My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(3)

“Dal!”

Frankie wrapped her arms around me like she hadn’t seen me just forty minutes ago when she’d sworn me to secrecy after I caught her shoving nips of Clase Azul into her padded bra.

The plastic edges of the miniature bottles dug into my boobs as we hugged.

“Are you having fun?” I righted her in place before she toppled over like a goat. “Do you want me to get you some water? Advil? Divine intervention?”

Frankie smelled of sweat.

And cheap cologne.

And weed.

Lord, help Daddy.

“I’m fine.” She waved a hand, peering around. “Did you see there’s some duke from Maryland here?”

“I don’t think monarchy exists in the U.S. of A, Sis.”

Just because von Bismarck’s last name sounded made up didn’t mean he was royalty.

“And his super-rich friend?” She ignored me. “He’s an arms dealer, so that’s fun.”

Only in her universe would an arms dealer be something enjoyable.

“Yeah, Sav and Emilie were so pumped, they were ready to wrestle a mountain lion. Did you meet them?”

“Not exactly.” Frankie scrunched her nose, still surveying the ballroom, probably for whoever made her smell like an oopsie-baby in the back of a drug dealer’s car. “Guess whoever invited them wanted to make an impression, ’cause their table has shortbread specially prepared by the late queen’s beloved baker. Flown here straight from Surrey.” She flashed me a crooked grin. “I stole one when no one was looking.”

My heart squeezed.

I loved my sister so much.

I also wanted to kill her right now.

“And you didn’t steal one for me?” I nearly shrieked. “You know I’ve never tasted authentic British shortbread. What’s the matter with you?”

“Oh, there’s still plenty more there.” Frankie dug her fingers into her tight updo, massaging her scalp. “And people are lining up to talk to these jerks like they’re the Windsors or something. Just go there, introduce yourself, and casually take one. There’s a mountain of them.”

“Shortbread or people?”

“Both.”

I craned my neck above her head.

She was right.

A line of guests waited to kiss the rings of these two men.

Since I wasn’t above lowering myself for something tasty, I marched to the cluster of people haloing Costa and von Bismarck’s table.

“…disastrous tax plan that would create economic mayhem…”

“…surely, Mr. Costa, there must be an off-ramp for all this spending? We can’t keep funding these wars…”

“…true about their lack of technological weapons? I’ve been meaning to ask…”

While the men of Chapel Falls blabbered their way into giving these two a coma and the women leaned down to show off their cleavage, I weaved into the thick crowd, my eyes on the prize—a three-tier tray full of mouthwatering shortbread.

First, I casually planted my hand on the table.

Nothing to see here.

Then I inched deeper toward the British treats—the centerpiece.

My fingers skimmed a square when a biting voice turned my way.

“And you are?”

It came from Leather.

Or rather, Romeo Costa.

He sat lounged back on his chair, staring at me with all the friendliness of a Nile crocodile.

Fun fact: they considered humans a regular part of their diet.

I bent my knees with flourish. “Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?”

“Not in the shortbread tray, that’s for sure.” His voice was dry and disinterested.

Okay. Tough audience.

But I did try to steal his biscuits.

“I’m Dallas Townsend of the Townsend family.”

I flashed him a warm smile, offering him my hand to kiss. He appraised it with repugnance, ignoring the gesture.

Totally disproportionate to my alleged crime.

“You’re Dallas Townsend?” A tinge of disappointment marred his godly face. Like he’d expected something entirely different.

That he would expect anything at all was a stretch.

We didn’t move in the same circles. In fact, I was ninety-nine percent sure this man only moved in squares. He was a sharp-edged kind of guy.

“For the past twenty-one years.” I eyed the shortbread.

So close, and yet so far.

“My eyes are up here,” Costa bit out.

Von Bismarck chuckled, snatching the largest square, possibly to spite me. “She’s darling, Rom. Quite the pet.”

Darling? Pet?

What did he mean?

With much reluctance, I dragged my gaze up the length of the table, from the shortbread to Romeo’s face.

He was so handsome.

Also—dead in the eyes.

He leaned forward. “Are you sure you’re Dallas Townsend?”

I tapped my chin. “Hmm, now that I think about it, I’d like to change my answer to Hailey Bieber.”

“Is this supposed to be funny?”

“Is this supposed to be serious?”

“You’re being obtuse.”

“You started it.”

Gasps pinged from every corner of the table.