Italian Bachelors: Irresistible Sicilians. Michelle Smart
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chair and shrugged his arms into it.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Out where?’
‘I have business to attend to.’
‘It’s nearly ten o’clock.’
‘My business does not conform to office hours.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’
His gaze had snapped to her. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Your long hours used to be here, on the estate, with me. Since you went into partnership with Francesco, I hardly see you, not properly.’
‘I’m part owner of two casinos and a handful of nightclubs,’ he’d said, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘They are nocturnal businesses and need hands-on management.’
‘I am well aware of that.’
‘Then what are you complaining about?’
‘I’m not complaining.’ Then her voice had shaken. There had been something so...feral about him at that moment, a wildness that wasn’t just due to his unshaven, dishevelled appearance. Luca was usually so perfectly groomed. ‘I’m worried about you. You’re working too hard. It’s not good for you...’
‘I shall be the judge of what’s good for me,’ he had interrupted with a snap. ‘You work long hours yourself.’
‘And when I’m tired I stop, as I have this evening. You’re working yourself into the ground and you’re drinking too much. You’ve been stressed for weeks. Months. Look how you were with me at the casino last night...’
‘I’ve apologised for that.’
‘I know, but I still don’t know what was going on...’
‘Nothing was going on and I would thank you to stop harping on about it!’ His voice had risen to a shout. Before she’d had time to blink, he’d swept all the contents of his desk onto the floor where they landed with a clatter.
She had stared at him with wide eyes. Her heart had hammered beneath her ribs. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you to stop interfering?’ he’d shouted. ‘My business dealings are none of your affair.’
‘Of course they are—we’re married.’ She’d always known Luca had a temper on him but it had never been directed at her before; not like this. But she would not back down. Not this time. ‘I’m your wife, not a child. You used to talk to me about everything but now you won’t confide in me at all, not about anything, not the business, not your argument with your brother, not anything.’
He’d thrown his arms in the air. ‘I don’t have time for this, bella. I need to go.’
‘Why?’ She had backed against the door to block his exit.
‘I’ve already told you. I have work to do.’
She had folded her arms across her chest and said the words she’d longed to say for months. ‘No. I want you to stay at home tonight and talk to me. I want you to tell me what the hell’s going on in your life that is turning you into a stranger.’
His face a mask of fury, he had stood before her. ‘I am not answerable to you, or Pepe, or anyone. I am your husband and my word alone should be good enough to satisfy any curiosity you may have. Now move aside.’
‘Or what? You’ll manhandle me out of the way?’
He’d raised his eyes to the ceiling and muttered an oath that even Grace with her limited Italian had understood.
Anyone in their right mind would have got out of his way immediately, but no matter how hard her heart had hammered, no matter how frightened she had been, she hadn’t been frightened of him. No, something else had scared her and however hard she had tried to swat it away, it had loomed closer than ever.
When he’d looked back down at her, his features had regained some form of composure. ‘Please, Grace,’ he’d said, his voice surprisingly tender. ‘You are reading too much into this. All brothers argue. The casinos and nightclubs need hands-on running, that is all.’ He had stroked a finger down her cheek. ‘How about I promise to stay out no more than a couple of hours? When I get home we’ll share a bottle of wine and I’ll give you a massage. How does that sound?’
Despite herself, despite knowing she shouldn’t just capitulate, she’d nodded and sighed, pressing her forehead against his chest. Luca’s heart had been hammering as wildly as her own.
‘I worry I don’t know you any more,’ she’d confessed. ‘You’re hardly ever home and when you are, you’re distant with me. And you’re drinking too much—it scares me.’
Wrapping his strong arms tightly around her, he’d buried his face in her hair. ‘You have nothing to worry about, amore. I swear. You know I love you. That will never change.’
Tears had pricked her eyes, fear gripping her stronger than ever. ‘I love you too.’
When he had returned that night, there had been no shared bottle of wine and no massage. Even though her head had ached and her heart had been heavy, she had fallen asleep on the sofa. He’d carried her to their bedroom and helped her undress, then let her sleep, locked in his arms.
In the morning, she had awoken and immediately sat upright, as if she’d been hit by a lightning bolt. He’d already left for work, leaving a sweet note on his pillow for her. He hadn’t been there for her to tell of the vivid dream that had awoken her so abruptly. The dream had brought into sharp focus something that had been hovering in the back of her mind for days, like a wispy cloud that refused to be caught.
She’d dreamt she was pregnant.
* * *
‘Is there a problem?’
Grace jumped. She’d been so lost in the past, the carpet so thick, she hadn’t heard Luca’s approach.
She pressed a hand to her chest and managed the faintest of smiles. ‘Lily’s napping, so I thought I should see if I had anything suitable to wear for the party on Saturday.’
‘I’ll get a member of staff to move everything to the blue room,’ he said, looking past her. ‘But I doubt there is anything suitable to wear in there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In the past I was happy to indulge your preference for bright colours but not any more. The party we’re attending is a high-society affair and you will dress appropriately.’
‘You always liked that I dressed differently. Unless you were lying to me.’
‘That was then,’ he said coldly. ‘I was far too indulgent. I have already stated my desire for a traditional Sicilian wife. In future you shall wear clothes I deem appropriate in public.’
‘And what does a Sicilian husband deem appropriate wifely apparel for a party with the cream of Florentine society?’
‘Something demure, elegant and sedate. And not just in her dress but in her manners too.’ He stared at her pointedly.
‘You really are full of it,’ she said scornfully. ‘I would kill to see a man try and tell your mother what to wear and how to behave.’
‘My father would never have told her how to behave because he loved her for who she was. The simple difference is, I do not love you. Your wants and needs mean nothing to me. When you accompany me as my wife you will wear what I tell you and behave as I tell you or you can pack your bags and leave.’
He meant every word. She could feel it.
If she called his bluff and packed, he would arrange a driver to take her to the edge of the estate. Once at the border, that would be it. She would never be allowed