“This is the last thing I want to discuss on my honeymoon,” he says dryly.
“Right. Because we’re having such a romantic time,” I say, pulling my hand away.
It’s not as if I’m expecting him to spill his guts about all the Bellanti family secrets, but I’d at least like to be prepared for the impending shitstorm ahead. Especially considering the fact that I’m supposed to be playing spy games with the Brunos until Armani says otherwise. But no. My husband would rather keep me ignorant of the larger picture, even if it means I walk right into a trap.
Armani stays a few steps behind me as we make our way down four flights of narrow but sturdy wooden stairs to the beach.
We walk along the shoreline for a while, in no kind of hurry, shoes dangling from our hands. Neither of us speaks as the seafoam laps gently at our ankles, the waves crashing and rolling and tossing flecks of spray at us. The silence between us isn’t exactly unusual, but there’s an undercurrent of tension prickling at me. Clearly something is bothering him, but he won’t talk about it. How typically male.
“I’m going in,” I say.
Screw it. Armani can pout and brood all he wants, but I’m going to enjoy the water.
I drop my hat and sandals next to a big rock and then pull my coverup over my head, tossing it next to my shoes. When I turn around, I see Armani watching me, his eyes traveling the length of my body. Guess he likes the bikini.
“Care to join me?” I ask, adjusting the cups of my top so my breasts jiggle enticingly.
“No,” he says, glancing away.
“Suit yourself then,” I say, walking into the surf.
Too bad. I wouldn’t have minded seeing his half-naked body slicing through the water, cool droplets running over his tattooed chest and tight abs as he surfaced. But no matter. I’ll enjoy my swim alone. And I do. The water is refreshingly cool and unbelievably clear, and I waste no time diving in. I see waving aquatic plants, coral formations, tons of colorful fish. I had no idea Morocco had water like this.
I don’t swim back to shore until my skin begins to chill. Even then, I wade in the surf for a while, letting the waves rush past my thighs, hips, waist, before they pull back into the ocean. Armani sits on the rock by my things, his forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together. His expression is actually relaxed, which is a rarity. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s enjoying watching me.
“Sure you don’t want to come in?” I shout to him, slogging across the soft, dense sand of the seafloor as I emerge from the surf.
“I’m sure,” he says, gathering up my shoes and hat and draping my coverup over his arm.
“Not even for a quick dip? The water’s actually pretty—sss!” I hiss as I lose my balance and feel something slice the underside of my left foot, leaving a trail of bright pain in its wake. “Shit.”
Clenching my jaw, I hobble the rest of the way onto dry sand, putting my weight on my left heel instead of the sole. My foot is throbbing, and I can feel hot liquid leaking from it, which I know must be blood. Armani is on me in an instant, dropping my stuff and kneeling before me with a frown.
“You’re bleeding,” he says. “Here, sit.”
He spreads my coverup on the sand, helps me lower myself onto it, and then rinses off my foot with the water that’s left in his bottle, me hissing in pain the whole time. Then he looks at my foot and lets out a low whistle.
“Wow, you really did a number on yourself,” he says.
My good mood deflates. “I must have stepped on a piece of coral or something. It stings. Do you think I need stitches?”
“Hard to tell. You’re still bleeding quite a bit. It’s not a long cut, but it looks pretty deep.”
Oh, shit. “Is there a doctor on this island?”
“If you need one, I’ll figure it out. Let’s just focus on getting you back to the villa first.”
Armani pulls off his shirt, which I can’t even appreciate as he winds the shirt tightly around my foot. He sets my hat on my head, hands me my sandals, and then he’s lifting me into his arms.
“I can walk,” I insist. “Really.”
“The hell you will.”
I don’t argue. From the way my foot is pulsing, I could swear I’m bleeding out.
By the time he gets us up the first flight of steps, I’m feeling slightly woozy. To Armani’s credit, he’s barely breathing hard when he finishes the second. But I don’t feel any less guilty when he slows down a bit on the third and has to pause for a minute before tackling the last incline. Keeping my face buried in his shoulder, I clamp my jaw against the pain and ride it out.
Once we’re back to the villa, he carries me straight into the kitchen, where he deposits me on the center island. Finding a stack of dishtowels, he props up my injured foot.
