| 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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North Island Seychelles was a tropical paradise and luxurious escape set at the far north of an Indian Ocean archipelago. I Googled the website, absorbed information and possible leisure pursuits in the minutes before I slipped under the cool sheets of our snug bed to give Liam an early morning wake up call to remember.
We had yet to travel beyond our villa as raw, passionate sex prevailed exploration.
If Liam's head wasn't between my thighs, I buried my head between his, and fervent lovemaking ensued straight after. Hell, at this stage in our honeymoon, I espoused a newfound proclivity for ceaseless nudity.
I walk around naked morning, noon and night.
Today, I made an effort to put some clothes on. Liam wanted to explore. I never thought it possible, but I exhausted the man's stamina. I threw on a blue see-through kimono to match the bikini and left my hair down in natural waves. Liam's uncustomary appearance surmounted my red, skin-peeled nose and haphazard appearance, though. He had sun-kissed skin, beautifully flawless, and strode barefoot down the beach in a white slim-fit shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the top buttons popped open, and beige chino shorts.
I died and went to heaven.
Vegetation obscured ten other villas. You could barely see the wooden accommodations through the greenery, but akin to us, the guests had grandstand views of the azure ocean. At the end of the sandy strip, the island's focal point, the piazza, the activity and dive centre, library, boutique and guest relations. If we foot walked ahead, we'd find the gym, pool and spa. We had options but settled for destination dining as the hot-tempered man kvetched until I fed him. With the afternoon sun as the backdrop, the piazza prepared us a picnic basket on the beach, laid out cotton throws and cushions and left us to enjoy a romantic lunch. I sampled various exotic fruits and charcuterie boards: acai berries, mangosteen, persimmon, guava, papaya, cold meat, smoked salmon, segmented cheese and fizzy champagne.
I could live on this island for the rest of my life.
"Can we go cycling?" I asked one evening.
"You will never see my ass on a bike," Liam rebuffed.
"Never?"
"Never."
The following day, I raced past Liam on a hired bike, meandering through the takamaka forest in search of Brutus, the Island's oldest tortoise. According to the helpful gent at the piazza, Seychelles is the hawksbill and green turtle nesting ground, and I had to meet the bales grandpa. Only the downwards curve of a sunbird, frightened kestrel and green-backed heron graced us with their reluctant presence.
I will uncover Brutus.
Somewhere along the fact-finding bike ride, Liam had removed his shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his shorts. Feet planted to the floor, he eased back on the bike and guzzled water thirstily—and I found myself outlandishly ensnared by the way his Adam's apple bobbed and how misted sweat glazed his bronze, sculpted physique and high-cheeked handsomeness. "I want you," I said, and he flung me a double-take. "Right there," I gestured to the closest palm tree, "against that tree."
