Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Seven years ago, I stole a kiss from a debutante on a yacht.
For my crime of passion, I spent three years in prison.
Now, with the power of the Beretta Crime Family behind me, I’m coming for the Yacht King.
I will destroy the man who thought me unfit to touch his daughter.
And this time, I’m taking more than just a kiss from her.
More, even, than a revenge fuck.
By the time I’m through, everything that man owns and loves will permanently belong to me–including his precious princess.
Revenge will be mine.
She will be mine.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
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.