Page 16 of Captive Rival: Armani
Which means my so-called honeymoon is nothing more than a cover for Armani so he can engage in criminal activity. It has to be. No wonder the staff at the villa was so familiar with him. He probably comes here all the time to meet with other underworld bosses and make shady deals.
Except that doesn’t explain the scantily clad women lounging around the deck like pampered cats. They’re obviously not here on mafia business. Are they part of the cover story too, or mere window dressing? But no, that’s not right—they’re not just here to be looked at, are they? They’re probably the goddamn party favors.
My stomach turns.
“I want to go back to the villa,” I say quietly.
“Not a chance in hell,” Armani says through a clench-jawed smile directed at his “friends.”
He briefly touches his hand to my back, pushing me forward as the three men circle us.
“Gentlemen, I’m glad you could make it,” he says. “I’d like to introduce my new wife, Candi.”
Not a single man looks at me, not even the one with the roving eyes. Instead, they all congratulate Armani, toasting him with their drinks and making jokes about how his glory days are over. Charming.
The tallest gestures to the yacht’s cabin with a tip of his head. “Shall we head below deck? I have a bottle of scotch I paid a quarter of a million dollars for waiting for us.”
“It’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it?” Armani says.
“The scotch, or the business?” one of the other men jokes.
They all laugh, and then Armani walks off with them, leaving me alone on the deck with the other women. What the hell am I supposed to do? I look over and see a few of the girls taking a selfie together, and suddenly it occurs to me that they have phones. All of them have phones. I start walking toward them, friendly smile plastered on my face, preparing a lie about a tragically broken phone and how I’m desperate to call my BFF to wish her a happy birthday. But just as I reach the first woman, one of the men comes back out on the deck.
“Ladies,” he calls out. “Please join us!”
There goes my brilliant plan. I’ll never get away with borrowing a phone from one of these girls as long as Armani is close enough to keep an eye on me. Damn.
When we get to the lower deck, we find the rest of the men seated around a blackjack table, drinks in hand. Mirrors cover every wall, and brassy Cuban jazz plays from hidden speakers. The lights are dim, the scent of recently smoked cigars thick in the air. I see a row of slot machines, a pool table, an entertainment center with two rows of black leather reclining chairs in front of it. This is obviously the boat version of a man cave. A bow-tied server waits patiently behind the bar in the corner.
“Ladies, help yourself to some more drinks!” the man who fetched us says. “Play some cards, stay the hell out of the way, and for God’s sake, shut up.”
Well, well, well.Don’t I feel special? So much for having a romantic dinner on a yacht.
I glare at my husband, but it’s wasted on him because his back is to me. He’s laughing, chatting up one of the other men, razzing his choice of cigar. When my husband asks the dealer for another card, I get a view of Armani’s maddeningly good profile, and I can’t help the rush of wings in my gut. The other men have removed their sunglasses now, and not a single one holds a candle to Armani. He’s broad shouldered and shredded, effortlessly commanding, and devilishly good looking. He takes my breath away. I still hate him, but there’s no denying the physical effect he has on me.
Forcing myself to walk around the room, I ignore the hushed gossip of the boat Barbies and browse a collection of black and white photographs on one wall. I recognize a handful of celebrities, politicians, and actors, but for the most part it’s just mob men and occasionally their wives, laughing and drinking and having a good time. Must be nice.
I hear a set of heels clicking down the stairs. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a new woman coming to join us, and I freeze. She’s breathtaking; tall and regal with striking cheekbones. I can only assume she’s a model, her tanned olive skin contrasting beautifully with her white bodycon dress. Her black hair gleams as it sways loose around her waist. I wonder which of these men she belongs to.
My eyes widen as she strides straight over to Armani on her six-inch fuck-me stilettos. Narrowing my eyes, I bite the inside of my lower lip as I watch him light up at her approach.
“Esme!” he says.
“‘Mani!” she coos back.
Pushing his chair away from the table, he starts to rise to greet her. But instead of accepting his open arms, she forces him back into his seat and then lowers herself directly onto his thigh, wrapping one of her arms around his neck. The other men acknowledge her with cool familiarity. After she briefly greets them, she tilts her head against Armani’s. The two of them immediately start speaking in expressive Italian to each other, Esme’s body language screaming that she’s one of Armani’s former lovers. I’d give anything to have the pocket-size Italian-English dictionary I packed in my hand right now.
My face flames, my gut burning with jealousy. The conversation of the women behind me dries up, and I have no doubt they’re watching this entire scene unfold like it’s a soap opera. As she speaks, Esme presses her fingers to Armani’s chest for emphasis and then makes a surprised face. Suddenly she’s pawing at his biceps and abs, oohing and ahhing over him. I’m not sure exactly what she’s saying, but it’s very obviously something about how his body has gotten even better since the last time she enjoyed it.
She’s feeling him up with her whole hand now, running it along the back of his shoulders and up his neck. She licks her lips slowly, her eyelids dropping halfway. I think she’s staring at his mouth, but I can’t really tell. And then I catch the end of something—nel mio letto. It’s one of the few Italian phrases I’m familiar with. It means,in my bed. But she didn’t phrase it like a statement. It was a question.
There’s a low ringing in my ears. Did she justpropositionmy husband right in front of me? But of course she did. I think of the sprawling, gorgeous villa and this luxurious little yacht. Armani’s been here before. No doubt with her. I’m sure they’ve fucked on every possible surface.
But then Armani holds up his left hand and says, switching to English, “I have new jewelry now,” pointing at the wedding band glinting on his ring finger.
The men at the table all laugh and start ribbing Armani, making references to his “ball and chain,” aka his wife, aka the fun killer, aka me. Esme, however, seems completely unfazed by the ring.
Batting her eyes, she says, “It’s a lovely ring. It will look even lovelier on my bedside table next to my panties.”
