Page 7 of Captive Bride: Armani
I give him a few minutes of my undivided attention, and then I plop onto the sofa with my heart pounding and dial Armani’s number. I can hear his voice in my head already. He’ll answer the phone the way he always does if I call with a question—Armani Bellanti speaking.
“Candi. Hello,” he says smoothly instead.
Damn him. Throwing me off guard. I almost forget what to say, but then I remember I’m in control of this situation.
“Armani. I’ve been thinking about your offer.”
“Of course you have.”
Cocky bastard.
He sounds so damn self-assured, like I’m about to throw myself at his feet. But it’s not going down like that. I’m going to make him jump through a few hoops before I say yes.
“I’m not saying yes,” I tell him coolly, letting my rejection sink in before I go on. “Yet. You’d have to take me out before I could even consider your proposal. You need to work for it, Mr. Bellanti. Convince me.”
3
CANDI
Well,that escalated quickly.
Armani is wasting no time. I’d barely hung up the phone last night when I received a text message from him with the details for a dinner cruise the next day. Aprivatedinner cruise. At sunset. With champagne.
Juliana was so excited, she insisted I come over first thing this morning so she could help me find something to wear. I never argue when she offers up her clothes. I have a nice enough wardrobe, but hers is full of designer pieces with much higher price tags than I’m comfortable paying. We wear the same size, though my body type is more curvy than hers, so clothes swapping is pretty easy, as long as there’s room in the chest and hips. When she made me try on a silk dress with a high, square neckline and spaghetti straps crisscrossing over my bare back, I knew it was the one.
The buttery fabric skimmed my figure like a dream, the hem stopping just above my ankles so the straps of my three-inch taupe heels would be visible. The color—somewhere between olive and sage, with a subtle sheen to it—complemented both my auburn hair and my blue-green eyes. It was perfect. Sexy but completely classy, showing off everything while draping me from neck to foot at the same time.
Still, I’m nervous now as I get ready at my apartment. Looking at myself in the mirror makes the nerves even worse. Never in a million years did I think anything would actually happen between Armani and me. I figured all the light flirting and coy glances between us the last few years amounted to little more than passing the time.
Guess I was wrong.
I just…really wish I didn’t have an ulterior motive for taking him up on this opportunity. He’s a smart man, and perceptive. He’ll pick up on anything disingenuous from me. Luckily, I won’t have any trouble acting like I’m relishing the chance to be with him. No reason to dupe anyone when I’m getting what I wanted anyway. The rest will come naturally. I hope.
Studying my reflection, I turn this way and that, assessing the dress. It’s the right choice, there’s no doubt. Armani’s favorite lipstick is a great match, too. My hair hangs in loose waves down my back, and I took care to choose simple gold accessories. Younger me never imagined looking like this, being like this.
As a kid, I always wore my brothers’ hand-me-downs. Every now and then, the neighbor would bring me something her daughter had outgrown. I didn’t think much about my wardrobe until I hit puberty and noticed the girls at school starting to dress more and more differently than me. That’s when I started using my meager allowance to shop at thrift stores, keeping myself stocked with a few girly basics. Even so, I pretty much rocked a jeans-and-T-shirt uniform all the way until college.
I’ve come a long way. I’ve come far enough to snag a Bellanti. Who would have thought?
A car shows up for me at exactly seven on the dot, the driver—an older gentleman named Donovan—using the call box to announce that he’s waiting at the curb. To my surprise, when I slide into the back of the town car, Armani isn’t in it. Donovan kindly assures me my date is waiting at the dock. Then he offers me a glass of champagne for the ride, which I accept, after which I sit back and ponder why Armani didn’t bother to pick me up himself.
It’s a gorgeous drive to the lower Napa River, where we pull into an exclusive-looking marina. Butterflies fill my stomach when I spot a figure that must be Armani waiting at the entrance. Donovan expertly parks, opens my door, and helps me out. As I make my way toward Armani, I’m riveted by the man standing before me.
He’s wearing a dark grey suit with a lighter grey button-down beneath and a black tie. The monochrome palette accentuates his dark beauty. His black hair is slicked back as if he’d run his fingers through it and not a hair dared step out of line. The notes of his cologne hit me as I get closer, rich and spicy and masculine. Inhaling subtly, I get the urge to bury my face in the crook of his neck and feel his hot, smooth skin beneath my lips.
“You look lovely,” he says.
“So do you,” I say teasingly, instinctively deflecting since I’ve never been good at accepting compliments.
I smile and take his offered arm, my fingers curling around his bicep. God, it’s so firm beneath my hand. I could blame my sudden breathing difficulty and jitteriness on excitement for our sunset cruise, but that would be a lie. It’s him, pure and simple. My desire for Armani has been so carefully packed away for such a long time that I’m not quite sure how to keep it together around him now that I can actually act on my feelings.
Be cool, I silently scold myself.
“We have the boat to ourselves,” Armani is saying as he leads me down the dock, passing sleek luxury boats left and right. “My chef Alain prepared us a five-course meal, and there’s champagne if you’re in a celebratory mood.”
“Oh, I might be,” I say. I can’t help it: I’m giddy.
Armani grins. “The captain will take us on a leisurely cruise along the Napa River, right in time to see the sunset, and if all of that isn’t romantic enough to convince you to spend the next six months with me, I also have a backup plan.”
