Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Angelo mutters a string of curses as he picks his shirt up from the floor. His voice is strained. “I’ll be right there.”
The captain doesn’t budge.
“Was there anything else?” Angelo asks, fitting the shirt with jerky movements.
“They asked to see Mrs. Russo.” He dares a glance in my direction, but at the growl that reverberates in Angelo’s chest, he lowers his gaze. “Apparently, they need to ask her some questions.”
Chapter
Thirty
Angelo
* * *
The set of my jaw is hard as I walk down the bridge to the marina. A man in a gendarmerie uniform and parka jacket waits at the bottom, standing with his feet wide apart. A team of five men hover behind him, flaunting their weapons.
I recognize his bulky frame and tufts of blond hair. Lieutenant Lavigne is in charge of drug trafficking investigations. Not my domain.
My smile is dismissive. “Can I help you?”
“Mr. Russo.” He smirks. “Welcome back to Marseille.” He glances over my shoulder at the yacht. “Arriving or going?”
It doesn’t surprise me that he knows my name or that I’m only passing through. He knows my destination is Corsica. I’ve been on their radar for as long as I’ve been running my father’s business. My business now.
“Both.” I cross my arms, barely feeling the icy Mistral that blows in from the northwest despite not wearing a jacket. “What can I do for you?”
He measures me with a narrowed gaze. “We’re doing a routine check of the marina.” His question is posed like a challenge. “You won’t mind if we take a look on your yacht?”
“Do you have a search warrant?”
“Do I need one?”
His reputation exceeds him. He’s tougher than the others. Bribes aren’t going to sway him.
“No,” I drawl, “but I’m on honeymoon. Unfortunately, the timing doesn’t suit me.”
Nodding, he pulls his face into an expression of surprise. Bullshit. He knew the minute I set foot on French soil with my bride. Customs would’ve alerted him. It’s flattering really, how closely they track my movements.
“Congratulations.” All traces of agreeability vanish from his face as he folds his arms behind his back and steps right up to me. “We’d like a word with Mrs. Russo.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “She’s resting.”
His smile is fake. “It’ll only take a minute.”
I make a show of checking my watch. “It’s late. If you don’t have a search warrant, either go get one or leave.”
A glint of malice sparks in his eyes. No, more than malice. I see it often enough to know the sentiment well by now. Disgust.
“We have to investigate.” He sizes me up with a smug look. “Your neighbors lodged a complaint.”
“What complaint?”
“They heard a woman screaming.” He nods at my yacht without breaking eye contact. “Said it came from the Sea Hawk.”
I turn my head a fraction. Lights burn on the deck of the Casablanca that bobs next to Sea Hawk. A Moroccan flag flies on the mast. A woman stands at the rail, pulling a coat tightly around her as she watches us. A man with gray hair is at her side. Just my luck that my nosy neighbors are sleeping on their yacht tonight.
I clench my teeth. “My wife is perfectly happy and well.”
His smile thins, not reaching his eyes. “Then you won’t mind if she tells us herself.” He steps closer still, bumping our chests like a rooster heading for a cock fight. “For that, I don’t need a warrant.”
The curve of my lips is mocking in return, but my voice drips with acid. “By all means, be my guest.”
He doesn’t let me invite him twice. Holding my gaze with that annoying smile plastered on his ugly features, he bulldozes past me and flicks his fingers at his men. They cross the bridge and stop at the top where the captain blocks their path.
I take my time to follow. The captain waits for my command. When I incline my head, he stands aside.
“This way,” I say, leading them to the lounge while I pin the man and woman next door with a stare.
The curious couple scurry over their deck and disappear inside a cabin.
I open the lounge door for the men and make a point of not inviting them to sit. “Wait here. I’ll fetch my wife.”
I catch the captain’s gaze. He nods, understanding the silent instruction to watch them. I keep them in my visual through the window as I walk with long, measured strides down the passageway. When I reach the stairs, I quicken my steps, heading toward the master cabin at the back of the yacht.
Sabella sits up, clutching the comforter against her chest when I enter.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
Her dark hair hangs in tangled tresses over her naked shoulders. Her pretty face looks tired and pale.
A deckhand unpacked our bags while we had dinner. Going to the closet, I take out a pair of leggings and a warm sweater that I throw on the bed. “Get dressed.”