Bound to the Sicilian's Bed

by Sharon Kendrick

  He stared at the dark rippling waves of the sea. It was because Nicole had changed. She was no longer that uncertain woman who gazed at him with reproachful eyes and was prepared to take whatever he dished out. This new version was more sure of herself. Confident and self-assured, she was behaving as if leaving their marriage had given her the courage to be herself. As if he had been holding her back.

  His mouth hardened. Well, let her think whatever she wanted to think. Soon she would be gone and out of his mind. In the morning he would put her on a flight back to England and sign the divorce papers and that would be it.

  The end.

  He watched as Anna Rivers walked by in a strappy little silver gown—the actress slanting him a slow and lazy smile over her shoulder as she passed. Despite having discovered his marital status, the invitation in her eyes was unmistakable but Rocco wasn’t interested. He scowled. He’d had enough of women for the time being. Once Nicole had gone and the dust had settled he would resume the life he’d had before she’d tumbled into it. He would operate on a level he was comfortable with. Casual affairs with women who knew the score. Women with careers and lives of their own, who he could take or leave as it suited him. Not women who tried to burrow underneath his skin and stay there.

  As soon as they left the cocktail party he would say goodnight and in the morning he would have left for the office long before she awoke. And despite the fact that she was undoubtedly the sexiest woman at the party, he would not share her bed or her body tonight. It was too disquieting. Too...intense. That way she had of cooing in his ear when he was deep inside her. The soft wrap of her thighs around his back while he rode her. He felt the warm wash of hunger heating his blood but, deliberately, he dampened it down. Bringing her here had been a mistake, he conceded grimly. A mistake he would not compound by being intimate with her again.

  The phone in his pocket began to vibrate and he glanced at it, his senses instantly on alert when he saw it was a missed call from Sicily. And it was late. Was it his grandfather? he wondered, his heart clenching with instinctive dread as he followed the sway of Anna River’s bottom towards the lower deck. But once there, he bypassed the actress’s footsteps to turn left, heading for the sanctuary of his on-board office before putting a call through to the Barberi complex, just outside Palermo.

  Maria answered the phone on the first ring—not a good sign—and Rocco automatically slipped into dialect to speak to the family’s housekeeper.

  ‘Nonno?’ he demanded.

  ‘Your grandfather is sick,’ said Maria.

  ‘How sick?’

  ‘He has a fever. Some kind of infection, the doctor says. We called him straight away.’

  Rocco’s fingers tightened around the phone. ‘And what’s happening now?’

  ‘He is on medication and we have hired a nurse. She’s with him now. So am I.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you coming home, Rocco?’

  ‘Of course I’m coming home!’

  There was another pause and this time Rocco was certain he could hear the voice of his grandfather in the background—weaker than he’d ever heard him speak before. ‘Is that Nonno?’ he demanded. ‘What’s he saying?’

  Maria’s next words were tentative. ‘He wants to know if you are reconciled with your wife.’

  Rocco narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Michele mentioned that Nicole has been staying with you in Monaco,’ said Maria.

  Silently, Rocco swore. What right did his assistant have to go informing on him to his family, like some sort of amateur spy? He would have words with her, he thought grimly—but that would have to wait.

  ‘He wants you to answer his question,’ Maria said. ‘And you know he will not rest until you do so.’

  Rocco stared around his on-board office without really seeing it. If it had been anyone other than his grandfather he would have told them to go to hell. But Nonno was different. He had a place in Rocco’s life which nobody else could ever occupy. He had been there for him and his siblings when their world had imploded. He had been the one true rock in their world. And he might be dying. Pain shot through him and Rocco’s eyes refocussed as slowly he became aware of his surroundings—the fancy office from which he had conducted some of his most audacious deals. Yet all the gleaming wood and brass might as well have been muddy pieces of driftwood. Suddenly all the awards and commendations counted for nothing.

  Niente.

  Because these were not the things which mattered.

  ‘No,’ said Rocco, aware that his voice was husky with fear. ‘We are not reconciled.’

  His words were now being conveyed to Nonno but Rocco didn’t need Maria to come back on the line to tell him what he could hear for himself.

  ‘He wants to see her, Rocco. He wants you to bring her to Sicily.’

  * * *

  The party was in full swing and Nicole was trying very hard to listen to what the tall Frenchman with the purple bow tie was saying. She knew he was a shareholder and that they viewed Rocco’s bid very favourably. She knew that because he’d told her, even though he probably shouldn’t have done—but he, like everyone else, seemed to be knocking back the expensive champagne which was being served as freely as water. But it was difficult to concentrate on his words. Difficult to think about anything other than the fact that Anna Rivers had just left the deck with Rocco following the beautiful actress, and that he had been gone for some time.

  Nicole told herself it didn’t matter where he went or who he went with, but that wasn’t quite true. She was suddenly finding that it mattered a lot more than it should have done, yet that was stupid. Just because she’d had hot sex with him that afternoon didn’t mean she had any rights over him. Hot sex when he hadn’t even kissed her. That told her pretty much what he really felt about her, didn’t it?

  Her cheeks were flushed as she walked to the far end of the deck where it was much quieter. Did Rocco realise that the takeover bid was pretty much a done deal? Had he now decided she was surplus to requirements and he could safely ignore her for most of the party? Probably. What did she expect? That he would treat her with respect when she’d behaved that way—falling into his arms as if none of the bad stuff had happened?

  There was a buzz behind her and Nicole turned to see Rocco reappear, looking dramatically handsome in his dinner suit, his black hair gleaming beneath the coloured fairy lights which were strung around the deck. He was looking around, as if trying to locate someone, and then he saw her and began to walk towards her. But the instinctive leap of her heart was replaced by a distinct sense of foreboding as she saw the ravaged look which was darkening his features.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said as soon as he’d reached her.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Sicily.’ His jaw clenched. ‘My grandfather is sick.’

  Nicole sucked in a breath, her shock much greater than it should have been because Turi was very old and so such news could never be described as unexpected. But some people seemed indestructible and the elderly patriarch was one of them. She tried to imagine the Barberi complex without the larger-than-life figure at its helm and couldn’t. She wondered how it would be for Rocco and his siblings if they lost the man who had always been there for them. The lynchpin of their lives. She looked up into Rocco’s empty eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘How...how bad is it?’

  He shrugged. ‘They don’t know. My brother is in South America and my sister has been in Los Angeles, so everyone is away. They’re both on their way home, but the flights are long and he needs someone with him now. I’m going to Sicily as soon as air traffic control have approved my flight plans. Michele is sorting that out for me now.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Briefly, Nicole closed her eyes, praying that Rocco would reach his grandfather in time, but she couldn’t prevent the other thought which came rushing through her mind. That this really was the last time she would ever see him. She opened her eyes, unprepared for the cold wash of heartache which followed in the wake of this re
alisation. This really was goodbye, she thought, and was just working out how best to say it, when Rocco spoke again.

  ‘He wants to see you, Nicole.’

  She blinked, aware that his shadowed eyes had grown flinty and a muscle was working insistently at his temple. ‘Who does?’ she said.

  ‘Nonno. I spoke with Maria. He’s been asking for you.’

  ‘For me?’ She didn’t make any attempt to hide her bewilderment because there had been no real closeness between her and the octogenarian patriarch, no matter how hard she had tried. ‘But why?’

  ‘Who knows?’ he growled, tugging impatiently at his tie as if it were strangling him. ‘Turi is a law unto himself and always has been.’ There was a pause. ‘Will you come, Nic?’

  ‘Do you want me to come?’ she questioned quietly, trying not to react to a nickname he hadn’t used in a long, long time.

  He seemed to steel himself before shaking his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I think we both know that you and I have reached the end of the line. But my grandfather could die at any moment—and who am I to deny a dying man his wish?’ He looked her straight in the eyes and they might as well have been alone in a room, rather than on a crowded yacht in the middle of a cocktail party.

  Nicole met his questioning gaze. Nobody could accuse Rocco of lying—or caring how much his words could hurt. Yet behind his blunt statement she could sense a vulnerability which for once he wasn’t bothering to hide. Maybe he couldn’t hide it. Suddenly it occurred to her that right now Rocco needed her as she’d always wanted to be needed by him, but like everything else it had come too late.

  And she was scared. Going back to Sicily had the potential to reopen painful wounds—but what choice did she have? If she had any kind of conscience she couldn’t refuse what he was asking of her. She was doing this for a sick man, yes, but she was also doing it for Rocco—because she could never live with herself if she let him down. And how crazy was that? ‘Of course I’ll come,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Grazie.’ He nodded, before glancing down at her red dress. ‘We need to go straight from here to the airfield. There won’t be time to return to the house but I can get Michele to pack your clothes and have them sent straight to the plane.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said.

  ‘Then let’s get going,’ he said roughly.

  Silently, they slipped away from the party and Nicole could see people smiling as they passed. Were they assuming that she and the Sicilian were sneaking away to celebrate the impending deal, or maybe the renewal of their own relationship?

  And for one brief moment, didn’t some rogue part of her wish it had been a real reconciliation instead of a cold-blooded arrangement to settle some unfinished business? Instead, she risked getting herself in even deeper than before, by agreeing to return to a place full of difficult memories—a place where she had been nothing more than an outsider. Would Rocco remember that and look out for her or would he simply throw her to the lions, the way he’d done before?

  A hundred questions were bubbling up inside her and she stole a glance at Rocco as his private jet soared up into the starlit skies over Monaco, wondering if she should just be upfront and ask them. But his profile was hard and uncompromising and, sensing he had little appetite for conversation, or any more of her unwanted questions, Nicole spent the flight in an uneasy silence.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT WAS DARK when Rocco’s jet landed in Sicily and the air was as deeply scented as Nicole remembered. She breathed it in with remembered clarity, her senses saturated by the fragrance of lemon and jasmine, and earth baked warm by the sun. She thought how peculiar it was that the stars on this island always seemed brighter than they did anywhere else, or maybe it was just that the sky was darker.

  Suddenly a whole shoal of memories began to bombard her. Memories which had the power to make her heart twist with regret. The way she’d felt about Rocco when he’d brought her here. The way he’d kissed her and told her that he would try to be the best father he could. The way she’d lain in his arms and imagined a future for them with their baby. She shook her head a little, surprised by the sudden yearning which washed over her. Was it self-protection which had made her forget all the positive stuff about their marriage, hoping that would make it easier to forget him?

  She walked down the aircraft steps where a car was waiting, with a driver Nicole recognised sitting behind the wheel. He gave her a brief nod of acknowledgment, and as he and Rocco slipped naturally into dialect Nicole turned to look out of the window as they drove through the darkened Sicilian countryside.

  She stared at the olive trees which lined the roads, their leaves metallic as they glinted beneath the moonlight, their fruits tiny and as yet unripened. The countryside looked unfamiliar in the darkness but the sprawling Barberi residence was exactly as she remembered. As the electronic gates swung open Nicole could see the various residences laid out before her, and the lateness of the hour would have normally ensured that the main house was dark and silent. But the lights blazing from the windows indicated that things were far from ‘normal’.

  Rocco turned to her as soundlessly the car slid to a halt in the forecourt, his features shadowed. ‘Why don’t you make your way to our house and get settled in?’

  She nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘‘I’ll go straight to Turi. If you want anything to eat or drink, Maria will still be up.’

  Was that a flash of fear she could read in his eyes as he pushed open the car door? The fear of confronting the mortality of someone you loved? Impulsively, she reached across for his hand and squeezed it and for a moment Rocco stilled before squeezing hers back. And Nicole thought how strange it was that such a small gesture could somehow seem more intimate than sex itself.

  ‘Send Turi my love,’ she said huskily.

  ‘I will.’

  Carrying her small suitcase, Nicole made her way across the terrace towards the house where she and Rocco had begun and ended their married life. Security lights flickered on and illuminated the imposing building in a golden halo of light. Our house, Rocco had said, but it had never really been her house, had it? And it had certainly never felt like home. It had been filled with dark antique furniture which had been in the Barberi family for many decades, and she’d found the style heavy and oppressive but had been too timid to suggest any changes. Too timid to do anything really, except feel eternally grateful that Rocco hadn’t kicked her out on the street when she’d fallen pregnant.

  Pushing open the door, she clicked on the lights and began to reacquaint herself with the place, trying to get herself into a state of calm to face whatever lay ahead. It was all exactly as she remembered. Only the room they’d designated as a nursery had altered. The crib had gone and so had that swirly animal mobile which she’d brought with her from England. Everything gone. The walls were painted a neutral colour instead of that sunny yellow, and, although it was furnished with a couple of comfortable armchairs and a sophisticated sound system, it didn’t look like a room anyone had ever used. Because Rocco didn’t live here any more, she reminded herself fiercely. And he’d never even told her why he’d left.

  She went to the bathroom, stripped off her red dress and took a long shower—the soapy water sluicing off her heated skin making her feel relatively human again. Afterwards she raided her suitcase for the T-shirt which doubled as a nightshirt and slipped it on. She found some cold water in the fridge and drank it and thought maybe she should stay awake in case Rocco came back. But she was tired. Bone-tired. So much had happened in such a short time. Perhaps she would just lie down and wait.

  Unable to face the master bedroom, she grabbed a blanket and lay on one of the sofas in the sitting room, yawning heavily and trying to keep her heavy eyelids open. But Rocco didn’t return and the minutes ticked by—and next thing she knew she could feel the warmth of the morning sun on her face. Blinking, she scrambled off the sofa. She’d left the shutters open and she gazed out at the Sicilian morning. Alrea
dy, the sky was a deep and cloudless blue and in the distance she could hear the sound of church bells. The birds were singing like crazy and the sheer beauty of the morning inexplicably bolstered her spirits. She found her case and she put on jeans and a T-shirt. As she brushed her curls she thought about Turi and offered up a silent prayer that he’d made it through the night.

  It would have been easier to go into the kitchen to see if there was any coffee but Nicole knew she couldn’t keep putting off going into the room she’d never thought she would see again. Her pulse was skittering against her wrists as she walked into the bedroom she’d shared with Rocco—an elegant room dominated by a huge antique bed. She remembered how gentle he’d been with her. So protective of the new life inside her. Only now could she understand the reason for the exaggerated delicacy with which he’d handled her, when at the time she’d feared he now longer found her attractive. It was strange the perspective which distance gave you.

  Swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat, she looked around. On one of the walls was her only contribution to the décor—a black and white photograph of New York, which she’d admired on their honeymoon and which Rocco had secretly bought and had shipped here, so it was waiting for her on their return. She remembered being overwhelmed by the gesture, thinking it symbolised a romantic future which hadn’t ever materialised. And it twisted her heart with nostalgia as she stared at it. Why was it still hanging there?

  She wasn’t sure what made her open the closet but what she found inside unsettled her even more than the picture had done. Because all her clothes were there—exactly as she’d left them. Neat lines of colour-coordinated outfits which had been chosen by the expensive London stylist. Shirtdresses and neat trousers—all with toning shoes and accessories. Yet looking at them now she could see that, although they weren’t her style, they were in no way offensive. Why had she made such a fuss about them?