Page 6 of Captive Rival: Armani
I frown. “But you’re destroying my clothes.”
“Where we’re going, you won’t need them anyway.”
Instantly, visions of sex flash before my eyes, and I’m rendered speechless. Armani is standing mere inches away in sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt, and my gaze drops to that low-slung waistband hugging his hips, because how the hell can I not stare? There’s something undeniably delicious about a man in sweatpants and no underwear. I barely get a second to enjoy it though, as he takes me by the shoulders and pushes me back on the mattress. I yelp, but he lifts my ankles and tosses my feet onto the bed, then whips the covers back over me.
“Rest up. I’ll be back at eight to fetch you for your spa appointment.”
“I have a spa appointment?”
He slams one suitcase closed, zips it, and tosses it on to the floor. “Stop asking questions. I’m in charge. You obey.”
A shiver goes over me, but it’s not from fear.
* * *
Not two hours later, Armani and I are sitting in the back seat of a luxury SUV as Donovan, the Bellantis’ driver, takes us on an outing that I’m starting to think of as the mafia hostage version of thePretty Womanmakeover. Because I have zero say in any of this, and apparently, the spa isn’t the only thing Armani scheduled for me today. Oh, no. I’ve got to go shopping as well. I guess whatever this mystery trip turns out to be, I need new clothes for it. Which I would normally enjoy, honestly, but I’m not exactly a willing participant this time around.
Since my spa appointment is first, I’m in yoga pants and a hoodie, so at least I’m comfortable. But my mood is crap. I’m still sleepy after my rude awakening this morning, and Armani has been nothing but shady, refusing to answer any of my questions about our upcoming trip. He’s wearing pressed slacks, a dark dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his strong forearms, and a silk tie. Irritatingly scrumptious, though I do my best to not ogle him openly. He doesn’t deserve the attention.
Scowling over the rim of my to-go cup of coffee, I tell him, “I’m not a child, you know. You didn’t have to skip work just to chaperone me.”
“I’m not comfortable having you out of my sight on your own all day,” he says coolly.
“I wouldn’t be on my own. Donovan would be with me,” I point out.
“You’re a flight risk, a liar, and a mole,” he reminds me cruelly. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust the Brunos, either. They’ve got a bad track record when it comes to kidnapping Bellanti women.”
“Fine. Have it your way then,” I say shortly, glaring at him.
A smile plays at his lips, and he slides his sunglasses on. “Oh, I intend to.”
I take that as my cue to be quiet.
When we get dropped off at the spa in Nob Hill, we walk in through the smoked glass entry doors to find the place empty, save for one employee who greets us from behind the front desk.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bellanti,” she says serenely. “You have the place to yourself this morning.”
“I do?”
“Per my arrangement,” Armani murmurs beside me.
“Oh. Right.”
Was he afraid there might be an ambush at the spa?
I’m suddenly a little afraid to be inside.
The employee comes around the desk and gestures for me to follow her. “This way, please. We’ll get that Brazilian taken care of first.”
Pulling up short, I look over at Armani, my eyes narrowing. “Another arrangement of yours? Yeah, no. Not happening.”
The employee pauses and looks between Armani and me. “Of course, we can certainly skip—”
“Oh, but I insist,” Armani says, flashing me a grin. “After all, it’s my treat. Wife.”
I smile back, hoping he can see the threat in it. He will pay for this later. “Fine. Husband.”
“Wonderful,” he says. “I’ll be waiting.”
