“In addition to keeping up the appearance of being a deliriously happy newlywed, you will also need to agree not to leave the grounds,” Armani says.
“I imagine I won’t be able to, since it’s a friggin’ island,” I sass.
“Should you attempt to leave the property by yourself, the perimeter guards have been instructed to do whatever is necessary to restrain you and return you directly to me. You’ll go nowhere without my express permission.”
Rolling my eyes, I pick a pomegranate seed out of the couscous and pop it in my mouth. “Mm. twenty-four-hour surveillance. How romantic. I can hardly wait.”
“You’ll also have no contact with the outside while we’re away. For your own safety.”
“Wow. Sounds super fun,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm.
“Honestly, Candi, your attitude is boring me,” he says dryly. “I suggest you keep your comments to a minimum and eat your dinner. I’ll be working for the rest of the flight, so enjoy amusing yourself.”
With that, he tosses back the rest of his wine, stands to pull his laptop bag from the overhead compartment, and heads toward the back of the plane, where a sliding door leads to a small office.
What an asshole.
As soon as the door closes, I grab my fork and attack the food. Not because I’m hungry, but because I need to keep up my strength.
If Armani Bellanti wants to start a war with me, I’m going to be ready for it.
5
CANDI
It’snoon local time when we disembark the plane. Unfortunately, my body—which is still firmly on California time—thinks it’s the middle of the night. I barely slept, and I feel like shit. But honestly, I’m not hating the view as I make my way down the aircraft’s stairs. This place looks like paradise.
Deep blue water surrounds the island. Green, rocky hills rise all around us, the landscape dense with foliage and flowers. I recognize the familiar shapes and scents of eucalyptus and citrus trees spreading out along the runway. The air is warm and inviting with a kiss of salty ocean dampness on the breeze ruffling my hair.
“Wow,” I murmur, taking a deep breath.
But I’m barely able to appreciate my surroundings before Armani ushers me across the tarmac, through the small, makeshift airport building—obviously built for one private plane to use at a time—and into the car that’s already waiting for us. The driver smiles at me in the rearview mirror as Armani helps the flight attendant from our plane load our bags into the trunk.
“Welcome to Yallah Island, Mrs. Bellanti,” the driver says.
“Yallah—what does that mean? And where exactly are we?” I ask quietly, hoping to glean some information before Armani gets in the car.
“It means ‘Let’s go,’ in Arabic,” he says, sounding amused. “Good name for a vacation spot, no? We’re located less than ten miles off the coast of Morocco, off the northern tip of Africa.”
“Thank you,” I say, grateful to finally be getting a few more tiny pieces of the puzzle.
Morocco—of course. The meal on the plane suddenly makes perfect sense. I should have guessed. My heart sinks at the location, though. Even if I was a strong swimmer out in open water, I’d never make it so many miles to the mainland. So much for swimming my way to freedom. Maybe I can make myself a raft out of palm fronds and tree trunks. It’s possible, right?
Suddenly the trunk slams hard, making me jump. A second later, Armani flings open the passenger door and slides into the seat next to the driver, leaving me in the back all by myself. Just as well. I’m more than happy to have some space, and relieved I don’t have to play a happy newlywed yet.
Minutes later, we pull up to a property that’s hidden behind tropical trees and an imposing iron fence. The driver stops at the front gate to punch a code into the keypad of a high-tech looking box. The light on the box goes from red to green and then the gate swings open to reveal a wide gravel path that winds through the trees. We slowly drive down the path, seemingly into nothing but jungle. Glancing out the rear window, I watch the gates close tightly behind us. That’s when I notice the tower to the left of the gate, partially hidden in the trees. A guard perches there with an automatic weapon in his hands.
I whip back around in my seat, gasping. Armani looks over his shoulder at me but shows no emotion when our eyes meet, even though I’m sure I look exactly as uneasy and overwhelmed as I feel. I say nothing. Neither does he.
Outside my window, the greenery passes in a blur until suddenly a palatial home looms before us. It’s practically glowing. The Bellanti estate back in Napa is imposing and huge, of course, but this place is…something else. I’ve never seen anything like it outside of travel magazines or the internet.
The two-story villa is all white stucco, with arches and pillars and intricate geometric patterns as far as the eye can see, while a Moroccan tiled fountain in the shape of an eight-pointed star splashes in the center of the circular driveway. Subtle accents of cobalt blue and sea glass green around the windows are a feast for my eyes. Date palms and hot pink bougainvillea abound, thick vines climbing the ornamented portico over the massive wooden front doors. Lacy swaths of shade cover the tiled courtyard.
“What do you think, my precious love?” Armani asks from the front seat, turning to face me.
I shoot him an eye roll at the term of endearment. He’s laying it on a little thick.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell him honestly. “Not what I was expecting at all.”
