Page 2 of Sinful Bride

I take another sip of champagne, trying to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth. I don't like the feeling that ripples over my skin at that, a hot prickle that I tell myself is disgust at the rumors.

But I can't stop looking at him.

He's moved away from the bar now, talking to one of my father's associates. Even in conversation, he looks uncomfortable. His shoulders are too tense, his jaw too tight. He doesn't belong in this world of crystal and silk and carefully orchestrated pleasantries. He belongs somewhere darker.

So why does my father want him here?

"Elena." Gabriella's voice pulls me back. "Are you even listening?"

"Of course." I'm not. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying that Sofia's brother has been staring at you all night." She nods toward the other side of the room, where Marco Benedetti is indeed watching me with undisguised interest. "I think he's going to ask you to dance."

God, I hope not. Marco is handsome enough, I suppose, in that generic way that many of the mafia sons are handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp jaw, smooth skin, muscled body, expensive suit. But he's boring, and predictable. I've known him since we were children, and I've never once heard him say anything interesting.

But then again, boring might be what I want. I know I can't escape the attention of men forever, and I want my life to change as little as possible. So maybe a boring mafia son is exactly what I need.

Just not right now. And not him.

"Let him stare," I say. "I'm not interested."

"You're never interested," Sofia says. There's an edge to her voice. "You know you're going to have to marry someone eventually, right? Your father won't let you stay single forever."

My fingers tighten around the stem of my champagne flute. "I'm twenty years old. I have time."

"Not as much as you think." Lucia's voice is almost pitying—for me or for herself, I'm not quite sure. "My father's already talking about arranging something for me. I'll probably be engaged by the end of the year."

The thought makes my stomach turn. Not marriage itself—I've always known that was inevitable—but the idea of being arranged, like a business deal. Like a merger. I want to choose, even if my choices are limited to the men in this room, the sons of families my father approves of.

I know that likely won't be the case. And I know that if I want to choose, I should be encouraging the men I'm interested in to approach my father. But the thought of marriage, and everything that comes after it, makes my stomach churn until I wonder if the champagne is going to make a reappearance.

"Well, I'm not you," I say, more sharply than I intend. "And I'm not getting engaged to anyone right now."

Before any of them can respond, the music shifts. The quartet begins playing a waltz, and couples start moving toward the center of the ballroom. I see my father dancing with Mrs. Benedetti, his hand at her waist, his expression pleasant and empty. He's good at the performance of civility, the pretense that we're all just normal people at a normal party.

"Elena Capetti."

The voice that comes from behind me is low and rough, with an Irish accent softened by years in America. I turn, and find myself looking up and up, into Declan Murphy's face.

He's even taller up close. Definitely a few inches over six feet, if I had to guess. His suit is charcoal gray, well-made but not custom, and I can see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from beneath his collar. His face is hard angles and sharp edges, making me wonder if the rest of him is as carved from stone as that, with reddish stubble darkening his jaw as if he didn't bother to shave before he came out tonight. Those green eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Mr. Murphy." I keep my voice cool and controlled. "I didn't realize you were here."

It's a lie, and we both know it.

"Your father invited me." His gaze flicks to the other women, then back to me. "I was hoping you'd dance with me."

I can hear the attempt at confidence in his voice. It's strange—there's some there, as if he's used to women wanting to be close to him, but with enough uncertainty bleeding into it that I know I'm not the type of woman he usually gets close to.

I should refuse him—make an excuse and go find Marco or one of the other acceptable men in this room. But something stops me.

Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's the way Gabriella is staring at me with wide eyes, clearly shocked that Murphy would approach me directly. Maybe it's the challenge in his expression, like he's daring me to say no.

He's a grown man, dangerous and violent, but in this room he almost seems like a boy finding his footing. I almost feel a little bad for him, which startles me.

Dancing with him would be gracious. Exactly the way the daughter of the host should behave, which is why I agree.

"Of course." I hand my champagne flute to Sofia and step forward, letting Murphy take my hand.