns even harder. Then, the dude sticks out his hand like we’re in a fucking business meeting.
“I’m King,” he says. “You must be Eliza.”
Damn it. Even his voice is sexy, rich and smooth like butter.
But despite his looks and his voice, he’s too uptight to be sexy. I mean, the guy is seriously trying to shake my hand like some stuffy old guy from a Jane Austen novel.
Yeah, fuck this. I’m not doomed. I’m not going to give in that easily. I don’t lie down and roll over for anyone, even my future husband. In fact, it’s even more important that I show him I won’t be controlled. If he were old, maybe I could stand it for a few years. But if I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this prick, I’m going to have to lay down the law real quick. Starting with the fact that I don’t respect anyone who hasn’t earned it.
Ignoring his hand, I cock an eyebrow and meet his gaze with a challenge in my eyes. “You’re supposed to be able to handle me?” I ask. “You can’t be any older than I am.”
He takes his hand back, looking momentarily speechless, like he doesn’t know what to say.
“Eliza,” Dad barks. “Stand up and meet your fiancé.”
“Oh, right,” I say, struggling to rise from the overly soft couch. “Sorry, Daddy. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
King offers a hand again, this time to help me up, but I ignore it again. I heave myself up and find myself staring straight at his chest. Damn, this guy is tall, easily six foot four and clad in an Armani suit. I thought he was just some grunt like Tommy. He must be important to afford that kind of wardrobe—or at least rich.
For a second, I check out the way he fills out that suit from his broad shoulders to the sculpted muscles I can see hinted at beneath his white shirt. When at last I raise my eyes to his, he’s scowling even fiercer.
“Let’s give these two a moment to get acquainted,” Sylvia says, edging toward the door. “I’ll have sandwiches sent up.”
“Good idea,” Dad says. “I’ll be right here.”
I almost laugh. No way is Daddy leaving his little girl alone with a Valenti. Maybe there’s still hope for me yet. I may have cried and begged at the bistro, but there are other ways to get what I want. I have no power here, so I have to rely on the power of manipulation. But hey, a girl has to work with what she’s got.
King is still glaring daggers at me, not stepping back. He’s so close I could reach out and touch him if I wanted, see if those muscles are as hard as they look.
“Are you drunk?” he asks, an edge of incredulousness in his voice.
“Are you judging me?” I shoot back.
He just stares at me a long moment, the muscle in his jaw working like he’s holding back from saying what he wants. Good. He should be intimidated. If not by me, then by my father. I have to hand it to the guy, he’s got balls, coming in here alone while our families have been at war for a decade. It could have been a trap. Still, he’s smart enough not to insult Daddy’s little girl in front of him.
“It’s nice meeting you,” he says flatly. “Let me know if you’d like to get together again before the wedding to discuss specifics. Otherwise, I trust that you’re more than capable of making the arrangements.”
Now I’m the one left speechless. I gape at him, caught between indignation and anger. He seems as uninterested in me as I am in him. Much to my annoyance, I find myself feeling resentful, even a bit insulted, by his indifference.
“Haven’t you come to woo me?” I ask, a mocking edge to my voice.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says. “If you need my approval on any wedding decisions, you can email me, and I’ll sign off on it.”
“Email you?” I repeat incredulously. “Approval?”
“Unless you’d like to meet again before that,” he says, leveling me with a look my father can’t see from his position behind him. King is challenging me.
Well, two can play that game.
“No need,” I say, lifting my chin. “We’ve got an event coordinator.”
“Then it’s settled,” King says. “I’ll see you at the altar.”