Bound To The Sicilian's Bed. Sharon Kendrick
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up one morning and decide that this shabby little place simply wasn’t for you? Did you think your wealthy husband ought to provide you with a settlement which would enable you to get out of here—is that what this is all about, Nicole?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not about the money, Rocco. I’m not planning to bleed you dry, if that’s what you’re hinting at.’
‘No?’ And then something else suddenly occurred to him—and Rocco was startled by the powerful streak of jealousy which flooded through him like dark poison. Because he had thought he was over her. He had decided that from the moment he had arrived back from the States and discovered she’d left him. ‘Then maybe it’s something else, something rather more common in these situations.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Perhaps there’s a new man on the horizon and you want to be free for him. Is that what it is, my little temptress?’ His voice hardened as he allowed the thought to grow and suddenly he could see yet another benefit to making her work for her divorce. Because if Nicole did have a new lover, then wouldn’t that lover be outraged to learn she was spending the weekend with Rocco Barberi? He felt a sudden punch of sadistic pleasure. ‘Perhaps you’ve already started a relationship and he’s telling you to get rid of your Sicilian husband pretty damned quick.’
If Nicole had been feeling more genial she might have laughed in his face. For a start, no other man had even looked at her since she’d left her husband, mainly, she suspected, because she was giving out such negative vibes. But even if they had—even in the unlikely event of some gorgeous man sashaying into her little art shop and asking her on a date—it would have left her completely cold. Because no other man could ever be Rocco and he was the only man she’d ever wanted and sometimes she worried that was never going to change. Was that going to be another lasting legacy from her failed marriage—an inability to forget him?
But he doesn’t need to know that, she told herself fiercely. He doesn’t need to know anything about you. Defiantly, she met his questioning gaze.
‘My reasons are mine and mine alone,’ she said coolly. ‘And they are none of your business, Rocco.’
SO THIS WAS MONACO.
Stepping from the private jet, Nicole felt the warmth of the sun beating down on her head as she looked around, narrowing her eyes behind her sunglasses. In the distance she could see the bright blue blaze of the Mediterranean with fancy white and silver yachts bobbing on the glittering sapphire water.
She’d never been here before but she knew all about the sun-drenched principality at the tip of southern France, which was home to some of the richest people in the world. A place of luxury and excess and glamour. Her heart gave a funny twist. And now it was Rocco’s home, too. She pushed her sunglasses further up her nose. Strange to think of him living in this billionaires’ playground when he’d always been so fiercely loyal to his homeland and its rustic values. When he’d insisted that simple pleasures were what turned him on, not the lure of the gaming tables, or restaurants which were all about show instead of serving real food. Not for the first time, she wondered what had made him leave Sicily.
She walked towards the shiny black car which was waiting on the Tarmac, glad she’d insisted on a few days to herself before coming here. She’d told Rocco she needed to organise someone to take her place at the shop and water her plants for her and that much was true, but really she’d needed time to compose herself. To strengthen her resolve not to do anything she might later regret and try to achieve a state of impartiality before she faced her estranged husband again. She’d told herself that whatever happened, she couldn’t afford to let desire cloud her judgement and on the plane journey here she’d convinced herself that she had succeeded. But as she looked around in vain for Rocco’s dark head and spectacular body, she realised her heart was racing and her skin was clammy—and if that wasn’t desire then what was?
The uniformed chauffeur stepped forward to open the car door for her.
‘Welcome to Monaco, Signora Barberi,’ he said in perfect English, with a marked French accent. ‘Unfortunately, your husband has been delayed and was unable to meet your flight. He asked me to say he will see you at the house.’
Nicole opened her mouth to tell the driver that she actually preferred to be called Ms Watson these days, until she remembered. None of this was real. She wasn’t a feisty singleton who was forging a new and independent life for herself. She was supposed to be a woman fighting tooth and nail to hang onto her marriage. So be that woman.
Giving what she hoped was a suitably disappointed expression, she slid onto the back seat of the limousine, pressing her knees together and trying not to think how scruffy the faded denim of her jeans looked against the opulence of the car.
The seat was deliciously soft and the vehicle was coolly air-conditioned, but even so it was difficult to relax. As they drove through the pristine streets of Monaco, Nicole sat as stiffly as someone on their way to a job interview. She’d barely slept a wink since Rocco had turned up at her shop and sent her thoughts and her senses into disarray. Suddenly it hadn’t been so easy to put him into that forbidden box where he’d been locked away for so long. Suddenly she’d found herself wondering how on earth she was going to pretend to be reconciling a marriage which had barely got off the ground in the first place. When they’d been nothing but a pair of mismatched strangers with nothing in common other than twin tragedies in their young lives.
They were both orphans: Nicole had been dumped outside a snowy hospital in a shopping bag and Rocco’s parents had been killed outright in a speedboat accident when he’d been fourteen. Nicole had thought their dual losses might have provided some kind of bond, but Rocco had adamantly refused to discuss the past. Whenever she’d tried to bring up the subject he would shake his head and tell her it had happened a long time ago and he was over it. And she should be over it, too. He’d told her they should list their blessings instead. She had found herself a kind adoptive mother—and he and his grandfather had helped rear his two heartbroken younger siblings.
They were both over it, he’d insisted.
Nicole stared out of the car window as they passed the fancy stores with designer clothes and jewellery which made you feel you’d been transplanted into the centre of Paris. This was real high-end living, she thought, and once again found it difficult to reconcile Rocco living in such a glitzy place. But what did she really know about him? She was hardly qualified to cast judgement on a man so far out of her league, who had never really allowed her to get close to him. A billionaire who would never have married her if she hadn’t been carrying his baby. Nicole felt a brief spear of pain as she pushed her fingers back through her curls. Even now she couldn’t believe how two people from opposite ends of the social spectrum should have become lovers—something which had caused outrage at the Barberi family’s swanky Mayfair offices, where Nicole been employed as an office cleaner and Rocco was the big boss.
Not that she’d ever intended to be a cleaner. She’d been about to take up a scholarship at one of London’s most prestigious art schools when her adoptive mother had been struck down by a virulent form of cancer. Fired by fear and devotion, Nicole had nursed the kindly woman who had taken in the abandoned little girl. The lonely child who had passed through streams of foster parents before Peggy Watson had appeared in her life as a saviour. Nicole hadn’t been able to imagine a life without her but, despite her frightened prayers, Peggy had died a painful death. And something in Nicole had died along with her.
Grief had left her barely able to lift a paintbrush, let alone have any ideas worth putting down on paper. Ignoring the pleadings of her teachers, she had deferred her place at art school. Suddenly, she’d felt old—as if she’d had nothing in common with the whacky art students and their garish clothes. How could she possibly behave in a carefree way when inside she’d felt so numb? All she’d wanted was a well-paid job she didn’t have to think about—and cleaning the Barberi offices had provided the ideal solution. She’d told