Bound To The Sicilian's Bed. Sharon Kendrick
at his temple. Wasn’t it time she discovered that you didn’t cross Rocco Barberi unless you were prepared to pay the price? That was why he had come here today, intending to tell her exactly what he wanted, knowing she would be forced to grant him his wish if she wanted her damned divorce.
He’d thought it would be easy. Straightforward. A simple equation of A + B = C. But he had failed to factor in desire, hadn’t he? A desire which had taken him completely by surprise. He had imagined he would look at her as he might any other ex-lover—with a cool impartiality, which had always served him well in the past, because once you had repeatedly tasted a woman’s body your appetite for her inevitably diminished. But that wasn’t happening. He wondered what it was about her which was making him grow as hard as rock, so he was having difficulty concentrating on anything other than what it would feel like to be deep inside her again—riding her until she shuddered out his name. Was it because she had once worn his wedding band and the significance of that went deeper than he’d imagined?
His voice became hard. ‘I need you to do something for me.’
‘Sorry, Rocco. You’re talking to the wrong person.’ She shook her head so that all those thick dark curls shimmered around her shoulders. ‘I don’t have to do anything for you. We’re getting divorced. Remember?’
‘Maybe we are,’ he answered softly. ‘Or maybe not.’
She blinked at him in consternation. ‘But the law says we can divorce after two years of living apart.’
‘I know what the law says. But that can happen only with the agreement of both parties.’ There was a pause. ‘Think about it, Nicole. You need my consent to terminate our marriage. I could drag it out for years if I wanted.’
As she heard the unmistakable threat behind his words, Nicole’s instinct was to turn and run. To run so far that he’d never be able to find her. Until she reminded herself that instinct had never served her well where Rocco was concerned. It had led her into his arms and into his bed, even though she’d known deep inside that he’d only wanted her for sex. And she had been right, hadn’t she?
But she was no longer that woman. The star-struck virgin who had allowed her powerful boss to seduce her. Who had fallen victim to the practised heaven of his touch. The innocent young cleaner who had believed the smooth lies which had flowed from his sensual lips and allowed herself to be guided by them. Who had obediently worn the crotchless panties he’d bought for her from shops in London’s Soho and bucked with pleasure when he’d slid his fingers inside them. She’d even pretended to enjoy the light lash of a whip caressing her bare buttocks because she had wanted to bring him as much pleasure as he brought her. Because she had wanted to please him. To be his perfect lover in the hope that one day he might care for her as much as she’d begun to care for him. Yet soon after she’d given him her virginity, Rocco had begun to distance himself. Had started avoiding her at work. Suddenly there had been pressing business trips which had desperately needed his attention—something which apparently was a ploy of his when he was trying to get some needy lover off his back.
In fact, he probably would have gone out of his way never to have seen her again if nature hadn’t intervened and cast them both in the unexpected roles of parents-to-be. She swallowed as the painful memories crowded into her mind and tried to remind herself that was all in the past. Things were different now. She was getting used to life as a single woman. And yes, it was a struggle to exist on the pittance she earned from this little art shop she’d opened with the help of a grant from the local council—but at least she was following her dreams instead of living a nightmare. She didn’t need Rocco Barberi or his billions—or his cold, emotionless heart.
Drawing her shoulders back, she tilted her chin to meet his sapphire gaze. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you give me your consent when we both know our marriage is over?’
‘Is that why you didn’t answer any of my letters? Because you’d come to that decision all on your own?’
‘It was what we both knew in our hearts!’ she defended. ‘I just couldn’t see the point in dragging it out any longer.’
His body tensed and he opened his mouth to respond when the sound of the shop bell punctured the atmosphere as a middle-aged woman opened the door. Did she pick up on the fraught atmosphere? Was that why she glanced uncertainly from Rocco to Nicole as if she were gate-crashing a private party?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, automatically prefacing her sentence with the ever-present apology of the English. ‘Are you—?’
‘We’re closed,’ said Rocco shortly, watching as Nicole opened her mouth to protest—but by then it was too late because the woman had scuttled out again, murmuring yet more words of apology.
And then his estranged wife turned on him, all her studied politeness a distant memory, her emerald eyes spitting fire at him.
‘You can’t do that!’ she declared indignantly. ‘You can’t just march into my shop and order prospective customers to leave!’
‘I just did,’ he said, without any hint of apology. ‘So let me put this to you carefully, just so that there can be no misunderstanding. You have a choice, Nicole. Either I turn the shop sign around to say you’re closed, or you agree to meet me when you’ve finished work. Because I don’t want any more interruptions like that when I put my proposition to you.’
‘Proposition?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Why would you refuse? You want your freedom, don’t you? The precious freedom which is so important to you. It might be in your best interests to...what is it that you English say?’ He rubbed a reflective finger over the hint of stubble at his chin. ‘Ah, yes. To keep me sweet.’
Nicole felt herself stiffen because his voice had taken on that velvety caress which used to have her hurling herself into his arms and raining kiss after kiss all over his rugged features. Well, not any more. That ship had sailed. No matter how much her body might be longing to feel him close to her again, she was going to fight that attraction with every fibre of her being. And he was right. Another customer might walk in and it didn’t look very professional to have a divorcing couple slugging out their differences. Surely it wouldn’t hurt her to listen to what he had to say. To humour him a little in order to facilitate her freedom.
‘Okay,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘How about I meet you for a coffee when I’ve finished work? There’s a café at the far end of the harbour which will still be open. It’s got a red and white awning at the front—you can’t miss it. I’ll see you in there.’
‘No.’ He shook his head and his mouth hardened. ‘I’m not meeting you in public in some damned café. I want to visit your apartment, Nicole. To see for myself the place you have chosen above your Sicilian home.’
It was on the tip of Nicole’s tongue to tell him that the lavish Barberi complex had felt more like a prison than a home, but what was the point of upping the ante? Mightn’t it drive home how serious she was about this divorce if she showed Rocco where she lived? Mightn’t he get it into his stubborn head that wealth and privilege meant nothing, not when you measured those things against peace of mind?
‘Very well, I live in the flat above the tea shop on Greystone Road. Number thirty-seven,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But don’t come before seven.’
‘Capisce.’ He nodded his dark head.
He was just on his way to the door when he paused in front of a small display of pottery, picking up one of the pieces to study it. It was a glowing terracotta jug with a handle fashioned to look like the twisted leaves on a lemon branch. Raised yellow fruits dotted the surface and in the background was the flash of blue—an artistic representation of the distant sea. Slowly he turned it around in his olive fingers to study it, before glancing up to meet her eyes.
‘This is good,’ he said slowly. ‘It reminds me of Sicily.’
She nodded,