Page 15 of Captive Rival: Armani
“On mine,” he says.
And with that, he turns his back on me and walks out the door.
6
CANDI
I’m soexhausted from travel—and, honestly, from arguing with Armani about my phone—that I crawl on top of the bed to take a “short” nap. Hours later, I wake with a start, temporarily disoriented by my unfamiliar surroundings.
It all comes back in a flash: the hours on the plane, the drive across the island to this posh villa, the fight with my husband. I feel groggy and sweaty and gross, so I get in the shower and clean myself up as quickly as I can. Surely Armani and I have dinner plans. This is our honeymoon, after all. Real or not, we have to keep up appearances.
But when I stroll out of the bathroom in my robe, a cloud of coconut-vanilla bodywash enveloping me, Armani is pacing the room like he’s been waiting for me for hours. He’s in a freshly pressed dark suit and he smells like his rich, velvety going-out cologne.
“Finally,” he says. “Hurry up and pack an overnight bag. And then get dressed. We’re late.”
“Late for what? And if you wanted me to be ready at a certain time, you should have told me.”
“Just pack the bag, sweetheart,” he says peevishly.
“With what? Are we going to be hiking, biking, ballroom dancing?”
“You should look classy and hot. We’ll be having dinner on a boat. I’ll be back in twenty.”
“Thanks for including me in your plans,” I call after him sarcastically as he walks out.
Damn him.
I pack in a frenzy, grabbing silk pajamas, a floral designer sundress for tomorrow, and a handful of new lingerie. Then I dig my makeup bag out of my carry-on and plunk myself in front of the vanity to give myself a five-minute makeover. I swipe on some BB cream, two coats of mascara, and a hint of blush and then assess myself in the mirror. Yeah, nope. I’m giving off wholesome college girl vibes. But since there’s no time for an elaborate glamour routine, I’m going to have to let my lips do the talking.
My secret weapon comes out—a deep, dark plum lipstick that Juliana always swears makes me look sophisticated and mysterious. As for my damp hair, I just scrunch it with a bit of anti-frizz cream and hope it dries nicely. Adrenaline pumping, I drop my robe and wiggle into a clingy black satin dress that’s floor length with a scandalous slit up the side. Hopefully it’s classy and hot enough for Armani.
I’m looking for a clock in the room just as I hear a knock at the door, and then Armani is stepping back inside to collect me and my bag.
“Well? How do I look?” I ask as he hustles me down the stairs.
“It’ll do,” he says distractedly.
Infuriated, I say nothing else as we get back into the car that brought us here. Armani sits beside me this time, but he gives no further details about our dinner date as we’re driven down the hillside. When we reach the coast, a small boat is waiting to ferry us to a gleaming white yacht anchored offshore. A little gasp escapes me. The yacht is so huge, it makes Armani’s yacht in Napa look like a bath toy.
At first, I think the evening is shaping up to be some kind of romantic callback to our first date on Armani’s yacht in California. A chance to rekindle that white-hot flame between us. No wonder he’d been so secretive about where we were going—he was trying to surprise me.
And Iamsurprised. I’m also kind of excited to be going on an overnight cruise, honestly. I’m even feeling a sudden flicker of warmth toward my husband. But as soon as we board, my heart sinks.
We are not alone.
The yacht’s huge deck is a cocktail party in full swing, complete with giggling, barefoot young women in skimpy spandex dresses, each of the girls sporting some variation of long, glossy hair, plump lip injections, mile-long legs, and a spray tan. I feel very out of place—almost matronly, in fact—in my long black gown and heels. As for the three men on board, they’re all in stiff suits and ties. They’re also wearing sunglasses, heavy gold watches, and the kind of scowls I thought Armani had trademarked.
“Who are these people?” I whisper through my clenched smile.
“Just some associates,” Armani answers nonchalantly.
“Like, other winery owners?”
“Not exactly.”
A steward appears to take our bags. After he departs, I notice one of the suited men taking his shades off to give me a brazen eye-fucking from across the deck. My skin crawls, and I instinctively move closer to my husband. As the men head toward me and Armani like a shiver of sharks, I start to pick up on a tense vibe. There’s no mistaking the bulge of guns under the jackets of the men, and their frowns have me ill at ease. That’s when I realize: these aren’t just regular business associates.
They’re mob men.
