Page 7 of Vow Of Fire

A slow murmur rippled through the crowd, and we turned to see a glamorous couple enter the gallery. My eyes widened in alarm.

“Holy crap!” I gripped Chloe’s arm, nearly making her spill her champagne. “What are they doing here?”

She paled as she surveyed the pair. “They didn’t RSVP,” she whispered.

“You invited them?” I hissed. My gaze—along with the rest of the women in the room—was still locked on the tall, dark, and sinfully handsome man that had entered the gallery. His magnetic presence seemed to suck the air from the room like the instant before a nuclear detonation.

My pulse ratcheted up a couple of notches as I studied him. His cheekbones were lethal, his strong jaw chiseled, and despite the suit, he sported an indecent amount of stubble. It was also impossible to miss the wolf-head tattoo climbing up his neck, just visible under his blazer collar.

“I invited Leo Marcelli—he’s a renowned art lover—but I thought he’d send an intermediary, not his immediate family,” she told me.

The woman with him had her arm intimately entwined with his, but I knew her to be his sister, Isabella Marcelli—a force to be reckoned with in her own right, if the tabloids were to be believed.

I didn’t know the family personally, but it was impossible to exist in New York without knowing who they were. The Marcelli empire extended from construction and property development to finance and politics. They were also rumored to be connected to the mob, although that had never been proven.

The only daughter in the Marcelli family was even more striking in the flesh than in her photographs. Dark hair fell loose and poker-straight down her back, and she had a fine gold hoop through her nose. Her black cocktail dress clung to her svelte figure like wet paint on a canvas. On her feet were the most gorgeous pair of silver stilettos.

Admittedly, there was a hard edge to her beauty, but her confidence was unmistakable, and she seemed indifferent to the effect she was having on the other guests. The men gaped open-mouthed, while the women stared in envy.

“They’re not the type to RSVP,” I admitted, watching as Dante Marcelli scanned the room until he settled on me.

Chloe elbowed me in the ribs. “I think that’s your cue.”

“Ouch,” I hissed under my breath.

“Go.” She nodded insistently at the couple.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” I whispered back.

“Oh no.” She took a nervous step back, raising her hands. “No, no, no.” It wasn’t like Chloe to shy away from potential purchasing power.

I threw her a sharp look.

“Fine. I’m not scared of them.” I straightened my shoulders, stuck a winning smile on my face, and hurried over to greet the couple.

Since the woman stood in front of the man, I held out a hand to her first. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming. I’m Evelyn Cruz, the owner. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Her grip was cool, but firm.

“Isabella Marcelli,” she said, in a throaty voice.

I bowed my head. “Pleasure.”

Then, I turned to him.

“This is my brother, Dante,” Isabella said by way of introduction.

He held out a large, tanned hand, and I took it, noticing, on the back of it, a single inked rose whose stem twisted into the coils of a snake before vanishing beneath his sleeve. Beauty and venom, I thought, right there on his skin.

“Ms. Cruz.” His voice was deeper than I expected, rough at the edges. It sent shivers down my spine. Also, my hand was on fire. His grip was hard and hot, and I felt the heat steal up my arm and into my body.

He held it just long enough for me to feel the roughness of his palm, before releasing me.

I pulled back, watching his gray eyes narrow like he was assessing me and finding me lacking in some way.

I felt suddenly naked, despite the high-necked, silk chiffon Carolina Herrera gown that offered more than a respectable amount of coverage. It was part of their latest collection, and I’d bought it especially for this occasion.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Marcelli?” I asked, testily. Did I have something in my teeth? Was my mascara smudged? Surely Chloe would have told me.