Page 31 of Vengeful Vows

It feels like an important step. Of course, maybe it’s just a courtesy because I’m sharing the penthouse with his cousin.

“Is that okay with you?”

Since I’m reluctant for our evening to end, I smile. “Of course.”

I expect him to take me to one of the resort’s numerous, trendy bars, but we bypass all of them and head for an elevator that delivers us to a quiet floor.

Do all major resorts have these kinds of secrets for their high-profile guests? Most likely, I realize. But since I’m not high-profile, and I book through a discount website, I’m unaware of other options.

We’re shown to a small room that, of course, Sergio checks out before we enter, despite the fact there’s limited access to this part of the hotel.

We have a table with three leather chairs around it. There’s also a window with a view of the Strip, with its river of neon that’s even more spectacular because of the dark. “It feels like I can see forever.”

I expect Marse to dismiss my words as a flight of fancy, but he doesn’t. Instead he nods. “It does.”

In Houston, I am surrounded by other skyscrapers, and cloudy skies are common, and that prevents me from staring into the heavens as I’d like to. So this is a welcome treat.

Moments later, there’s a knock on the door. Then it opens. Two servers enter. One is carrying a silver ice bucket along with three crystal flutes.

The second holds a bottle of champagne, nestled in a white linen napkin. “Compliments of the house, sir.”

Wow.Mr. Carrington must really like his cousin.

With a great flourish, Marcello is shown the bottle.

I call on all my reserves to blink instead of gasp when I recognize the distinctive shape of the label and realize that it’s one of the finest champagnes on the planet, bottled only in vintage years, and one I’ve never been fortunate enough to sample.

“Does it meet with your approval, sir?”

Marcello looks quizzically at me.

Inside, I laugh at the absurdity of the moment.

“Bella?”

Ridiculously, as if this is an everyday occurrence for me, I nod. I mean, would anyone really send it back? I can’t imagine anything more insulting.

With a subtle pop, the cork is released, and the server splashes a sample into the glass in front of Marcello.

I can’t wait to enjoy my first taste.

He draws in the scent, then sips. Evidently satisfied, he says, “Very good. Thank you.”

My glass is filled with the almost transparent golden liquid. Then Marcello’s is topped off.

Tiny bubbles dance to the top, tempting me, and I have to rein in my impatience.

Soon we’re alone, and he tips his glass in my direction.

The champagne is like liquid silk on my tongue. Then I notice the flavors. Almonds, maybe? Or is it toasted hazelnuts? Both? And there’s a light citrus to it, as well. Nothing stands out, and all the flavors work together in a perfect blend. “I think I’ve found a new favorite thing.”

“Something competing to be the best thing you’ve ever had in your mouth?” His voice holds a teasing note.

“Yes.” I nod. “Absolutely.”

“And still, I do hope there’s something better.”

Once more, scandalized as he no doubt intends, I blush before looking back at him.