Page 29 of Captive Rival: Armani
Interesting.
“So does this mean we’ll be having dinner alone?”
“Yes.” Armani raises a brow. “Unless that presents a problem for you.”
“No. It’s fine.”
I sink into my chair and take in the glowing candles, the crisp linen tablecloth, the fragrant tropical flowers at the center of the table. It’s all very lovely. And it has me on edge.
Is this my final meal?
My gaze travels to the wide-open panoramic doors, but I see no sign of an assassin lingering out on the deck. Not that Armani doesn’t wear a gun at all times. But at least I can relax for a moment.
Reaching for the bottle of Pellegrino on the table, I crack it open and pour myself some of the sparkling water. Then I pour some for Armani, because even though my husband is a criminal, I have manners. As I drink it down thirstily, I realize how dehydrated I am. My hours-long hike/escape attempt this afternoon really took a toll on me.
I know I’ll probably pay for my little adventure with full body aches tomorrow, but I regret nothing. Even if I failed to find actual help off the island, I did succeed in acquiring information that I didn’t have before. That’s worth something. I’m not giving up yet, either. My fight is far from over.
“Beautiful night,” Armani comments, nodding his head toward the open doors.
The moon is still low in the sky, making a trail of golden light on the surface of the water.
“It is,” I say.
Glancing over, my eyes catch on the flash of bare, tattooed chest that I can see with the top few buttons of Armani’s dress shirt open. I can’t tear my gaze away. The artwork stretches sensually over his skin, and my fingers almost ache to touch the designs I know so well now. The Italian words for family, honor, and power; the traditional cornetto to protect him from the evil eye; the crossed Roman daggers. I’ve seen his tattoos a hundred times, yet I’m still fighting the urge to sit on his lap and rip his shirt off so I can run my hands over the black ink.
Moments ago, all I could think about was the fact that Armani is likely plotting my demise. But in this moment, I’d give anything to forget all that and repeat our scene from the pool earlier. Fearing my husband somehow heightens my desire for him, even as I pray for a way to escape him. It’s fucked up.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks.
I’m about to say yes, and something about the moon being incredible, but when I look up at his face I realize that he’s been watching me ogle him for the last few minutes.
“Maybe,” I say coolly, dragging my eyes away with some effort. “Speaking of views, I made it up to the top of the mountain today and noticed that the rest of the island is deserted. You didn’t mention this place was a solitary fortress.”
He traces the rim of his glass as he says, “I don’t have to explain things to you, Candi.”
The bored, nonchalant tone of his voice—combined with the relentless fear and failure and frustration and exhaustion I’ve been battling—makes something inside me snap.
“Actually, you do. I deserve some basic respect here. Iamyour wife.”
“Only in name,” he says.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? We’re legally married! There are fucking rights, and…and responsibilities, and other things that come with it.”
Much to my consternation, he barks out a laugh. “You’re right. I suppose you get a discount on your car insurance now.”
Glaring at him, I say, “I also have the legal right to inherit your property upon your death.”
“That works both ways,” he says, his expression shifting back to its usual serious one.
“Is that a threat? Because I don’t have much for you to inherit. Except for my cat.”
“Having you out of the picture provides me with other benefits, though,” he says, coldly stating the obvious.
“Then perhaps I should take you out of the picture first,” I shoot back.
“I don’t believe you’re capable of that,” he says.
“Oh really,” I say, and I’m about to follow it up with something nasty when who should come flouncing through the door on her six-inch hooker heels but Esme Torrio. She’s in a lime green bandage dress—inexplicably flattering on her, of course—with a bottle of Glenlivet whiskey in her hand.
