Chapter 82 Sweet Poison

• Charlotte King wasn't the type to stumble. Not in six-inch Louboutins, not in business, and definitely not into strange men at charity functions. But those eyes - deep brown with flecks of gold, like expensive bourbon in crystal - they made her forget about steady feet.
• "Adrian De Silva." His voice carried Old World charm wrapped in New Money confidence. "And you must be Charlotte King." He caught her elbow as she steadied herself, his touch precise as a surgeon's.
• "Must I?" Charlotte's eyebrow arched with practiced disdain, but her pulse quickened traitorously. The velvet box felt warm in her hands.