Marcel jerks his chin towards the ocean.
I follow his gaze.
And there he is.
Giovanni Dragoni.
Reclined in a chair on the same spot of beach where he found me, like he owns the damned horizon. Linen shirt rolled at the sleeves. Designer sunglasses in place. Not a hair out of alignment. As pristine as if he’s stepped out of a magazine rather than into my life like a wrecking ball.
From here, I can’t see his eyes.
But Ifeelthem burning into me. Taunting me.
I straighten. Fold my arms across my chest. And walk towards him like a woman approaching a firing squad by choice.
When I reach him, he looks at me slowly. Deliberately.
Top to bottom, his mouth thinning for a beat when he sees my dirty, gashed feet. Feet in sore need of one of those weekly pedicures he hired a beauty to bestow on me as his fiancée.
I’m pushing that unwanted reminder of the jaw-dropping luxury Giovanni Dragoni takes as his due when his gaze returns to my face.
“Hellodragunnida. You look beautiful,” he says. Calmly. “Island life suits you.”
I falter. Just for a second.
Then I recover. “Let’s get a few things straight. I’m not coming back with you.”
He shrugs and returns his gaze to the horizon. Like I’ve told him the bar ran out of limes.
And the more laid-back he gets, the angrier I become, and I absolutely refuse to fidget as he leaves me standing there like a forgotten dishrag.
“Where are my things?”
He turns his head again, fixes eyes I know are as brown as the richest chocolate on me. “I had them moved. Naturally.”
I scoff. “Naturally. Where?”
“The Emerald House. You know it?”
“Of course I do. It’s the most expensive estate on the island.” So of course that’s where he’s staying. “Return them.”
“No.” His tone sharpens slightly now. Subtle. Controlled. The lazy arrogance replaced with something colder. “My patience is finite, Lucia. And I won’t have you sleeping rough another night. I’ll grant you a few hours to get your head around the fact that your little holiday is over.”
“Holiday?” I bark. “I left you!”
“Yes.” He leans forward slightly. “In the middle of the night. Without a word. Without a warning. Without a note. I call that theft.”
The air crackles between us. “You don’t get to decide when this ends,” I snap.
His mouth curves faintly. “Actually, I do.”
“I guess we’ll see about that.” I spin away before I slap him. Probably because I’m not sure he’ll let me get away with it.
Not surebecause the reason I left? I discovered I don’t know the man I married.
At all.
As I storm back to the shack, I see Marcel is staring at Giovanni with something like awe and fear in his eyes.
