| BOOK FOUR | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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I awoke in the arms of Liam Warren.
My husband.
I'll never get used to calling him that.
Capitulated to deep, torpid listlessness, I nuzzled my cheek against Liam's sculpted chest and listened to his regular heartbeat. He's dead to the world yet sensed my nearness. Respiring a heavy sigh of contentment, he tightened an arm across the dip of my spine and brushed my hip with dutiful fingertips. His twisted, white-gold chain rested low on his torso. Alexa Haines' name inscribed one of the polished military tags, which required amendment. If it were a cold morning, I didn't feel it. Heat radiated off his body, so the skewed sheets, clustered cushions on the floor and our naked bodies can remain a while longer.
In my current state, I lacked vivacity and enthusiasm. I certainly have no interest in leaving the bed, not even for a bathroom break, but muffled conversations in the garden reminded me of early morning breakfast arrangements with friends and family.
"I love you," I whispered, pressing a kiss on his stubble jaw.
Disconnected from Liam's almost inescapable limbs, I soared from the bed, grabbed the coverlet from the floor and draped it over his unabashed bareness. He'll berate me for not awakening him. I hate to disturb a man who seldom sleeps, so it's worth the pending chastisement.
Previously, whilst I slept between intermittent sex sessions, Liam laid out a slate-grey suit alongside a black cape-sleeved knee-high dress and stiletto heels with gold-tone embellishments to match the Versace waist belt. It's a glamorous choice. I checked the coat's inner label with investigatory hands, saw the extortionate price tag and whistled appreciation.
Liam promised me a fairy tale wedding and a magical honeymoon. Thus far, he's exceeded expectations to honour those promises, not that I expected otherwise. He paid meticulous attention to details to ensure I had essentials for our flight this afternoon. The shoes, for example. I own the exact pair at home in beige, which tells me he scoured the Manor's wardrobe prior to recent expenditures.
Showered, dressed and primed for the day within forty-five minutes, I trailed the conveyed scent of bacon and ventured downstairs to the castle's concentric function room, where hired caterers in their all-white uniform served traditional breakfast amongst the scrumptious continental menu of fresh fruit, warm pastries, toasted sandwiches and hot beverages.
Handwoven rugs enriched the oak herringbone floor. Medieval portraits and wall tapestries illustrated several members of the English royal dynasty. Brass light fixtures illuminated the maze of alcoves and baroque ceiling, the wooden tables interspersed by constellated guests who enjoy distributed cuisine and champagne delivered by amiable sommeliers.
I felt the eyes of another before Vincent's lips skimmed my ear. "Do you plan to move anytime soon?" he asked, and even though I knew someone had been watching me, I bristled. "No need to flinch, Angel. I don't bite." Decked in luxurious fibres, expensive silk and eye-catching jewellery, he moved into my peripheral, a mischievous twinkle in his ice blues. "Not unless you ask nicely."
