The Trouble With Coco Monroe

by CC MacKenzie

  “It’s a woman thing. I didn’t want to sound like a pathetic, jealous wife. Something about her makes me want to claw her eyes out. She’s...”

  Unable to find the right word, Bronte threw up her hands.

  “Obvious,” he offered.

  “Yes. She’s stunningly beautiful and immaculate, never a hair out of place. There’s nothing restrained about her. Everything’s big, the eyes, the pouty mouth, the hair, the breasts.”

  God, surely she still wasn’t hung up about her lack of tits? Her husband adored her just the way she was, she knew that.

  “Are you not secure in our marriage?”

  Stunned, she simply stared into those dark eyes.

  And recognised she’d hurt him.

  She could have kicked herself.

  But she needed to know. “Did she make a move on you?”

  “Si,” he responded without hesitation. “I made it clear I am deeply in love with my wife and my children. She did not want a relationship, just sex. Again I told her I want sex with one woman. My wife.”

  A horrible wave of nausea rolled up from Bronte’s toes to leave her drenched in a cold sweat.

  He frowned now. “You have gone white.”

  Devastated, she simply stared at him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered.

  He flicked his hand as if swatting away a fly.

  “I did nothing to encourage her. It meant nothing to me. And she did not appear embarrassed or upset. She is a Latin, with certain needs, certain appetites. I said no. That was the end of it.”

  Now she stood and rubbing her arms walked away from him.

  Why did she feel vulnerable, so threatened by this woman?

  Why couldn’t he see how it made her feel for him to be so laid back about another woman hitting on her husband?

  Temper roared through her system.

  How frigging dare she?

  She spun round to find him standing right behind her.

  And looked up into his dark face.

  “How can you be so blasé about this? What if another man hit on me and I didn’t tell you?”

  His brow rose in a way that made her hand burn to smack him.

  “Has another man hit on you?”

  “Not recently.” Now was not the time to tell him about the plumbing contractor’s son. “But that’s not the point. What if one did?”

  “Then I would trust you to tell him no.”

  “But wouldn’t it make you angry?”

  “It would make me angry if you were tempted to say yes. Have you been tempted?”

  She jerked back as if he’d struck her.

  “No!”

  “Si, precisely. I am not tempted either. So there is not a problem. Is there?”

  Now she puzzled her way through the logic.

  He was right.

  But just thinking of him spending day in, day out, with an immaculate man-eater made her feel ill.

  “My face is shiny,” she said now. “My hair’s a disaster. My clothes are filthy. I haven’t had a manicure in weeks. I’ve let myself go.”

  His roar of laughter made her lips twitch.

  And just like that Bronte’s world righted itself.

  Had those pathetic words really come out of her mouth?

  Nico’s mouth came down on hers.

  Her husband took, he tasted and he plundered.

  The way his tongue slid around hers, the way his teeth tugged her bottom lip, the little nip of punishment, liquefied her bones.

  He pulled the scrunchy from her hair and his hands slid in to grip her scalp, to tip her head back.

  She was breathless by the time he was finished.

  The world was reeling, so she clung onto his wide shoulders, dug in her nails.

  Dark, dark eyes stared deeply into hers.

  “You are the only woman for me. You complete me. You hold my heart in your hands, never forget that. Most people are born into a loving family. Others need to make their own. You took me into your family and you helped me make our family. You are my life, Bronte. Ti amo, cara mia.”

  “I know you do. I love you, my darling.”

  “Why don’t we sit in the moonlight with a glass of wine until dinner?”

  He towed her to the table, sat on a chair, and hauled her onto his lap.

  She nuzzled into his neck, felt the steady thud of his pulse, the scent of his soap, his shampoo.

  “I haven’t begun to make dinner.”

  “All taken care of. It is coming from The Hall.”

  “A man with a plan. I like that about you.”

  He placed a glass of wine in her hand, took his own and a sip.

  “About the sex slave comment.”

  “What about it?”

  “If my slave is not too tired I want sex after she’s had dinner and a bath.”

  Bronte looked up into his face.

  He was watching her through narrowed eyes.

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Alone in her bedroom and with claws of ice squeezing her belly, her heart, Coco sat on the edge of the bed.

  Her knuckles were white as they gripped the duvet.

  She forced herself to keep her mind blank. There would be plenty time to think later.

  Fury, mortification and embarrassment bubbled and brewed in her gut and she hugged the swirling emotions to her.

  But what underpinned every single feeling was an overwhelming sense of utter confusion.

  It was obvious he wanted her.

  She got the fact he felt she was vulnerable, and feeling guilty because she was responsible her father had been shot.

  He needed, wanted, to give her time.

  And she could even admire that about him.

  But there was something else going on.

  She could taste it.

  They were adults for God’s sake.

  What the hell had got into him?

  Her brain simply refused to compute.

  She was an intelligent woman who could figure things out.

  But for the life of her she’d no idea what was going on in his head.

  She stripped, moved into the stunning en-suite bath and yanked on the shower. A torrent of deliciously steaming water hit her back easing out the knots of tension along her shoulders and neck.

  Shampooing her hair, she permitted herself to review the awful scene earlier. And how embarrassing had that been? She’d asked him a simple question and he’d given her a simple answer – no.

  She’d never forget the mortification of that moment and she wouldn’t forgive him for it, either.

  Coco groaned as she conditioned, rinsed her hair.

  She’d been ready to beg him to take her.

  Hot tears of frustration and annoyance mingled with the water as she flipped off the shower.

  How had it come to this... Again?

  She towel-dried her hair before wrapping herself in a huge bath sheet of white cotton.

  Had she learned nothing from her previous experience with Rafe?

  To make a mistake once was understandable, but to make the same one twice was utter stupidity.

  She simply did not get it.

  Her mind flew back to the almost kiss in his car, his kiss at her house this morning and their undeniable passion on the bed. He wanted her, she knew he did. So what was going on in that incredibly complex head of his?

  A horrible thought entered her mind.

  Was he a tease?

  She shook her head.

  No.

  He’d never behave like that.

  With renewed energy, she finger dried her hair and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes looked too big for her face and she had dark smudges of stress and strain under her eyes. Lovely.

  She slapped on moisturiser and slicked on lip-gloss.

  Entering her bedroom, her stride hitched as she noticed someone had placed her suitcase on a trunk at the bottom of the big bed. With a sigh, she locke
d the bedroom door. Just in case.

  Naked, she rummaged around her suitcase.

  She hauled out ancient jeans and a white T-shirt with doggie footprints and the slogan ‘paws off.’

  If that wasn’t a message she didn’t know what was.

  She slipped on panties and a bra and a pair of thick socks. Shimmying into her jeans, she tugged on the T-shirt and took a long breath.

  Time to face the music.

  Opening the door, Coco wandered through the vast hall and skipped down a beautiful curved staircase of chunky polished oak.

  Following the scent and sound of food being prepared, she padded into the state-of-the-art kitchen with ivory cupboards and glossy worktops of black granite.

  The extractor fan whirred and an iPod docking station rocked Snow Patrol.

  The pain in the butt was busy at a wok, flipping vegetables. Seared slices of chicken breast were warming on plates.

  Who’d have thought Rafael Cavendish would be handy in the kitchen?

  “Help yourself to a glass of wine, there’s an open bottle in the fridge,” he said, without turning round. The man had radar like a bat.

  And since the tone was an order not a request Coco pulled a horrible face behind his back.

  But she did as she was told, wondering where the hell her fighting spirit had gone.

  He poured liquid from a small dish and the wok sizzled and smoked as he tossed again. Dividing the vegetables into two plates, he added the chicken. Then he turned, setting the plates on the table.

  Coco poured chilled Frascati into a glass and sat.

  She had to admit the food smelt delectable.

  Sitting opposite her Rafe gave his full attention to his meal.

  They ate without speaking.

  “How long is the silent treatment going to last?” he wanted to know, forking a piece of chicken into his mouth and chewed as those dark eyes studied her.

  Reading the slogan marching across her breasts, his mouth went tight.

  Then those dark eyes looked wary all of a sudden.

  And Coco wondered why that was.

  Where had the super-confident Rafael gone?

  He looked... devious... furtive.

  With narrowed eyes riveted to his face, Coco speared a pepper, popped it in her mouth and crunched.

  “The food is delicious, thank you.”

  She caught surprise mingled with something that looked suspiciously like relief.

  Now why would he be relieved?

  The initial shock and upset about her father along with the scene in the bedroom had worn off.

  For the first time in hours her mind felt crystal clear.

  Play it cool she told herself.

  Her gut told her something was off and she always trusted her instincts.

  Experience had taught her that if she tried to force it the solution would elude her, so Coco permitted her mind to relax.

  A good night’s sleep might help, too.

  “We need to talk about what happened in the bedroom,” he said.

  The tone, she noted, was conciliatory.

  Do we, Rafael?

  When it suited him, of course.

  Her eyes stayed on his as she rose and gathered the plates, cutlery, and took them to the sink.

  “You cooked,” she informed him with a tilt of her chin. “I’ll clean-up.”

  Shoving his chair from the table, he rose and she felt the heat from his body against her back.

  Too close, she realised as she filled the sink and swished detergent into hot water.

  “Coco, we need to talk,” he told her.

  That voice was deep now, full of an emotion she couldn’t identify.

  She spun around and found herself almost against his chest.

  Those broad shoulders seemed too wide. The scent of his shampoo, of clean male skin and the feel of his breath along her hair almost undid her.

  Her eyes caught his.

  And she recognised a deep, dark desire in their depths.

  Oh no you don’t, she remonstrated with her treasonous heart and a libido that fizzed through her system.

  “Step. Back. Now.”

  Perhaps it was something in her eyes that made him frown or maybe her no-nonsense tone, because his hand came up to touch her hair.

  A move that had her brows fly up to her hairline.

  With a heartfelt sigh, he stepped back, held up his palms in the peace gesture.

  She pointed at a chair.

  “Sit.”

  He sat.

  And she showed him her teeth with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “We’ll talk,” she told him in a cold tone. “When I feel like talking.”

  She dried her hands on a towel, opened the fridge and pulled out the wine.

  Rafe signalled that he would pour and she handed him the bottle.

  He didn’t look happy.

  Tough.

  She sat.

  “Since we’re going to be living under the same roof, I’m setting some ground rules,” she said, making it up as she went along.

  Those dark eyes simply stared into hers.

  She couldn’t read the expression and annoyance stiffened her spine. “No touching. No kissing. Agreed?”

  “Does that apply to you, too?” he responded in a too smooth voice.

  The slimy snake.

  It cost her, but she managed to keep her cool.

  “Naturally.”

  He took a sip of wine, all the while watching her like a raptor over the rim of the glass.

  Coco refused to blink, to give-in first.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Very well. But...”

  She rose, anger with him leaking out of her to be replaced by exhaustion.

  “Tomorrow, Rafe.” Her tone defeated, she almost missed the flash in his eye as he nodded.

  She pulled two bottles of water out the fridge and a couple of apples.

  “I’m going to bed.” She turned to him. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Coco.”

  Sipping his wine, Rafe sat back in the chair, one foot balanced on his knee.

  She looked wiped out and no wonder.

  Guilt that he’d hurt her, again, even though he’d done what he’d done to keep her safe, burned too hot between his ribs.

  He knew he was avoiding confrontation.

  The reprieve meant a good night’s sleep.

  He hoped.

  Tomorrow.

  He’d deal with her tomorrow once he’d worked out how to do it without blood being spilled.

  Chapter Twenty One

  At eight-thirty the following morning, Nico strolled through the cavernous entrance of Ludlow Hall.

  Dressed in sharp Armani from head to toe he looked exactly what he was, a man in charge of his life, his universe and everyone in it.

  Keen eyes missed nothing as they scanned the vast reception hall.

  There were a few smartly dressed guests milling about, checking in or checking out after an early breakfast. Everything looked calm and organised. The place hummed with efficiency, the atmosphere welcoming and professional.

  Just how he liked it.

  He moseyed through the staff areas, spotted Alexander’s personal assistant Julie making coffee, caught her eye and gave her a come here nod.

  Julie followed him into his office.

  He moved behind a desk the size of a lake, and sat.

  “Close the door and have a seat,” he said in a low tone that edged into a growl.

  Julie was in her late thirties, smart, slim, blonde and wore a black two-piece linen and silk suit. She was happily married with two children in junior school and a baby girl. She was clever, organised and thorough and one hundred per cent professional. If she’d felt usurped by Elena’s arrival on the scene with Jacob Del Garda, she didn’t show it and from what Nico had observed, Julie had been nothing but courteous and helpful.

  And Nico trusted her to tell him the truth.

  “How do you fin
d Elena? And does she refer to me as Nicolo?”

  Julie didn’t hesitate.

  “She’s a prima donna who does as little as possible. Likes to cause trouble among the female staff. Has the hots for you and calls you Nicolo behind your back.”

  “And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”

  Julie didn’t blink at the sharp tone.

  “If you hadn’t called me in today I was going to make an appointment to see you. I wanted to give her a chance, to be fair. But I know she didn’t put a call through to you from Bronte yesterday. By the time you were out of your meeting I was in one of my own and missed the opportunity to tell you. I was going to call you from home, but the kids had after school activities. It was late by the time I sat down and I thought it would keep until today.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “She’s a spider.”

  “Want your job back?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “I want you to sit in on this.”

  Ten minutes later, Jacob Del Garda and Elena arrived.

  She wore a light wool suit in baby pink that showcased her spectacular colouring, the amazing body. The ice-pick heels on her slim feet were in a nude colour of expensive Italian leather. Her fingernails were painted the exact shade as her suit.

  And those big dark eyes took a hungry stroll over him as if he was a piece of prime steak.

  The way she licked her lips made Nico realise he’d seriously underestimated the level of her attraction to him. He’d dealt with her kind many times before. And knew better than to bring a predator into his environment, his life. Maybe marriage to Bronte had made him soft in the head, because he should have got rid of Elena as soon as she’d made a move.

  Lesson learned.

  He waited until they were seated.

  Face hard and unsmiling, his eyes stayed on Elena’s in a way that made her frown.

  Good.

  “Did you receive a telephone call from my wife yesterday afternoon?”

  At his tone Jacob gave him a sharp look, but turned to his personal assistant.

  She looked blank for a couple of seconds, gave a tiny shrug as if to say, What’s the big deal? And right there he recognised contempt and something else, something more than dislike for Bronte.

  But she gave him big eyes Bambi would have been proud of.