In the bathroom, she washed quickly and changed out of her dress.
How had this happened? At home, when she wanted space, she’d run a bath and lie back, closing her eyes and losing herself in the steam and the silence. And now she was here, hiding in another bathroom from another man.
Only wasn’t that the reason she had agreed to marry Vicè? To change all that? To be someone different?
It wasn’t the only reason.
Her pulse twitched. Did he know the effect he had on her?
Of course.
Vicè was an expert on women—he knew exactly what to look for. He probably thought he had her all worked out, and that when he clicked his fingers she would come running. But he didn’t know her at all.
She glanced down at her dress, her pulse beating unevenly. It was new. Her sister had chosen it for her on a shopping trip in Milan. It had been a rare day of freedom for them. Her mouth twisted. Freedom that had included a posse of bodyguards, of course.
She’d been planning to wear it at the evening function after Claudia’s wedding. Only in the end she hadn’t had the guts to put it on in front of her father.
Glancing down, she felt her skin tighten. The dress was green, a shade brighter than her eyes, and to say that it was ‘fitted’ was an understatement. Had it looked this clinging in the shop? Probably. But after two glasses of Prosecco she hadn’t noticed or cared.
It wasn’t her usual style, any more than the black patent skyscraper heels were. But her sister was always wanting her to dress up, and she’d been so excited, so eager for Imma to buy it.
She lifted her chin and met the gaze of her reflection. She would wear it tonight—for Claudia—and prove to Vicenzu that he knew nothing about her at all.
But as she walked downstairs her bravado began to falter with every step.
Catching sight of him standing with his back to her, his eyes fixed on the sunset lighting up the bay, she felt a rush of panic. Perhaps she should change.
But before she had a chance to retreat he turned and her heart lurched. Suddenly she wasn’t thinking about what she was wearing any more. She was too busy marvelling at his blatant masculine beauty.
He was wearing black trousers, a dark grey polo shirt and loafers, and she liked how he looked. A lot.
Her throat tightened. She liked how he was looking at her even more.
‘Is it too much?’ she asked quickly as his dark gaze skimmed her body.
‘Not at all.’ He hesitated, then took a step forward. ‘It suits you.’
His voice was cool, and she wasn’t sure what he meant by that remark, but she didn’t want to get inside his head to find out. Right now she just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere there were other people—people who would prevent her from doing something stupid.
Even more stupid than marrying him.
Maybe he felt the same way. Or perhaps he was just desperate for company, she thought as he escorted her swiftly and purposefully towards the hotel.
They entered through a side door. ‘We’ll deal with the paps later,’ Vicè said, his hand locking with hers.
It was lucky for him that he was holding her hand so tightly, otherwise she would have scuttled back to the villa. Even without the paparazzi, the experience of walking into this hotel was intimidating. The beautiful decor was the embodiment of relaxed chic, a perfect mix of retro glamour and contemporary cool, but it was still overshadowed by the fame of the guests.
In the space of a minute she counted at least five A-list film stars, two motor racing drivers, a tennis champion and a disgraced former Italian prime minister—and all of them seemed to know Vicè and wanted to offer their congratulations. Even those who didn’t were nearly falling over to catch a glimpse of him.
‘They’re bored with me,’ he murmured.
‘What?’ She glanced up at him in confusion.
‘It’s you they’ve come to see.’
Wrong, she thought as they sat down at their table in the restaurant. He was so devastating you could gaze at him for several lifetimes and not get bored.
He was a gracious, natural host, and a master of sprezzatura—that ability to make things happen seemingly without effort or any apparent thought. And he liked people...accepted them for who they were.
Watching him stop to speak to a middle-aged couple who were celebrating their wedding anniversary, she felt her pulse slow. Vicè was turning out to be an enigma. And, even though she knew that feeling this way wasn’t clever, he was a mystery she found herself wanting to solve.
The view from the panoramic terrace was legendary, and she could see why. In the fading light of the setting sun the curve of the town’s pastel-coloured houses looked like something from a dream.
But if the view was enchanting, the food was sublime. She chose paté di seppia followed by zembi au pesto and savoured every mouthful.
‘So you’ve found your appetite?’
Looking up, Imma blushed.
‘It’s fine,’ he assured her. Leaning forward, he took her hand. ‘It’s been a long day. You need to eat.’
Watching him kiss her hand, she wondered if it would feel different if he meant it. ‘The food is delicious,’ she said.
‘I’m glad you like it.’
She met his gaze. ‘I didn’t think it would be so...’
‘So what?’
His expression hadn’t changed, but she could sense the tension around his eyes.
‘So magical here. You’ve made something remarkable, and you’ve done it on your own. Your family must be very proud.’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘So why did you choose Portofino?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t. It chose me.’
It was a perfectly reasonable reply, but she couldn’t shift the feeling that there was more to it than what he was saying. But if there was, he wasn’t sharing it. He talked easily and amusingly about anything and everything except himself. Then he either made a joke or changed the subject.
When the meal was over Vicè caught her hand.
‘Let’s get this done.’ He eyed her sideways. ‘You know we’re going to have to kiss? Nothing beyond the call of duty—just enough to make it look real. Are you okay with that?’
She nodded. ‘For the cameras, yes.’
She had been expecting a couple of photographers, but as they walked down the steps of the hotel a crowd of paparazzi rushed forward.
‘Vicè, is it true you two only met twenty-four hours ago?’
‘Give me a break. I’m good—but not that good.’ He grinned. ‘It was at least forty-eight.’
There were yells of laughter.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss your wife, Vicè?’
Her heart leapt as he turned and looked down at her.
‘I think I should,’ he said softly, his eyes dropping to her mouth.
His hand moved to her back. She felt her stomach disappear as he tipped her head back and stared into her eyes, and then he leaned forward and kissed her.
It was the lightest of kisses, fleeting and gentle. But, staring up into his dark eyes, she felt her brain freeze and her body begin to melt. Pulse jumping, she leaned into him and pressed her mouth against his.
For a fraction of a second she felt his surprise, and then his hand caught in her hair and he was pulling her closer. Her head spun. She could taste his hunger...feel her own hunger flowering with a swiftness that shocked her. Blood was roaring in her ears.
Her fingers slid over his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt, and she couldn’t stop herself from slanting her body against his.
His lips were still moving slowly, deliberately over hers, drawing out the heat that was tightening her stomach so that she was shivering, shaking inside, her body melting with a raw hunger that was as torturous as it was exquisite. And the
n she was kissing him back, fusing her mouth with his.
The roar of the photographers’ voices filled her head. For a few moments the world turned white. Then she felt his swift indrawn breath, and as he lifted his head she dimly became aware of her surroundings again.
‘Okay, that’s it for now.’ Vicè smiled, and seconds later he was leading her back down the path to his villa.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs and her cheeks felt scalded. It had been supposed to be for show, but as he’d drawn her into the half-circle of his arms she had never wanted anything to be more real.
Had Vicè sensed her unbidden response beneath the performance? The thought made her throat tighten and as they walked into the villa she spun round to face him. ‘I can’t believe you just did that.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘What did you expect? A peck on the cheek?’
Her voice was shaking. ‘That kiss was way “beyond the call of duty”!’
And she had kissed him back. Her teeth clenched. She was furious with herself. But to reveal that would reveal her vulnerability, and so, as he dropped down onto the sofa, she directed her anger towards him.
‘You love this, don’t you? Playing your stupid games—’
His eyes narrowed, and then he was on his feet and moving towards her so fast that she only just had time to throw up a defensive hand.
‘Me playing games?’ He shook his head, an incredulous look on his handsome face. ‘I’m not the one playing games here, Imma.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ she hissed.
‘It means all this fighting and flirting. You do know that eventually we’re going to end up back where we started? Naked. In bed.’
Her eyes clashed with his. ‘In your dreams.’
‘In yours too,’ he taunted.
His words made her breathing jerk. She shook her head in denial. ‘You are impossibly arrogant.’
‘So I’ve been told. But that doesn’t change the facts—which are that you want me as much as I want you. So why don’t we skip the fighting and go straight to the sex?’
Cheeks flaming, she stared up at him angrily, the truth of his words only intensifying her need to deny them.
‘You didn’t want me before—you wanted your father’s business. And you only want me now because you can’t risk having an affair and blowing our deal. As to what I want—do you really think I’d sleep with you again after everything that’s happened?’
‘Why not?’
His eyes were fixed on her face, hot and dark, and as she caught the intense heat in them her body began to tremble.
‘We’re adults. We’re both getting what we want from this arrangement. Except each other. But I’m willing to forget the past if you are.’
Forget the past.
For a second she couldn’t trust herself to speak. ‘Excuse me.’ She stepped past him.
He frowned. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To get some bedding. I’m going to sleep on the sofa.’
For a moment he clearly thought she was joking, and then he swore softly. ‘Fine. I’ll sleep down here.’
She stumbled slightly, caught off guard by his sudden acquiescence.
‘Fine. And, just so you know, from now until we leave, there won’t be any more public appearances for the two of us. Show’s over, Vicè.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROLLING ONTO HIS BACK, Vicè savagely punched the pillow behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling.
Newsflash: this sofa might look great, and lounging on it with a Negroni was fine, but it was definitely not designed for sleep.
Not that he was going to sleep any time soon, he thought. Even if his neck hadn’t been in agony, his body was wound so tightly he doubted he would ever sleep again. In fact, it had been on high alert ever since Imma had sashayed downstairs earlier and he’d forgotten to breathe.
Gone had been the absurdly staid mother-of-the-bride navy dress and in its place had been a silk number the colour of absinthe that had clung to her body without a ripple, exposing her slim curves and shimmering biscotti-coloured skin.
And then there had been those shoes...
A muscle pulsed in his jaw. It was a toss-up as to whether that dress or her parting shot had rendered him more speechless.
Remembering Imma’s words, he felt his muscles tighten.
Show’s over.
Wrong, he thought. It wasn’t over. This was just an intermission.
Scowling, he shifted onto his side. Just an intermission that was longer than necessary and extremely uncomfortable.
He scowled. How had he ended up here? Spending a night on the sofa while his new wife slept alone in his bed?
He couldn’t work out what had happened. So he might not be a business tycoon like Ciro, or even his father, but if there was one thing he understood above all others it was women.
He gritted his teeth. Make that all women except Imma.
Take tonight: she had been spitting fire over their sleeping arrangements, storming off into the bathroom when he’d told her about their dinner reservation. But then she’d seemed to calm down and relax over dinner, eating and enjoying her meal even though she’d claimed earlier she had no appetite.
Her mood had shifted a little when they’d walked out of the hotel. She had been jittery—understandably. Like oysters, the paparazzi were an acquired taste. And, unlike him, Imma had very little experience of facing a phalanx of photographers. But he’d warned her that they would have to perform for the cameras and she’d seemed to be up for it.
His pulse began to beat thickly in his blood.
Had he meant to kiss her like that? As if a clock had been counting down to the end of the world and only by kissing her could he stop time and stay alive?
No, he hadn’t—and he hadn’t expected her to respond like that either.
He’d thought she would play coy, do her ‘duty’...
But then she’d leaned into him, her lips parting. And, lost in the sweetness of her mouth and the pliant heat of her body, he had kissed her back.
His groin tightened at the memory.
It had not been a duty kiss. But, mannaggia alla miseria, he was only human, and when a beautiful woman was in his arms, kissing him, what was he supposed to do?
He felt his shoulders tense. She thought he’d planned it—that it had been yet another example of him lying to her about his intentions. The truth was that his arousal had been so fast, so intense, he’d lost the ability to think, much less contemplate all possible interpretations of his actions.
In the time it had taken for her to part her lips he’d forgotten about the paparazzi, forgotten their marriage wasn’t real. His breath, his body, his whole being, had been focused on the feel of her mouth on his and he had been powerless to stop.
Only there was no way to prove that to her. Not that she would believe him anyway. And could he really blame her?
His chest tightened. Never before had he treated anyone quite so unfairly as he’d treated Imma.
He’d lied to her repeatedly and manipulated her, using every smile and glittering gaze in his repertoire to lure her away from her family and seduce her. Of course she wouldn’t believe him.
Sighing, he stared across the darkened living room.
And that was why he would be sleeping on this sofa for the foreseeable future. Or rather not sleeping.
He sat up. There was no point in just lying there. Glancing out of the window, he caught sight of a flicker of light reflected from the surface of the pool and felt a rush of relief, as if someone had thrown him a life jacket. A swim was just what he needed to clear his head and cool his body.
Outside, the warm air clung to his skin. For a moment he stood on the edge of the pool and then, tipping forward, he executed a flawless dive into the water.
For the next forty minutes or so he swam lengths, until his chest and legs ached in unison. Turning over, he floated on his back, his lungs burning.
A huge pale moon hung over the sea, and above him the inky blue-black sky was crowded with stars. The air was heavy with the scent of cypress and honeysuckle and vibrated with the hum of cicadas. It was all impossibly romantic—the perfect setting, in fact, for a wedding night.
All that was missing was his beautiful bride.
He was back where he started.
Grimacing, he turned towards the pool’s edge, his limbs stretching through the water. As he pulled himself out and draped a towel around his neck, a tiny speckled lizard darted between the shadows.
But that wasn’t what made him catch his breath.
Beyond the shadows, her green dress luminous in the moonlight, her long dark hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, was his wife.
* * *
Imma felt her body tense.
Upstairs in the bedroom she had felt trapped. The windows on to the balcony had been open to the sea breeze, but still she had felt hot and panicky.
Back on Pantelleria, marrying Vicè had seemed like a good idea. She had thought she needed time and space to deal with the consequences of her actions—and his. She’d also naively believed that she could play him at his own game.
But the truth, as she’d so humiliatingly discovered this evening, was that she was out of her depth and floundering.
He was too slick, too good at twisting words and situations to his advantage. And for someone who was so poor at telling the truth he was remarkably good at pointing out dishonesty and hypocrisy in other people—namely herself.
She had known that sleep was beyond her, so she hadn’t bothered to undress. Instead she had slipped off her shoes and tried to rest.
Even that, though, had been impossible.
How could she rest in his room? On his bed? And it was his bed. She’d been able to smell him. His aftershave and something else...a scent that had made her stomach grow warm and her head swim. Clean, masculine...like salt or newly chopped wood. She had felt it slipping over her face like a veil.
The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage Page 11