| 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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To stay in bed until the next sunrise sounded marvellous. Deriving pleasure from the island on our last day countermanded bed confinement, though. Deep-sea fishing betided. We journeyed across the oceanic whitecaps for three hours to catch one combative yellow-fin tuna. Well, Liam cast a line and conversed with fellow fisherman; I cemented to guard rail and hid from bloodthirsty sharks.
We ate a light lunch: pre-packed sushi rolls soused in soy sauce, another unfavourably uneatable tang to offend and traumatise the taste buds. It's pretty tragic. It's only just acquired how much of a squeamish, picky eater I am. Whereas Liam devours anything in sight, I have an insatiable sweet-tooth, a taste for unhealthy, greasy or calorific deliciousness and basic, bland, uncrazy French fries (at least, I am a cheap date).
Presently, I throne a white-clothed table between Liam and the occupied piazza. Warm, white sand homed the soles of my feet, and a gentle sea breeze coasted the sinuous crystalline ocean. It's a beautiful night. Tall, bamboo-style candles flickered sporadically amid the beach. Sad yet moving instrumental music sounded in the background; the sommelier bought us bottled Lafontan Armagnac 1990 from the impressive wine cellar.
Liam's onto the main course: grilled pork loin, sauerkraut and Parma ham. Devoid of hunger, I forked exotic mushrooms around the patterned rim of the risotto plate and glanced beyond my date's head to see Zack and Julia seated at a private table.
Numerous guests inhabited the beach this evening, talkative and cheerful, dressed in casual, pastel-coloured linens. They all seemed to know the tree huggers from villa eight, which, as a consequence of Liam's disinterest for the environment and inexcusable rampage the night the four of us dined together, plonked us on the pariah outskirts. Not that he batted an eyelid. Disgruntled glares were unperceived by him. I, however, felt like an impounded extra-terrestrial.
Julia looked up. I expected her to throw the bird. She smiled an apologetic smile, and I raised a hand to wiggle four fingers in acknowledgement. Understanding transpired. We both married dogmatically quarrelsome males, and their behaviour had caused a rift, but for us, we can bear no malice, leave the island and part ways as unlikely friends yet unforgettable honeymooners.
"Eat," Liam ordered, and I complied. "You'll get mango sorbet next."
"I don't want sorbet."
His deep-set eyes focused on my red-stained lips. "What do you want?"
I smiled wickedly at him. "You."
Fifteen minutes later, after prompt peregrination through the airless, tropical forest, we reached the villa, stumbled over the threshold concurrently tearing at each other's clothes and crashed into the lounge's table. His mouth welded to mine, Liam blindly swept the day-old fruit salad and juice carafes onto the floor, which caused a shattering clamour, and hoisted me up onto the wooden ledge to stand between my thighs. The ripped material of my fishtail dress bunched at the waist, he palmed my exposed breasts, circled the areolas of my nipples, pinched them.
