Revenge: Yacht Kings, #1

Prologue

Dahlia

One more dance with a spoiled, cocky teen in a tux and I'm going to poke my eye out with a cocktail toothpick.

I reach out and grab one of said toothpicks from a waiter’s tray, the one presently attached to a cashew-crusted salmon bite, and pop the food in my mouth. I’m hoping to forestall any more conversation with my current suitor, Archie, a Manhattan blueblood whose father works at one of the white shoe law firms on Wall Street.

I like your necklace. His gaze is not at the seven-figure diamond arrangement on my neck, but at the cleavage showing above the strapless bodice of my gown. At least he’s attracted to some part of the real me, even if it’s just my body.

We’re on my father’s newest and biggest yacht, Debutante, built specifically for my coming-of-age ball. Naturally, my mother needed the most pretentious place possible, so she can show off the Yacht King’s immeasurable wealth and status. It’s important to outdo every other society family in New York.

Frankly, I don’t see the point of having a coming-out party when it’s not like I will actually get to date. I won’t actually choose my own husband. I won’t be giving my precious virginity to someone who steals my heart, makes me tremble, and kisses me like his life depends on it.

Nope.

My marriage has pretty much already been arranged.

I’m going to be a president’s wife.

A first lady.

That’s what Babs, my ambitious mother, believes, anyway. That’s the future she wants for me. For her. For our family.

Across the dance floor, my intended—eighteen-year-old Jake Reese the Third, Senator Jacob Reese’s son—holds court with a group of young socialites who moon over every gilded word he utters.

We shared a first dance, during which he looked down his nose and told me I’m still far too young for him to associate with, and we haven’t spoken since.

Which suits me just fine. I only have one real friend here, and that’s Bea, but she’s presently occupied on the dance floor with a flat-footed cousin of mine.

Would you care to dance? Henrik, some kind of Norwegian prince, bows and offers his hand.

Archie, knowing he’s outranked, politely moves away.

Henrik is sweet. I’ve met him before on visits to our Norwegian shipyard. He’s good-looking and polite. But my feet are killing me in these heels, and I’m tired of making forced conversation, smiling, and being on display.

Unfortunately, my mother’s eagle eyed me every minute of this excruciating event. I glance over at her.

She has her back to me at the moment, talking to Loretta Reese, the senator’s wife.

Now is my chance.

I would love to, but I need to take a quick break. Excuse me while I go to the powder room? Using a question allows him to be the hero.

Of course. Henrik inclines his golden head politely. His perfect manners match his perfect blond hair and flawless accent.

Thank you. I will find you when I return, I promise, sailing away as fast as my high heels will allow.

I head toward the restroom in case my mom is looking then quickly detour down the stairs to the kitchen.

I get a few surprised looks as I dash through the galley and come out on the narrow servants' deck. Several servers who were standing around gabbing snap to attention.

One doesn’t move at all, except to eye me as he takes a slow drag on a cigarette while leaning against the rail of the deck.

Oh, damn.

He has dark hair that curls over one side of his forehead and a I don’t give two fucks attitude. Dressed in the crisp white shirt, black pants, bowtie, and cumberbund of the hired waiters, he somehow manages to look more regal than any prince, Norwegian or otherwise.

He takes in the fluffy meringue of my pale pink strapless gown, the elbow-length calfskin gloves, and the necklace worth more than my college fund with a bored look.

My body heats at his perusal.

My first thought is that he doesn’t know who I am. He can’t possibly understand that this is my father’s yacht, and the way he’s looking at me would be considered impertinent.

Then I realize he must know I’m somebody.

And he really doesn’t care.

On the contrary, his derisive look seems to imply I’m interrupting him at this moment. That this is his territory, and I'm the intruder.

My pulse picks up speed. Maybe that's the appeal. He’s obviously the bad boy who doesn't follow the rules. James Dean and Elvis rolled into one delicious package.

He surely must comprehend I could have him fired in a heartbeat.

I stride over and lean a hip against the rail beside him. He’s even more good-looking up close. His eyes are the shade of whiskey, and his lashes are thick and long for a man.

Give me a drag, I demand.

He arches a dark brow. It’s a sexy look on him. Almost swoon-worthy. I don’t breathe during the four interminable seconds it takes him to react, but eventually, he turns the cigarette around and holds it to my lips.

There’s something intimate about the action. He doesn’t hand it to me–he controls the way it comes to my mouth. When it leaves. I smell the clean soap of his washed hands, along with the tobacco and ash.

I’ve never smoked before in my life.

I realize, belatedly, that this is a terrible idea. The scent will be all over me–in my gown. On my breath.

I’m supposed to return to the deck dance floor to be the society darling of the night, and I’m making a faux pas that could cause every woman in my mother’s circle to cluck their tongue. Smoking!

But the handsome waiter’s looking at me with a challenge in his shrewd gaze. I realize he sees it all–my naivete, my foolish rebellion.

I don’t think he’s amused, either. He’s not finding me cute. In fact, there’s a note of scorn behind those dark eyes.

So I rise to the challenge. I close my pink-lipsticked mouth around the butt of his cigarette and suck.

And choke.

Cough.

Try to drag fresh air in to cool my heated throat and lungs.

Cough some more.

When I steal a look at the stranger’s face, I find him still regarding me coolly.

He takes another slow drag of the cigarette, watching me the entire time. He turns his head to blow the smoke away from my face but doesn't break eye contact.

This your ball?

The fist that’s been in my solar plexus since the moment I woke up and my mother started berating me about everything I had to do, everything that wasn’t perfect about me yet, tightens. I stare past him into the inky black of the water below. Supposedly.

He catches the bitterness of my tone, and the corners of his lips turn up. The resulting smile is devastating. My knees weaken, and heat swirls in my core.

So you’re back here rebelling? His grin grows. It transforms his face, giving him a more open, boyish look.

I take the cigarette from his fingers and attempt another drag. Cough some more. I guess.

Well. He gives me a sweeping, critical gaze. You wear it well.

I lift a surprised gaze to his face, trying to gauge if he means it. I wasn't expecting a compliment. I thought for sure he’d throw derision.

Once I look, I find it impossible to look away. I’m blasted by his good looks. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a Roman nose, and a square jaw. Large hands that look like they could inflict great damage.

Or pleasure…

He takes the cigarette from my fingers and tosses it into the water. Well, then. He holds out his palm like a gentleman.

I’m suddenly dizzy as I contemplate taking it. As if I know, somehow, that if I do, my life will never be the same.

Come on. He tips his head away from the rail like he has some plan. Let's see if we can get you into some real trouble.

Chapter One

1964 (7 years later), Newport, RI

Antonio

Your time is up. Clad in a tuxedo tailored to fit my broad-shouldered frame, I lean against the brownstone church wall of St. Mary’s Cathedral. There’s no gun in my hand. I don't need one.

Benedict King knows me. He knows why I’m here. That I represent the don of the Beretta family. He probably also sees I have men stationed everywhere around the churchyard, mingling with the eight hundred guests streaming in for the society wedding of the season.

"Please, please. The man holds up plump, shaking hands. Sweat drips from his hairline. It's my daughter's wedding. Just let me walk down the aisle with her. Please allow me to get her married before you kill me."

My upper lip curls at the mention of his precious daughter. Who says I'm not here to kill her, too? I ask casually.

Terror flares in the fat man's eyes. He blinks rapidly, his pupils tiny pricks of black in his pale blue eyes. He's in a white tux, as if he's the virgin being sold off in matrimony today, rather than his spoiled daughter.

Don't touch Dahlia. Spittle flies from his mouth.

The moment you fucked the Berettas, your life, your wife’s life, and your daughter’s were forfeit. And I'm here to collect.

A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. You can’t–

Benedict! Where have you been? The ceremony’s about to start! Barbara King–or Babs, as the society column calls her–comes rushing around the corner then stops short when she sees me. One look at her husband, and she realizes things are not right. Who are you? What's going on?

I give her a shark tooth grin. I’m the guy who’s come to kill you, Babs.

She sways on her feet, color draining from her face.

Catch her before she faints, I tell her asswipe husband.

Benedict’s reflexes are slow, but he does manage to grab his wife’s elbow before she topples.

Benedict, she sobs. What’s happening? What did you do? She searches his face.

He stares back at her, his expression conveying his dismay. His regret. The horror of what’s about to happen. The money I lost in the Shellingham deal, Babs. It was borrowed. He glances at me.

Babs turns a slow, terrified gaze on me. "From the mafia?" she croaks.

That’s right, doll, I say. "And the Yacht King missed his window to make it right with Don Beretta. So it’s not going to be the happily-ever-after