Page 17 of Captive Bride: Armani
I’m not bluffing, either. At this point I have minimal investment in the faux-lationship, so I can still walk away. Even so, my pulse starts to pound in anticipation of his response.
Because even as emotionally detached as I’m telling myself I am, the truth is, I haven’t stopped obsessing over my date with Armani since the night it happened. It plays on repeat in my mind constantly. Not just our conversation and the mutual enjoyment we seemed to derive from each other’s company, but what happened after.
The memory of his tongue inside me is seared into my brain, sparking my lust with a vengeance when I’m trying to sleep, leaving my body longing for the real thing. I’m no virgin, but Armani is a master of the craft. No one has ever, ever made me come like he did, and now I ache for an encore. I’m already addicted to my Bellanti lover.
However.
If he thinks for one second that I’m going to get rid of my cat in trade for living at the Bellanti estate, he can get bent. Mr. Sprinkles is basically my beating heart, and I’m not dumping him off at some kennel for six months. I’ll find another way to gather the information I need, the same way I was before this deal with Armani was dangled in front of me.
I get about three steps away before I feel Armani’s hand on my bicep, gently tugging me around to face him.
“Yes?” I say pointedly.
His beautiful lips press into a firm line. His eyes narrow and I wonder what he’s thinking. I know that he likes his things in order, his routine adhered to—without a single cat hair to mess up his orderly life. Is our arrangement about to be formally broken off?
He clears his throat and nods toward the house. “The staff will bring in your bags. Let me give you a tour in the meantime.”
Well. I guess the debate is over. It appears that I’ve won. Candi—1. Armani—0.
I could get used to this.
Petting Mr. Sprinkles, suppressing my grin, I let Armani lead me up the front stairs.
“I didn’t think my cat would be that much of a surprise.” I hope I sound sincere, because I do feel a little guilty. “I just love animals. Lucky for you, it’s just the one cat, and he pretty much keeps to himself. It could be so much worse, right?”
“No more animals,” he says curtly. “Come on in.”
I’ve been inside the Bellanti house before, but only briefly, when business dictated. The foyer is familiar to me, paneled in dark walnut with a curving staircase, marble floor tiles, and an elaborate chandelier hanging overhead. A bit heavy and dark, but classic. “Doomy and gloomy,” is how I remember my friend Frankie—the eldest Bellanti brother’s wife—describing it.
Large sitting rooms open up on the left and the right, both with massive windows that look out over the grounds and let the sunlight pour in. I get a glimpse of antique rugs, polished mahogany furniture, oil paintings…but this is as far as my past visits have led me. I’ve always been curious to see the rest of the home. The outside is all rugged brown stone and black iron, and from what I’ve gathered, the inside is equally imposing and masculine.
“This way,” Armani says, gesturing down the long central hallway.
Here goes nothing.
As I trail after him, I see that the house has been meticulously tended over the generations, barely showing signs of age or wear. That’s no surprise. The Bellantis have always had money, so of course the estate would be kept up. In fact, the place almost looks like a museum…with a few modern updates, of course. Cool air blows from newer vents overhead, and the lighting fixtures are contemporary. I’m sure all the plumbing is, too, though the architecture of the estate places it firmly in its origin time period, either the late 1800s or early 1900s.
“This is the formal dining room, this is the kitchen,” Armani is saying, “and to your right is the first-floor library, though you might prefer the one upstairs since it has better windows and this one is used more for cigars and whiskey after dinner than for reading.”
“Wow. Two whole libraries,” I gush. “What do you think of that, Mr. Sprinkles?”
As I drop a kiss on top of my cat’s fluffy little head, Armani gives me a sideways glance.
“You know, you could’ve told me you had a cat.”
“Well, I suppose you could have asked,” I shoot back without missing a beat. “Remember when we played the get-to-know-you game on the boat? Never came up. ‘Do you have any pets’ would have been an appropriate question.”
He clears his throat. “I had other things on my mind. As it were.”
My cheeks go hot. “I guess I did, too.”
Armani turns back toward the kitchen and pushes open the swinging door. Inside, two members of the kitchen staff are puttering around. He mentions the head chef, Alain, who is at the farmer’s market, and then introduces me to the chef’s new assistant, Becca. She welcomes me with a genuine smile and asks about my food preferences.
After making a list, she points her pen at Mr. Sprinkles. “Liver pâté? Shredded chicken? Do you feed a raw diet or cooked? For treats I can whip up some fish, perhaps salmon? Does she like cod roe? I can get a good roe this time of year. She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”
Armani looks between us as if the assistant can’t be serious. However, I am delighted that she thinks enough about my baby to inquire about his favorite foods.
“Hisname is Mr. Sprinkles, and yes he is beautiful. He’s going to love being so spoiled here. I usually feed him Royal Organix canned food since he has a…discerningpalate…but I’m sure he’d love to try all of the above.”
