Chapter 9
ROXY
The Rosedale Group’s private jet cut through the night sky, its twin engines thrumming as we powered over the Atlantic.
I leaned back against the plush cream leather seat, my cheeks still burning with embarrassment.
The whole boarding process had been a train wreck of awkwardness.
When we walked onto the tarmac, the male steward, Marcus, stood at the air stairs of the G6.
He smiled at us with his usual polished poise.
Beside him was Captain Verity St. James, the lead pilot.
‘Good evening, Miss Rosedale,’ Captain St. James said, her voice warm as she gave me a welcoming nod. ‘Great to have you back on board.’
‘Hey, Captain. Hi, Marcus,’ I managed, forcing a tight smile.
I was familiar with this crew, having flown with them multiple times on family holidays with my parents and Evangeline.
Back when my life possessed some semblance of family.
Then came the moment to introduce the towering man standing right behind me.
‘This is Angel,’ I blurted, my brain misfiring under the intense stress of the evening. ‘He’s my brother-in-.’
I choked on the syllables, my face flaming.
‘I mean, my husband. We just got married.’
Angel stood beside me, and I sensed his entire frame bracing.
I peeked at him and found his jaw locked so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, his eyes flaring with irritation.
I had no idea whether it was because of my fumble or whether he was rejecting his new title.
Still, the air between us tensed, a blatant reminder of the emotional hurricane still slamming us.
Marcus’s professional mask remained in place as he guided us to our berths.
‘Congratulations to you both. Right this way.’
I strapped myself into the seat, mortified, unable to look at Angel as the jet taxied and soared into the clouds.
Once we reached cruising altitude, Marcus reappeared.
‘May I offer you tea, coffee, wine, or some hot food? We have roasted lamb and seasonal vegetables prepared.’
‘Just the lamb and a red wine, please,’ I murmured.
Angel requested a black espresso, in a quiet growl.
When the plate landed in front of me, the richness of the food made my stomach twist.
I picked at the edges of the meat with my fork, moving carrots and broccolini around the ceramic surface without taking a single bite.
I drank the red wine and finally pushed the tray away.
Marcus returned to lift the still-full plate from my folding table and onto his cart.
He reached into the overhead bin and retrieved a cashmere throw.
‘Let’s get you comfortable, Mrs. Forrest,’ he murmured, draping the soft grey blanket over my shoulders.
Tucking my legs beneath my skirt, I gazed out the window into the empty night.
At one point, glancing over at Angel across the aisle, I caught him hunched over a notebook.
His charcoal pencil moved across the parchment in fluid strokes.
My breath hitched as I glimpsed a poignant illustration of a face, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
He was a phenomenal illustrator, I thought in shock, for I’d never seen this side of him.
I wanted to ask him about his inspiration and technique, but before I could build up the courage to bridge the gap between us, his eyes flicked upward and caught me staring.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as I sliced my eyes away.
It twas clear from the chill in his gaze that he was not in the mood to indulge me.
Despite his grief, his protectiveness was undeniable.
He reached over to adjust the ventilation nozzle while I shivered under the blanket.
Later, when the aircraft hit a rough patch of turbulence over the Atlantic, he extended a hand to me from across the aisle.
‘You OK?’ he rasped as he squeezed me in reassurance.
I nodded as the plane stabilized.
He lifted off, leaving a searing imprint on my skin and my heart yearning for more of his touch and connection.
I was such a lost and sorry cause.
Pulling out my Kindle, I read for a bit.
I even napped until the dulcet tones of Captain St James sounded, letting us know we were approaching Naples-Capodichino International Airport.
The deceleration pressed me back into the seat as the G6 touched down just after 8 a.m. local time.
After saying our goodbyes and thanking the crew, we strode through the terminal, rolling our suitcases.
Tourists, families, and business travelers rushed past, the sound of fluent Italian filling the air.
During the customs and baggage checks, Angel handled every detail.
From dealing with our passports to hoisting our luggage from the carousel.
When the crowded hub lines became chaotic, his hand settled over the small of my back, using his bulk to steer me through the sea of bodies.
A private driver, Paolo, met us at the security exit, took our bags, and guided us to a sleek black sedan.
The vehicle navigated the winding, cobblestone streets of Naples, heading to the maritime docks.
We arrived at the pier, where Paolo opened our doors.
‘Your boat waits,’ the driver announced as Angel stepped out, taking my hand to steady my footing.
We walked down the wooden ramp to greet our boat pilot, a cheery Italian man named Vinni.
When Angel let go of me, I was hit with a pang of need, wanting to slide my arms around his waist and lift my face to his for a lingering kiss.
As most lovers on a honeymoon would.
With a sigh, I tamped down the fantasy as we loaded up.
In no time, the private speedboat was slicing across the Gulf of Naples toward our final destination.
The twin engines roared beneath the fiberglass hull, sending a fine spray of salty mist over the windshield as we cleared the harbor.
Awestruck, I stared as the magnificent Italian coastline opened up before us.
Behind us, massive, towering limestone cliffs rose straight out of the churning turquoise water, their craggy faces dotted with ancient, pastel-colored villas clinging to the sheer rock.
Clusters of vibrant purple bougainvillea spilled over stone terraces, contrasting with the deep green of Mediterranean pines.
Farther out, the Amalfi peninsula shimmered under the bright morning sun.
I stood in the companionway, clinging to the steel handrail, captivated by the breathtaking vista, my short hair whipping around my face.
Angel sat in the stern.
His muscled biceps spread out on either side of the seat, one ankle crossed over his thigh.
His hair blew in the wind, and he resembled a GQ model, his mirrored aviators masking his eyes, his handsome face in a closed-off, inscrutable expression.
Unable to help myself, I leaned closer to him and called out.
‘This place is unbelievable, don’t you think?’
Without a word, he stiffened and moved his sinewy arms, crossing them over his broad chest, and canted his face from me.
A rush of irritation hit me like a splash of ice water.
I was in this mess just as much as he was.
Without thinking, I stepped toward him.
He arched a brow underneath his lenses at my approach.
I leaned in, bracing one hand against the boat railing for balance.
‘Angel, please hear me out. I know you weren’t keen to marry me, and you’re pissed at my sister, but we were both forced into this. The important word is we, so I don’t deserve your surliness, and I won’t be taking the heat while you work out your troubles with Evangeline.’
Angel’s jaw clenched into a hard line.
‘You think I’m burning you?’
‘You’re salty, tight, and giving resting murder face,’ I shot back. ‘If you’ve got issues, take them up with Evangeline or Reese.’
He scoffed. ‘I haven’t flamed you, and I don’t plan to.’
‘Good.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘Perfect.’
‘You done now?’ he growled.
‘I was done long before this conversation even started.’
I dropped back onto the bench, keeping my face turned away from him as my frustration simmered in the afternoon heat.
The boat kept skimming over the waves while the sun beat down on the deck.
A dry wave of thirst hit my throat, forcing a sigh from my lungs.
The ice chest sat beside Angel’s feet, and after a moment, I swallowed my pride.
‘Angel, hand me a bottle of water, please.’
He kept his eyes locked on the horizon, his jaw setting tight.
‘Thought you said you were done.’
His voice carried a hard edge, and I realized I needed to wave the white flag before we sank deeper into despair.
‘I was,’ I murmured, ‘but a girl still needs to stay hydrated with a total thirst trap sitting next to her.’
That landed.
He tilted his head, his chest rumbling with a quiet laugh.
‘Nice try,’ he growled with a smirk, reaching into the storage compartment and handing me a cold Perrier.
‘It worked.’
It had, as the tension between us eased, and I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.
Angel kept taciturn for the rest of the ride, but he shifted his sunglasses to the top of his head and caught my gaze several times.
He even twitched his lips as I gasped as we passed yet another incredible island.
Less than an hour later, we landed on Capri.
The vessel dropped us at the Marina Grande dock where a sleek late-model van waited under the brilliant Mediterranean sun.
A local man leaped out from the driver’s seat and introduced himself as Carlo, our driver.
He was sporting a crisp white linen shirt, neat navy striped trousers, and aviators.
‘Benvenuti a Capri,’ he said, welcoming us with a generous smile. ‘What do you think of our island?? è bellissima, vero?’
‘It’s very Tuscany meets Heidi Klum,’ I murmured, sliding into the back seat as Carlo loaded our bags. ‘I’m kinda scared to show up without five-hundred-dollar loafers, a designer sweater tied over my shoulders, and a golden tan.’
When Carlo took the wheel and drove off, Angel shifted, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the front rest.
He launched into fluent Italian with our driver, discussing Capri and the latest local news.
I blinked at my husband, floored by the smooth, rolling cadences coming out of Angel’s mouth.
‘I had no clue you spoke the language,’ I murmured, crossing my denim-clad thighs.
‘Six Sinners spent three months recording our second album on Lake Como,’ Angel rasped, his eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘You pick up a lot when you’re forced to buy groceries and deal with locals at the market.’