Bound To The Sicilian's Bed: Bound to the Sicilian's Bed. Annie West

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, the sudden clench of her heart making her wish he hadn’t made the connection. ‘That’s what inspired me.’

      ‘Perhaps I should buy it,’ he reflected. ‘You certainly look as if you could do with a few more customers.’

      ‘Particularly when you drive away the ones I do have,’ she observed acidly. ‘Anyway, it’s not for sale.’

      She pointed to a bright red sticker, though in reality nobody had bought it, because it had never actually been for sale. It was the last remaining piece of the collection she’d made when she’d returned from Sicily, feeling heartbroken and empty. Her bestselling collection, as it happened, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Just as she wouldn’t tell him about the tiny, hand-embroidered romper suit she’d bought soon after she’d had her first pregnancy scan, which was lying shrouded in tissue paper in one of her bedroom drawers. She was planning to sell the jug just as soon as the ink was dry on her divorce papers. The romper suit she suspected she would never be able to part with.

      He replaced the piece and all Nicole was aware of were those amazing sapphire eyes searing into her. He was always the most beautiful man she had ever seen and nothing about that had changed. He could still make her heart beat fast. Still make her shiver and her breasts swell into vibrant life against her lacy bra. Just as he reminded her of the darkest time in her life and her fear that she would never be able to recover. But she had recovered. And she’d done it without him—because they were no good for each other. She had accepted that. It was time that Rocco did, too.

      And suddenly she wanted him out of the shop, before she gave into the pain which was welling up inside her and threatening to spill over. Before it dissolved into bitter tears, which would remind her of everything she had lost.

       CHAPTER TWO

      TWO CUPS OF herbal tea and a stern reminder that getting emotional would accomplish nothing meant Nicole’s nerves were less jangled by the time she arrived home to find Rocco waiting outside her apartment. She’d told herself that getting sucked in by dark memories wasn’t going to help anyone. She’d told herself she needed to be calm and impartial when it came to dealing with Rocco, but maybe that was just too big an ask with СКАЧАТЬ