Chapter 14
ROXY
That night, we celebrated our successful day trip with a magnificent dinner of baked sea bass and herbed potatoes, roasted to perfection by Mrs. Campanelli.
We insisted that Carlo and Mrs C. join us, as the cozy kitchen filled with the rich aroma of garlic, olive oil, and charred rosemary.
We piled our plates with fresh vegetables and poured glasses of a lovely Di Chieti Pecorino wine with hints of fresh fruit and sage.
‘You know, Capri hosted some of the biggest scandals in Hollywood history,’ Carlo said, wiping his mustache with a napkin as he gestured toward the ocean outside.
‘Is that right?’ I asked. ‘What kind of drama?’
‘Think old-school Tinseltown chaos,’ Angel chimed in, swirling his glass. ‘You’re talking about Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, right, Carlo?’
‘Esattamente, Signor Angel!’ Carlo nodded. ‘During the 1962 filming of Cleopatra in Rome, those two began a very infamous affair. The problem was, both of them were spoken for; married to other people at the time. The scandal made headlines worldwide and met with moral outrage from the public.’
‘So they needed a hiding spot,’ I guessed, taking a sip of the delicious vintage.
‘Sì, Signora Roxy. They brought the circus here to Capri. To the home of Dame Gracie Fields at her exclusive hotel, La Canzone Del Mare.’
‘What does the name mean?’ I asked, fascinated by the history.
‘It translates to ‘Singer of the Sea,’’ Carlo murmured. ‘It’s a direct reference to the incredible view over the boulders below. Where mythological sirens are said to have lured unsuspecting sailors to their tragic deaths.’
I shivered.
‘Remind me never to go swimming near those rocks if I hear a melody floating over the waves.’
Angel let out a soft rumble of laughter, nudging his broad shoulder against mine.
‘Relax, Rox. I’m pretty sure the only thing luring anyone to their doom around here is Mrs. Campanelli’s cooking. My waist is expanding from her food.’
‘Please, you have a black hole for a stomach,’ I scoffed. ‘But to be real? If I’m going out, death by Mrs. C’s eggplant parmigiana is the best way to go.’
‘Fair point,’ Angel admitted, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his face. ‘The woman cooks like she’s trying to secure our spots in heaven, pronto.’
After we cleared the porcelain plates, Angel retreated to his quarters.
‘I’ll be back,’ he promised.
He emerged a minute later, carrying his scuffed guitar case.
I arched a brow.
‘Playing for us, Forrest?’
Our eyes met, and my heart jolted as he rasped, ‘In the mood, babe.’
He pulled up a wooden stool on the covered patio, checked the acoustics with a few string plucks using a worn pick, then invited Mrs. C. and Carlo to join us.
He began with a series of evocative chords that echoed into the night air.
When he started singing, his timbre was raspy, deep, and devastating.
He played a raw acoustic arrangement so haunting and beautiful it brought tears to my eyes.
His voice, which often serenaded millions with slow-burning ballads, now sang for us three in close intimacy.
His vocals were a gravelly vibrato that brought out my goosies.
He had this amazing capacity to shift from a vulnerable, throaty whisper to a desperate, full-chested growl, unfiltered and moving.
I reclined into the outdoor lounge, entranced by the poetry of his lyrics.
He sang about the brutal reality of letting go of someone who never loved you back, of torching your own heart and sending it out to sea.
Gazing at his profile in the dim light, a painful truth hit me: we were both stuck in the same sinking boat of unrequited devotion.
I sensed the agony of rejection in him, which made me want to reach out and hold him.
When he finished, I reeled from my whirling thoughts as Carlo whistled in appreciation while Mrs. Campanelli clapped, wiping her eyes with her linen apron.
Angel gave a humble nod, setting his instrument back into his case.
Our eyes locked, and my heart lurched; then, with a wry smile, I escaped to the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine for him and me.
I handed his to him in silence, and we settled on the outdoor lounge, staring out to the black sea beyond, lost in contemplation, shoulders touching in unspoken camaraderie.
Later, when I murmured goodnight, Angel walked beside me to my bedroom door.
He slowed outside my suite, slinging the guitar strap over his shoulder, the instrument resting on his broad back.
As he dipped, the line of his rugged jaw got lit by the faint moonlight streaming through the corridor window.
‘‘Night, Rox.’
He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss on my cheek, his stubble scraping my skin.
Then he turned and headed back down the hallway, leaving me standing, staring at his retreating backside with a soft smile and an aching heart.
ANGEL
I woke at dawn, the breeze carrying the scent of wild rosemary and sea brine through my open window.
The morning sun was painting the sky in brilliant streaks of amber and gold, and my soul lifted.
The knot of resentment that had been eating away at my gut since the wedding and Evangeline’s betrayal was dissolving.
Damn, it felt good.
There was one sole reason for the shift in my transformation: Roxy.
She had a natural ease, a chill vibe that grounded my restless, brooding energy.
She was also funny as hell, smart as a whip, and her sensuality was off the charts.
I found myself looking forward to seeing her this morning, so with a lazy grin, I eased out of bed, showered, dressed, and went in search of her.
‘Hey, slow poke,’ I teased, knocking on her bedroom door. ‘Wake up, I’m ready to rumble, I’ve got a full day planned ahead.’
The oak door swung open, and my breath hitched, cock pulsing and hardening.
Damn.
Roxy stood in the threshold, rubbing her eyes, wearing nothing but an oversized grey sleep shirt that hit her mid-thigh.
The sight of her long legs and bare feet jolted my system, sending a sudden spike of heat through me.
She leaned against the doorframe, a slow, amused smile tugging at her lips.
‘Oh, really? The Energizer Bunny version of Angel? Don’t think I ordered this model.’
‘It’s what you’re getting, beautiful, so suck it up and move. We need to be gone in fifteen, max twenty.’
She was ready in ten.
She came downstairs, taking my breath away in shorts, an oversized vintage band tee, and fresh white sneakers.
It was a simple, classic look, yet her body in it was hot; curvy in all the right places, with a honey-tan, long legs, and an all-over glow made me bite my lip.
Her pixie hair framed her face, and her full lips were lush and shining with clear gloss.
Fuck, I was in trouble.
I huffed in amusement as she declared how hungry she was, grabbing a flaky almond pastry and a takeaway macchiato from Mrs. Campanelli on our way out the door.
We settled into Carlos’ van and headed toward the highest cliffs on the island.
Once there, I pulled out my phone, scrolling through a map of the ruins as the wind whipped our hair.
I showed her my screen as we stepped on the edge.
‘The Roman Emperor Tiberius once constructed a massive fortress right atop this precipice. The local history archives say that back in the first century A.D., he threw his enemies off the precipice.’
‘Imagine the drop,’ Roxy murmured, leaning over the stone safety barrier to scan the depths.
‘The text says the fall measures about three thousand feet straight down to the breaking surf,’ I replied.
I moved up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back to my chest to keep her steady on the windy ledge.
She leaned into me, her hands resting over my forearms.
‘At least his enemies ended their lives with one of the best views in Europe.’
Next, Carlos dropped us in Capri town.
‘We’ll take a taxi back when we’re done for the day,’ I told him, thanking him with a generous tip as we eased from the van.
He gave us a cheery wave and took off to pick up and drop off more guests all over the island.
‘Got to respect the man and his side hustle,’ I rasped as he raced away.
Capri Central, distinct from Anacapri, was a millionaires’ playground, from its chic outdoor cafes to its designer stores.
The confined, windy roads were lined with lavish Prada, Gucci, and Bulgari outlets.
Tanned tourists with designer sweaters over their shoulders nibbled on green salads and expensive pasta, nursing porcelain cups of cappuccino.
‘This place is bougie as hell, Angel,’ Roxy whispered, her eyes dancing with amusement.
‘It’s a ridiculous display of wealth,’ I agreed, catching her hand as a speeding luggage cart roared down the narrow cobblestone lane.
I pulled her close to my side, shielding her body with my own as the crowd swarmed around us.
We sought out the coast, for swimming in Capri’s sea represented a bucket-list experience.
We headed to a small pebble beach, with colorful umbrellas and a view of the Faraglioni.
The descent to the water required navigating a treacherous path of jagged limestone. Roxy hesitated at the edge of a steep drop, her sandals slipping on the loose gravel.
‘I’ve got you,’ I rasped, stepping down ahead of her.
I reached up and carried her all the way to an empty patch of sand along the shore.
We lay down nose-to-feet and feet-to-nose with a couple hundred other sunbathers for two hours.
We took a few dips into warm, clear water, which made the tight-roping along the boulders and tiny beach worth the hassle.
When we’d had enough of the crowds by the beachfront, we stopped at a tiny gelateria tucked into a stone alcove.
We bought two massive cones of dark chocolate and local lemon gelato.
As we strolled through the shaded back alleys of the town, I reached down and intertwined my fingers with hers.
‘This beats the tourist traps down by the harbor,’ Roxy noted, licking her treat, which set my imagination on fire.
‘Sure does, beautiful,’ I said, my fingers brushing the nape of her neck.
Touching each other seemed to come naturally, and once more my heart jolted as I gazed down at her.
Our next pit stop brought us to Vinoteca La Zagara, the street-side wine bar of Casa Mariantonia.
I ordered two glasses of crisp local prosecco from their well-curated list of Italian labels.
We paired the bubbles with a gorgeous cheese-and-charcuterie plate, using the sidewalk tables to watch the parade of international travelers pass by.
I’d not felt this relaxed in months, enjoying the smart, quick-witted woman sitting across from me.
We shared a ridiculous number of interests: similar dispositions in underground indie music, classic literature, political leanings, including those about philanthropy and sharing wealth.
How had I missed how freakin’ funny and brilliant a woman she was before?
She was in front of me all along.
Hiding in plain sight.
We concluded our mission upstairs at the venue’s rooftop lounge bar, the ultimate spot for a well-poured cocktail and a magnificent sunset.
The terrace offered sweeping, unobstructed views of the glittering Mediterranean Sea.
We claimed two cushioned loungers on the deck and soaked up the final rays of sun while a live DJ spun a house set that vibrated through the floor.
When he remixed one of Six Sinners’ songs, ‘Redemption’s Call,’ with an acid beat and hypnotic synth sounds, I knifed up to listen with incredulity.
‘You offended or liking it?’ Roxy asked, her eyes dancing.
‘It’s not bad, it’s almost ace,’ I grunted as a few guests got up and began dancing.
I slid out my phone and recorded the unlikely event for the band, then sent the video to Jude.
‘I’d normally be affronted, but heck, the Ibiza spin on a rock ballad isn’t too shabby.’
We ordered two custom gin cocktails and more share platters.
As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, turning the sky a wild indigo, a server delivered a slice of traditional Torta Caprese chocolate cake.
We shared the dessert, fighting for the last piece with a laugh.
I let her have it after a face-off that ended in chuckles.
‘To winning,’ Roxy said, lifting her fork with a lush smile.
‘To happiness,’ I added, surrendering to the unexpected lift in my heart as I pulled her closer to me and buried my nose in her neck, breathing her beauty in.