Cinderella In The Sicilian's World. Sharon Kendrick

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      Salvatore narrowed his eyes as he stared at the dark-haired beauty with the windswept hair, pleased to have a diversion from the disturbing cycle of his thoughts. He recognised her, of course. Even though she’d been one of a multitude of women wearing black, she had the kind of curves which nature had designed to imprint onto a man’s memory, as well as the softest pair of lips he had ever seen, and naturally a man would register those facts, almost as a matter of course.

      He wondered if she had followed him here. It happened. In fact, it happened a lot. He was pursued frequently and without shame, and while some men might have chosen to capitalise on the potential for such easy seduction, Salvatore wasn’t one of them. Given a preference, he preferred to be the hunter—though these days, most women seemed oblivious to that simple fact.

      The Sicilian woman who stood on the other side of the bar was worlds away from the type of woman he usually dated, yet, despite this, Salvatore’s gaze flickered over her with interest. She certainly looked out of place in this chic bar with her commonplace outfit and a dusty motorbike helmet, which was tucked beneath her arm. But the dark curls which bounced down her back were lustrous and glossy and her denim culottes emphasised the undulating swell of her generous hips. And her breasts were luscious, their firm swell emphasising her innate femininity.

      He felt an unmistakable prickle of interest. Hers was one of those old-fashioned figures he rarely encountered in his busy transatlantic life, or at home in San Francisco, where he was surrounded by wafer-thin socialites, whose main aim in life seemed to be to maintain an abnormally low body weight. He wondered whether to offer to buy her a drink. Surely it would be bad manners to ignore her—particularly as she had done him the courtesy of paying her respects to his godfather. Lifting his finger, he beckoned her over and, after a moment of hesitation he wasn’t expecting, she walked slowly towards him, a faint flush of colour highlighting her sculpted cheekbones as he rose to his feet to greet her.

      ‘Signor di Luca,’ she said, when at last she reached him, her obvious nerves making her words trip over themselves. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I... I saw you at your godfather’s funeral.’

      He had to bend his head to hear her properly, for her voice was soft and melodic and her faltering words rang with such genuine condolence that Salvatore felt a wave of unexpected emotion washing over him. It wasn’t the first time this had happened since he’d learned that his godfather had died, but it was hard for him to get his head around, because he was a man who didn’t do emotion. He was someone who prided himself on his detachment and had told himself repeatedly that the old man had been given a happy release from his earthly bonds.

      For although he owed a deep sense of gratitude to the man whose generosity had allowed him to spread his wings and leave his native land, he had never loved him. He had never loved anyone since his mother’s callous and brutal rejection.

      So why had his eyes prickled with tears and his heart contracted with pain when he had been taken to view the cold and silent body of his godfather? Why had he felt as if something had ended without him quite knowing what it was?

      ‘And I’m very sorry for your loss,’ the curvy brunette was saying, biting her voluptuous bottom lip rather nervously.

      ‘Grazie. He is at peace now after a long illness, and for that I give thanks.’ Salvatore watched as she chewed her bottom lip again and as he found himself increasingly fixated on that dark, rosy cushion an idea occurred to him, which he was finding impossible to shift. ‘You are meeting someone?’ he probed softly.

      She shook her head. ‘No. No, I’m all alone. I came on a whim,’ she answered and then shrugged rather apologetically, as if aware of having given more information than he’d asked for.

      ‘Then you will join me for a drink?’ he questioned, inclining his head towards the vacant stool next to him. ‘Or perhaps you disapprove of the fact that I am sitting in the sunshine, listening to the sound of the sea at such a time, when my godfather was buried only yesterday and now lies deep beneath the soil?’

      Again, she shook her head and her thick black curls shimmered in the light sea breeze. ‘I make no such judgment,’ she said, placing her helmet on the bar and wriggling onto the bar stool he was holding out for her. ‘In the village you must have noticed people chattering even while they carried the coffin towards the cemetery. It is always like that. Life goes on,’ she continued, with a quiet rush of confidence. ‘Such is the way of the world.’

      She sounded both old and wise as she spoke, as if she were repeating the words of her elders, and Salvatore’s eyes narrowed as he tried to guess her age because that was a safer bet than focussing on her delicious bottom. Late-twenties, he thought. Possibly more.

      ‘In many ways, my godfather’s death was a blessed release,’ he said, staring into dark-lashed eyes which were the colour of the old and expensive bourbon he’d first encountered when he’d arrived in America, so young and so very angry. And something in those eyes made him confide in her about the old man’s final years. ‘You are aware that he lay in a coma this past decade?’ he questioned. ‘Not seeing, not speaking and possibly not hearing anything which went on around him?’

      She nodded. ‘Yes, I do. One of my friends was one of the many carers you employed to look after him, Signor di Luca. We thought СКАЧАТЬ