He raises his brows at me, tilting his head toward the driver to remind me that I’m supposed to be fawning over my new husband a bit more noticeably.
“Um, I just can’t believe I’m so lucky to have a husband like you to bring me here and spoil me,” I add. I reach over to cup his face in my hand, squeezing his cheek a bit harder than necessary. “And I can’t wait to see the bedroom.”
“That will be our first stop then,” he flirts back.
The driver laughs at that, so mission accomplished, I suppose.
Once we park, Armani gets out of the car and then opens my door for me. Meanwhile, a few black-clad house staff file out the front doors and walk over to greet us. One of them—the butler?—even steps forward and gives a half bow.
“Welcome back, Mr. Bellanti. I hope you’ll find everything perfectly in order.”
Welcomeback? When’s the last time Armani was here? And with whom? Another woman, or was he here on mafia business? Neither possibility makes me feel comforted in the least.
“Thank you.” Armani tucks his arm around my waist and pulls me against him. “This is my new wife, Cassandra.”
“Candi,” I correct, smiling through my gritted teeth.
“Magnifique,” the butler says, nodding at me. “I am Omar.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” I say.
After instructing the rest of the staff to get our luggage from the trunk and take it into the house, Omar immediately starts talking to Armani about rooms and meals and accommodations. Everyone seems to be ignoring me amidst the flurry of activity, which thankfully gives me a moment to breathe. I wriggle out of Armani’s grasp and stare up at the villa, taking in my new prison. As gorgeous as it is, I can’t suppress a shudder.
We go inside, where I’m surprised to find the décor is minimal and modern. The architectural theme continues, of course, and there are touches of traditional Moroccan design—carved wood, brass lanterns with stamped patterns, handwoven rugs—but overall, it’s a lot of cream and charcoal and natural fibers. It makes sense, I guess. I’m sure the villa is meant to give off a light, airy, neutral vibe and appeal to the broadest range of wealthy guests looking to rent the place. It’s actually very much in line with Armani’s personal style, come to think of it, but I bet most rich people love this luxury hotel style too.
Some of the staff come up to me and introduce themselves again, but I’m still stuck on the whole “welcome back” thing I heard outside from Omar. Is this where Armani brings all his women? Or is the jungle riddled with the shallow graves of mobsters?
“So…how often do you come here?” I ask Armani, trying to draw him out a little.
But he doesn’t even acknowledge the question as he urges me up the stairs. The maid ahead of us begins rattling off information for me, which room is where, when meals are served, the location of the heated pool, but it’s a jumble of words in my mind. Still, I find the villa to be quite charming. It would be a wonderful place to rest and recharge if the circumstances were different.
As it is, there will be no relaxing on my part. There’s at least one fully armed guard, locked iron gates, and the watchful eyes of my husband. Not to mention the security personnel that Armani mentioned would be babysitting me. This is no kind of honeymoon I’d ever want.
The maid shows us to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, gesturing at the king size bed draped in white muslin and our luggage, which has been deposited outside the walk-in closet.
“We’d be happy to unpack your things and hang them in the closet right away,” she’s saying.
“No. I’ll call down later for that,” Armani says. “For now, we need a little privacy.”
Her cheeks color. “Of course, Mr. Bellanti. And please let us know if we can do anything.”
With a curtsy, she takes her leave, closing the door softly behind her.
The moment we’re alone, Armani pulls me to him. My heart starts thumping in my chest. His hands slide from my waist to the backs of my thighs, skimming over my ass, but just as I’m about to remind him about the no-touching rule, he suddenly steps back with a look of irritation on his face.
“Where is it?” he says impatiently.
“Huh?”
He extends his hand. “Your cell phone. Give it to me.”
My jaw drops, a trickle of fear sliding down my spine. “Excuse me?”
“I told you, you aren’t to have contact with anyone on the outside while we’re here.”
He’s right, but I didn’t really process the full import of that until right now. He’s essentially cutting me off from the world while I’m thousands and thousands of miles away from everything and everyone I know.
“Please. I’ll be good,” I beg. “You can disable my text messages and block my incoming calls. I just need to have it for emergencies.”
