We finish our desserts—mine is technically my dinner, I suppose—and then Armani throws his napkin on the table and rises. He looks at me and then reaches out to trail a finger beneath my jaw, down the side of my neck, so slowly it makes me shiver. My skin lights up, my pulse jackhammering at his touch. He traces a line all the way down to the center of my chest, to the hollow right between my breasts, before he pulls his hand away.
“We’ll be returning to the villa shortly,” he says. “Nice nightgown, by the way.”
Lust drenched, I shift uncomfortably in my seat, squeezing my thighs together against the ache.
“Stop messing with me,” I tell him.
“But you make it so easy, Cassandra.”
With that, he walks away.
I hate myself for watching him go.
12
ARMANI
I’min the villa’s kitchen with Chef Idris, drinking a Peroni as I thank him for a job well done.
Except this isn’t about the excellent dinner he made for me and Candi on the yacht last night.
It’s about the report Idris gave me on Esme’s impromptu little visit to the boat’s galley to try to alter the menu and ingratiate herself to me. As if I’d even give a shit whether my ex-fling knew my favorite dishes or not; as if it would change my mind about the fact that she and I are completely done with each other—a decision I made long before Candi entered the picture.
Esme was never anything more to me than temporary company, arm candy with the option to warm my bed later, and no strings attached. I made those terms abundantly clear the first time we met at an associate’s private gathering some years back. But even though she claimed to be likeminded about the arrangement, her behavior on my yacht over the past few days has only proven that her understanding of our prior entanglement is…shall we say, a bit fantastical.
We slept together, sure, but it was never exclusive. Esme becoming Mrs. Armani Bellanti was never on the table. Hell, I doubt we’ve even spent a combined total of ten days together. In her mind, though, we had some torrid love affair. A romance for the ages. One she has every intention of rekindling.
But even if I wasn’t married to Candi, a relationship with Esme is a hard pass from me.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, man,” I tell Idris, raising my beer in a toast, “it was an incredible suggestion to have Esme serve me and my wife.”
“Did that help to ease Mrs. Bellanti’s mind? She seemed quite concerned,” he says, rapidly chopping cucumbers and carrots into matchsticks for the sushi rolls he’s preparing.
“Not at all! She actually thought Esme poisoned her food,” I chuckle.
Idris suppresses a laugh. “You told her that was not possible, yes?”
“Nah, I let her worry a little.”
Idris shakes his knife at me in a scolding manner. “You are lucky to have such a woman. I would not play such games. I would be kinder to her if she were my wife.”
“Ah, but she’s not. She’s mine,” I say.
Still, Idris is right about one thing. I’m enjoying these little games with Candi far too much. Instead, I should be focusing as hard as I can on the bigger game at play—the one with the Brunos. Speaking of which, I owe Dante a call. He left me a mysteriously vague voicemail at 3 a.m., and he’s not the type to call me just to check in and say hello.
“Anyway, thanks again,” I tell Idris. “I’ve got to go handle something.”
“Of course. Please tell Mrs. Bellanti that lunch will be served in the dining room in an hour.”
“Will do,” I say, nodding.
But I don’t tell Mrs. Bellanti jack shit yet, because this phone call is more important.
In the interest of privacy, I lock myself in one of the villa’s unoccupied guest rooms and then go into the en-suite bathroom, turning the shower on to muffle the sound of my conversation. Then I call Dante on the sat phone I’ve been hiding from Candi.
“It’s four in the morning,” Dante answers by way of greeting.
“It’s almost lunch hour in my time zone,” I tell him. “Besides, you sound wide awake.”
