Page 37 of Angel

‘I had no clue you spoke the language,’ I murmured, crossing my denim-clad thighs.

‘Six Sinners spent three months recording our second album on Lake Como,’ Angel rasped, his eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘You pick up a lot when you’re forced to buy groceries and deal with locals at the market.’

Ancient stone villas jutted out over the cliff edges, offering clear sightlines across the sea all the way to Naples twenty-six miles away.

Massive luxury yachts lined the bustling port, surrounded by high-end boutique storefronts and crowded outdoor cafes.

The swarming crowds and souvenir stands faded into oblivion as I focused on the cerulean, sky-blue water flowing past the cliffs.

Carlo swung the vehicle around a hairpin bend, navigating the narrow, winding asphalt ribbon that climbed the steep rock face.

‘Wow,’ I breathed, unable to help myself as I took in the view that appeared before us of an endless ocean and the prettiest island I’d ever seen.

Towering limestone cliffs descended through groves of twisted olive trees and fragrant pine needles, plunging straight into a turquoise sea.

Each turn up the mountainous little isle produced a vista more spectacular than the last.

Below us, sunbathers basking on towels dotted the tiny rocky coves next to the surf.

‘So I half lied earlier. When you take out the tourist mobs, Capri is magnificent, Roxy,’ Angel rasped as he too got whisked up in the magic, his timbre dropping an octave. ‘I’ve been to Saint-Tropez. Portofino. Ibiza. Santorini. Ischia. Mykonos. Sicily. Sardinia. Even the Kvarner Islands in Croatia. Nothing matches this place.’

Angel leaned back, his face softening as the sheer beauty of the place forced a brief respite from his anguish.

We climbed higher into the hills, then back down towards what seemed to be a secluded beach, eventually driving past the wrought-iron gates of a spacious modern villa.

It was stunning; clean architectural lines of white stone and floor-to-ceiling glass blended into the rugged rock face, surrounded by vivid magenta bougainvillea vines.

An Italian woman stood waiting in the open grand doorway.

The car stopped, and Carlos rushed to get the door for me.

I stepped out and into the embrace of the archway above me as the woman clasped my hands.

‘Benvenuti all’Isola dell’Amore, spero che il vostro viaggio sia stato piacevole,’ she intoned, her voice rich and melodic.

She paused, her sweet smile widening as she translated for us.

‘Welcome to the Island of Love. I hope your journey was pleasant. My name is Mrs Campanelli and I’ll be your hostess, housekeeper and chef during your stay.’

She was a slight, beautiful older woman in her sixties with thick, ebony hair flecked with silver.

Her warm espresso-colored eyes and genuine reception drew me in, and I at once knew I’d like her.

‘Thank you for having us,’ I told her.

‘You’re so pretty,’ she added, studying me. ‘Like a young Isabella Rosellini.’

She greeted Angel, whistling under her breath as she studied him.

‘Oh-lala. This one is a tall one, and so handsome too, he resembles Thyago Alvez, the most dashing Italian actor ever.’

‘Don’t flatter me,’ my husband rasped, then proceeded to make Mrs Campanelli swoon and clutch her heart by kissing the back of her hand.

Despite his reticence, the man could be charming.

I shot Angel an amused glance, but all I got back was a cool gaze.

I sensed his heart icing over once again.