Bound To The Sicilian's Bed: Bound to the Sicilian's Bed. Annie West
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You play the young wife eager to get back with her husband. Do you think you can manage that?’
His words were wry but Nicole wondered what he would do if he knew the truth. That behind her nonchalant air, her senses were on fire. That every time he even looked at her she wanted to melt. She dug her fingernails into the sequins on her handbag. And he mustn’t find out because then he might start touching her again. And she wanted him to do it to her again—that was the most dangerous thing of all. Next time she might not be strong enough to resist him.
‘Oh, I think I can just about manage to maintain the façade of adoring you for a few hours—just so long as we’re back before midnight strikes,’ she said coolly. ‘Just give me a couple of minutes and I’ll go and fetch my wrap.’
But that sense of unreality she’d felt earlier swept over her again as she climbed into the back of Rocco’s car—this time with the brooding billionaire by her side. She tried to make conversation but sensed that Rocco could see right through her attempts at chit-chat. Was he aware that it was all she could do not to reach out her hand and caress the honed hardness of his taut thigh, or run her fingertips through the ebony ruffle of his hair? Could he guess she was fantasising about him pressing the button which would bring down the screen shielding them from the driver, before lying her on the back seat and pulling her panties down. Little beads of sweat spring out on her forehead as she started imagining his tongue exploring her heated flesh and Nicole was relieved when finally they reached the venue.
The place where the screening was fancier than anywhere he’d ever taken her and she was amazed he could seem so relaxed in such a high-profile setting, for the Rocco of old would have curled his sensual mouth with derision. Flashbulbs popped as they walked up the flower-decked red carpet, his guiding hand placed unnervingly in the small of her back and making her shiver, despite the warmth of the evening.
The lights went down and the big screen lit up and Nicole watched a film which didn’t really do it for her, even though everyone else seemed to love it. She’d never been a big fan of black and white movies and, besides, she was distracted by what was going on in the semi-darkness. She noticed that the American actress who was starring in the picture and seated on Rocco’s other side was spending an awful lot of time cupping her hand over his ear to whisper into it. And suddenly all Nicole’s defiant words about nobody being able to tell the difference between real and fake jewellery seemed like so much hot air, because Anna Rivers looked a class act in her waterfall of diamonds, with the burly man from security who was guarding them never far from her side. Nicole shot her a glance, aware that the beautiful actress was flirting outrageously with her husband and that she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.
Afterwards, they ate dinner in the Café de Monaco, an award-winning restaurant which overlooked the harbour. Yet despite not having eaten anywhere this grand for a long time, the experience was wasted on Nicole. She seemed to have lost her appetite and the glass of champagne she’d drunk at the beginning of the evening had left her with nothing but a raging thirst. But she was determined to honour her side of this crazy bargain and did her best to chat as agreeably as she could to the various shareholders. She treated them as if they were prospective customers in her little Cornish pottery shop and tried not to be offended by their obvious surprise when they learned who she was. Even the star of the film gaped like a stranded fish when she overheard Nicole talking.
‘You are Rocco’s wife?’ clarified Anna Rivers slowly.
‘I am,’ agreed Nicole.
The actress frowned. ‘But I didn’t even know he was married.’
‘Well, there you go,’ said Nicole weakly, feeling a total fraud—although she was unable to deny her satisfaction when the actress spent the rest of the evening talking to her leading man instead of trying to monopolise Rocco.
Nicole stood there in her plain black dress, flashing a friendly smile whenever anyone looked in her direction. At one point she was targeted by an Argentinian ex-polo player, Javier Estrada—a flirtatious man with flashing black eyes who frankly left her cold. As the evening drew to a close, she found herself in animated conversation with Annelise, the wife of Marcel Dupois—the conservative shareholder Rocco had warned her about. The Frenchwoman turned out to have a passion for pottery so they had lots to talk about and when Nicole lifted her head it was to meet Rocco’s questioning gaze burning into her like bright blue fire.
Gaze back at him adoringly, she told herself. Act like a wife who wants to make up with arguably the best-looking man in the room. She managed a passable imitation of adulation and her cheeks flared in response to the answering intensity in his eyes. He didn’t look away and neither did she and for a few extraordinary seconds the make-believe felt almost real. Her chest tightened and suddenly she was having difficulty breathing. How was it possible to want a man yet hate him at the same time? To wish he were close, yet want to push him as far away as possible? Quickly, she turned away and stared out at the lights which were glittering in the harbour, trying to drink in a view which would soon be nothing more than a fast-fading memory.
‘Nicole?’
The sound of Rocco’s voice made her tremble and silently Nicole cursed it. She found herself remembering the way he’d purred her name like that when he had been unzipping her jeans on the terrace—and wasn’t she now in danger of playing out the memory in a little too much detail? Composing her face into a smile, she turned round, trying very hard not to react to the wicked gleam in his eyes.
‘Rocco!’ she said brightly. ‘Hi.’
His eyes mocked her. ‘Hi.’
‘Are you—’ she swallowed ‘—having a good time?’
He shrugged. ‘Tolerable. But I think we’ve had enough partying for one night, don’t you? We should think about going.’
It was an unequivocal statement intended to terminate the evening and Nicole wanted to protest. To say she was enjoying herself and could they please stay. But that was only delaying the inevitable—and why was she suddenly feeling so nervous? Just because she wanted him didn’t mean anything was going to happen, did it? Women wanted men all the time but they didn’t act on those desires. She certainly wasn’t going to jeopardise everything she’d worked for by falling into the arms of a man who spelled nothing but danger.
Her smile didn’t slip as she tucked her clutch bag under her arm. ‘Sure. Why not?’
In the limousine Rocco was silent, staring out at the principality’s glitzy shops as they drove by, as if he’d never really noticed them before. And Nicole did the same—concentrating on the steep roads and the breathtaking views of the harbour as the powerful car gained height. She told herself she was glad he didn’t want to engage in meaningless chatter but in truth the silence was unsettling her. At least talking would have been a distraction from the growing awareness inside her body—the unwanted tingling of her breasts and the heat pooling low in her belly, which was making her feel like a victim of her own desire. It was all she could do not to squirm impatiently on the seat beside him and beg him to put her out of her misery with the hard pressure of his kiss.
‘You did very well tonight,’ he said when at last the car drew up outside his house. ‘I could see how well you connected with Annelise Dupois. She obviously thought you were very engaging.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Our Argentinian friend certainly thought so, too,’ he added drily. ‘You seem to have won yourself a new fan.’
‘As did you,’ she said sweetly. ‘Why, Anna Rivers could barely contain her dismay when she discovered I was your wife.’
In the semi-darkness his eyes gleamed like a jungle predator who had suddenly appeared from behind thick foliage. ‘So we have discovered that we are both attractive to the opposite sex,’ he observed.
‘Hardly ground-breaking news where you’re concerned, Rocco.’
‘And that we can both be somewhat...territorial about each other.’
The lightness in her voice didn’t