Page 18 of Captive Bride: Armani
“Have you ever tried making your own raw food?” Becca asks. “I could do that.”
Armani is looking at me like I’m crazy. “Do I need to hire a chef just for the cat?”
I smile. “Oh, would you?”
He clenches his jaw, sighs, turns on his heel, and walks out.
“Was it something I said?” I joke to Becca.
She flashes me a wink. “He can use a little razzing every now and again, that one. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure Mr. Sprinkles is served nothing but the best.”
I thank her and then leave to find Armani waiting in the hallway.
He’s tense, but not overly. I think I have room to tease him some more.
“Oh, come on,” I coax, giving Mr. Sprinkles a quick kiss on the head, “this pussy just needs a little love. Just a few strokes and I promise you’ll be hooked.”
I chose my words intentionally. The heat flaring in his eyes says I chose well. His gaze drops to the cat and then trails back up to me.
“I never get hooked,” he says quietly. “But I fully intend to give that pussy all the love it can handle.”
My playful attitude fades into something heated as we stare at each other.
Damn. I am in so much trouble with this man.
The shadow of a smile on his face tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Another moment of pure heat passes between us before he turns and continues with the tour as if we hadn’t almost just jumped each other in the middle of the hallway.
He shows me the expansive home office that he and his brothers use when they’re not working in the Bellanti Vineyards offices on the property, and then introduces me to the head of housekeeping and a few other staff.
“What’s down the rest of the hallway?” I ask, pointing to closed doors that must house rooms looking out onto the backyard.
“My brother Marco’s rooms, and an indoor-outdoor room that opens onto the patio and the pool area.”
“Can I see the pool?” I beg excitedly. “Is there a hot tub? Is it heated?”
“Yes to all, and yours to enjoy at your leisure.”
I get a quick tour of the “pool area”—private lagoon is more like it, since it’s landscaped to look like a tropical oasis, complete with waterfall, outdoor kitchen and bar, and separate two-bedroom pool house—before Armani takes me back inside and up to the second floor.
“Dante and Frankie have moved into their house on the adjacent Abbott acreage, as you know, and Marco and Karina have been traveling so much that they’re constantly in and out,” he tells me as we climb. “So basically, we have the house to ourselves.”
I nod as I follow him from door to door. The upstairs is expansive. There are six bedrooms, all with en suites, a separate guest bathroom, a few closets, another sitting room, and the second library that he mentioned earlier. The diamond-paned windows really are fantastic.
Finally, Armani goes to the last door and opens it. Lights come on automatically as we enter his inner sanctum. The first room is impressive but spartan, reminding me of a modern, upscale hotel lobby. Dark hardwood floors gleam beneath my feet as I take in the high ceiling, grey linen drapes, grey leather sofas, and marble coffee table. French doors lead out to the balcony and a fireplace sits against a wall with a gorgeous, rough-hewn stone surround.
Adjoining the space is the bedroom, which naturally has a king-size bed—a massive black four-poster—in the center. Everything in here is black and grey, from the lacquered dressers to the monochromatic framed artwork, but the curtains in here are a soothing sage green, and there are some green throw pillows on the chairs by the windows. The faded cream, brown, and sage Turkish rug under the bed looks like it’s over a hundred years old, but it adds a softness to the room that I appreciate. Vases of white flowers and fresh greenery sit on the nightstands, scenting the room with lily and eucalyptus.
“It’ssonice in here,” I murmur, sighing contentedly as I sink into one of the big leather chairs and let Mr. Sprinkles stretch out on my lap. “It looks like the brochure for a resort.”
Armani smiles, like he’s proud of himself. “I’m glad you approve.”
Another fireplace sits opposite of the bed, a large flatscreen TV flush against the wall above it. Built-in bookshelves, artfully bedecked, stand on either side of what must be the bathroom door.
“This is the walk-in closet over here.”
I gently set Mr. Sprinkles on the chair and follow Armani into what could easily be another small bedroom. Instead, it’s a beautifully arranged closet with custom shelving, full-length mirrors that slide out from between the cupboards, and a tufted bench in the center where you can sit and put on your shoes.
“This section and the drawers below are yours to fill as you see fit,” he says as I look around with my mouth hanging open. “If you need anything at all, from clothing to toiletries, just let the housing staff know and they’ll make arrangements. Will that suit?”
