Chapter 9 #2
Ancient stone villas jutted out over the cliff edges, offering clear sightlines across the sea all the way to Naples twenty-six miles away.
Massive luxury yachts lined the bustling port, surrounded by high-end boutique storefronts and crowded outdoor cafes.
The swarming crowds and souvenir stands faded into oblivion as I focused on the cerulean, sky-blue water flowing past the cliffs.
Carlo swung the vehicle around a hairpin bend, navigating the narrow, winding asphalt ribbon that climbed the steep rock face.
‘Wow,’ I breathed, unable to help myself as I took in the view that appeared before us of an endless ocean and the prettiest island I’d ever seen.
Towering limestone cliffs descended through groves of twisted olive trees and fragrant pine needles, plunging straight into a turquoise sea.
Each turn up the mountainous little isle produced a vista more spectacular than the last.
Below us, sunbathers basking on towels dotted the tiny rocky coves next to the surf.
‘So I half lied earlier. When you take out the tourist mobs, Capri is magnificent, Roxy,’ Angel rasped as he too got whisked up in the magic, his timbre dropping an octave.
‘I’ve been to Saint-Tropez. Portofino. Ibiza.
Santorini. Ischia. Mykonos. Sicily. Sardinia.
Even the Kvarner Islands in Croatia. Nothing matches this place. ’
Angel leaned back, his face softening as the sheer beauty of the place forced a brief respite from his anguish.
We climbed higher into the hills, then back down towards what seemed to be a secluded beach, eventually driving past the wrought-iron gates of a spacious modern villa.
It was stunning; clean architectural lines of white stone and floor-to-ceiling glass blended into the rugged rock face, surrounded by vivid magenta bougainvillea vines.
An Italian woman stood waiting in the open grand doorway.
The car stopped, and Carlos rushed to get the door for me.
I stepped out and into the embrace of the archway above me as the woman clasped my hands.
‘Benvenuti all’Isola dell’Amore, spero che il vostro viaggio sia stato piacevole,’ she intoned, her voice rich and melodic.
She paused, her sweet smile widening as she translated for us.
‘Welcome to the Island of Love. I hope your journey was pleasant. My name is Mrs Campanelli and I’ll be your hostess, housekeeper and chef during your stay.’
She was a slight, beautiful older woman in her sixties with thick, ebony hair flecked with silver.
Her warm espresso-colored eyes and genuine reception drew me in, and I at once knew I’d like her.
‘Thank you for having us,’ I told her.
‘You’re so pretty,’ she added, studying me. ‘Like a young Isabella Rosellini.’
She greeted Angel, whistling under her breath as she studied him.
‘Oh-lala. This one is a tall one, and so handsome too, he resembles Thyago Alvez, the most dashing Italian actor ever.’
‘Don’t flatter me,’ my husband rasped, then proceeded to make Mrs Campanelli swoon and clutch her heart by kissing the back of her hand.
Despite his reticence, the man could be charming.
I shot Angel an amused glance, but all I got back was a cool gaze.
I sensed his heart icing over once again.
As I stepped through the massive glass threshold, I let out a gasp, taking in the view as Mrs Campanelli gave us a tour.
‘The refurbished contemporary villa is furnished with every modern fitting you can think of. It’s set on the cliffs of Marina Piccola in front of the legendary Faraglioni rocks. We’re connected to the mainland by a narrow, picture-perfect strip of beach.’
My eyes lingered on the expansive rooftop terrace.
The space featured pergola-shaded sections, two marble bars, a DJ mixing deck, and a raised wooden performance stage.
Down on the lower levels, the outdoor terraces gave way to a 23-meter infinity pool with sightlines over the edge to the sea beyond.
The opulent interior blended modern Mediterranean architecture with a relaxed design aesthetic.
Warm natural textures, neutral fabrics, and striking local paintings dotted the entire floor plan.
A central stone patio sat surrounded by three sitting rooms and a grand dining hall.
Floor-to-ceiling glass panes slid into the walls, erasing the boundary between the living spaces and the outside lounge pavilions.
‘We also have a professional gym, a yoga deck, a heated jacuzzi, a wet spa-sauna, and a traditional tiled hammam,’ Mrs Campanelli explained.
The layout featured a primary suite alongside five additional luxury bedrooms, each boasting a private terrace over the tide.
Carlo carried our bags into the residential wing while Mrs. Campanelli gestured toward a sunlit dining table.
She presented a spread of fresh figs, a variety of cheeses, sliced prosciutto, warm rosemary focaccia, and chilled carafes of blood orange juice.
‘I’m here to manage the kitchen and the house during your stay,’ Mrs. Campanelli explained, adjusting a silver serving spoon. ‘Carlo will handle your security and driving, and maintain your utmost privacy. We want you to focus on your wellbeing.’
We ate our brunch mostly in silence, only speaking when we wanted a plate handed over, or when Angel asked to refill my coffee cup.
When Carlo returned to announce the completion of the luggage transfer, Angel pushed his chair back, face closed off, not quite meeting my eyes.
He abandoned the rest of his food, giving me a weary nod.
‘I’m heading to my room, need to catch up on sleep.’
‘OK,’ I murmured.
I tracked his broad shoulders as he stalked away, my heart aching.
I let my mind wander, imagining I was going with him.
Lying next to him, in his arms as we made love and released the fraught energy of the last forty-eight hours.
Sensing the heat of a gaze on me, I twisted my head, only to find Mrs. Campanelli studying my face with a keen, analytical focus.
She flicked her eyes to Angel’s retreating backside and then sliced them back to me, noting the distance between us.
Her lips pressed together, her silent conclusion sending a sudden, fiery blush across my cheeks.
Shame burned through my chest.
‘Grazie, for the food,’ I managed in a hoarse whisper as I bolted from the table.
Hurrying down the corridor, I blinked hard to tamp back the warm tears that threatened to spill over my eyelashes.