What a Sicilian Husband Wants

by Michelle Smart

  In the beat of a second his head began to pound with the sound of a thousand drums.

  Her eyes held his, a softness in them he hadn’t seen for so long he had forgotten how amazing it felt to be on the receiving end of it. The hazel in them melted and darkened while her lips parted. Her chest rose and fell sharply, colour heightening her complexion as she held the gaze binding them together.

  Dio, but if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman on the planet. Was it any wonder he was having such trouble finding another woman to hold his interest for longer than the blink of an eye when he had married the most desirable of them all? Her small breasts jutted through the tight green cashmere sweater she wore. Unthinking, he raised the hand not stroking her cheek and cupped one, sucking in a breath as an enormous jolt surged through him.

  Her eyes widened, her own shallow breaths hitching. She raised a hand in turn and brought it to his face where it hovered, not quite touching him, before a pained, almost desperate look crossed her features.

  She blinked and shook her head, the softness and desire gone, replaced with the hard wariness he was becoming far too accustomed to. Her full lips, which for a few brief moments he had been about to shape his mouth against and plunder the hot sweetness within, tightened.

  She turned away and got to her feet. ‘Can you leave us now? Lily needs a bath and I need to write a list for your mum.’

  He stared from his wife to his daughter, his head pounding, his heart aching with as much force as the throbbing between his legs. ‘Can I bathe her?’

  She twisted her head to look back at him. ‘You?’

  ‘I’ve missed so much of her life.’ For once there was no accusation in either his tone or his meaning. ‘I meant what I said before. I want to be a proper father to her.’

  He was certain she would refuse. And when she did? Then he would accept her decision. Grace was Lily’s mother. He’d made half her DNA but he would have to earn the right to be her father.

  To his surprise, she inclined her head, a wry smile forming on her lips. ‘If I were you, I would change into something more waterproof. She has a tendency to splash.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  Twenty minutes later, he regretted not taking Grace’s advice. He would never have believed someone so small could make so much mess. Lily’s plump legs had kicked most of the water out of the baby bath. The floor was soaked. He was drenched, his bespoke trousers ruined.

  When Grace poked her head round the bathroom door she did nothing to hide her smirk before disappearing again.

  Unlike the night before, when he’d had Lily sleep with him and a lack of proper winding on his part—or so he had learned from his mother when he confessed the incident to her earlier—had made her throw up, he had little trouble putting her nappy on and dressing her. This time it only took three attempts before he was satisfied the fiddly poppers of the romper suit were properly done up.

  Only when Lily was settled in her cot, her belly full and properly winded by Grace, did he leave them.

  He shut the door and expelled a long breath, taken aback at the physical wrench leaving them caused.

  Putting his daughter to bed, his wife by his side...something inside him had shifted. He couldn’t pinpoint what, exactly, but he knew he needed to speak to Pepe before he and Grace flew to Florence the next day. He also knew his scheduled meeting with Francesco Calvetti before the party would have a different agenda from the one Francesco was expecting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE HOTEL THEY checked into dated back to the Renaissance and was as grand as any they had stayed in before. With its high frescoed ceilings and intricate architecture, it was the sort of place Grace loved to explore in detail.

  Today, though, the last thing on her mind was exploration of any kind. Being such a distance from Lily felt as if her heart had been ripped out. For twelve long weeks it had been just the two of them, but, while the bond between them had been strong from the word go, she had always been aware of something missing, something she hadn’t dared put a name to. She still wouldn’t put a name to it, too mindful of the danger it could bring if voiced, even if only in her own head.

  That missing something...it had vanished the day they had been forced to move back to Sicily and back into Luca’s world.

  She tried to tell herself the nausea within her belly was due to separation anxiety and nothing else.

  It had nothing to do with being alone with Luca—properly alone—for the first time in so, so long.

  But something had changed. She could feel it. Loathing was no longer the chief emotion binding them together. It was more than just desire too, although yesterday, sitting on that bed with him cupping her breast, the heat from his hand permeating the fabric of her top...

  They had both been fighting to contain the desire that leaped from one to the other, almost as if the charge that lived within her plugged into a charge within him.

  She’d had to fight with everything in her not to press her chest into his palm. She’d had to fight not to touch his face, not to rub her cheek against his, not to simply jump onto his lap, smother him with craven kisses and...

  She shuddered and closed her eyes.

  If Lily hadn’t been in the room with them, she had no idea if she would have been strong enough to keep the war within herself going.

  However much she wanted to deny it, anticipation brewed within her too. That treacherous charge in her stomach flamed brightly.

  It was at times like this she could punch herself. She was in control of her body and its reactions. She and she alone.

  To take her mind off her strangely melancholic mood and thoughts, she opened the wardrobe door and stared, not for the first time, at the hideous dress. If there were a bottle of red wine to hand she would happily tip it all over the vile creation. For good measure she would splosh the dregs all over the foul beige shoes Luca had selected for her to wear with it. Her dowdy old primary school teacher had worn similar shoes. However, looking at them cheered her up a little; right then she needed physical evidence of her husband’s bastard tendencies.

  Checking her watch for the umpteenth time, she saw she still had well over an hour to kill before they were due to leave. Luca had disappeared to a meeting within minutes of their arrival saying only that he would be back in time to shower and change. She hadn’t asked who the meeting was with—who else could it be but Francesco? Still, for all she knew, he could be overseeing the beating of another hapless fool stupid enough to try to cheat Luca Mastrangelo and associates.

  He hadn’t always been like this. The first year of their marriage—although restrictive in terms of freedom—had in all other respects been perfect. Luca had been perfect.

  The change had been so subtle she had hardly noticed it, not at first. As his evenings away from her had increased from the odd one here and there to almost every other, she’d comforted herself knowing that more often than not he would join her in the early hours, whether in the master bedroom or the smaller bedroom in her studio. By the last few months of their marriage, those evenings when he was around, instead of the coffee they usually used as fuel, he would have a Scotch in hand. His temper had shortened too—not against her, apart from that one time in his office, but she had been acutely aware of how tense he was, the sharpness of his tone. She’d been desperate for him to confide his troubles in her. But he’d refused. He’d refused to even acknowledge there was anything wrong.

  Looking back, she could see she’d never pushed him that hard for answers. Apart from the row they’d had the day before she left him, she’d never really pushed him, and even then she’d backed down.

  It had been far easier to bury her head in the sand and pretend everything was all right.

  And was that what Luca had been doing—was doing—too? Burying his head in the sand?


  The more she thought about it, the more confused she felt. His abhorrence at being labelled a gangster was real. He genuinely didn’t see himself with those eyes.

  Closing the wardrobe door, she debated calling Donatella again and checking that Lily was okay. Before she could dial the number, a message pinged into her phone. Opening it, she felt her heart lighten to see a photo of Lily lying on the sofa in her usual starfish position, beaming her new gummy smile. The picture had also been sent to Luca.

  The accompanying message read:

  Lily sends you both big kisses and says she wants you both to stop worrying and enjoy your night away.

  Grace bit her lip and brushed away a relieved tear.

  God, she was being such a sap. She wasn’t the first woman to leave her baby and she wouldn’t be the last. Lily was being cared for by someone who loved her deeply and wouldn’t harm a hair on her head.

  She reread the message. The both part of it jumped out. Did that mean Luca had been calling his mum too?

  Watching him bathe and dress their daughter had been so funny and so very touching. When she had got up that morning to give Lily her early bottle, he had appeared within minutes and chivvied Grace back to bed, insisting on feeding Lily himself.

  Dear Lord, but he had fallen in love with Lily. She could see it in the softness of his eyes and the gentle tone of his voice, the tender way he held her. Their little daughter had crawled into his heart.

  Donatella was smitten too.

  If she found a way to escape, how could she, in all conscience, take Lily and disappear? It would be kinder to rip their hearts out and stamp on them.

  But she could not allow herself to think of these things. She needed to concentrate on shoring up her mental defences against her husband. She had a whole evening to get through, during which she would be expected to act as Luca’s good Sicilian wife and pretend to be some obedient creature whose only objective in life was to please her husband. She would have to pretend she still loved him, pretend she enjoyed having her hand held in his.

  Most of all she would have to convince herself he meant nothing to her, that her blood didn’t heat or her pulse rocket when he touched her.

  Her fingers began to itch, a feeling that startled her. It wasn’t the same itch as when she’d wanted to slap him. This was an itch from old.

  For the first time in almost a year she felt a desperate urge to paint, to draw, to sketch.

  Before she could begin tearing the suite apart looking for some paper and a pen or pencil—when, she wondered, had she stopped carrying a sketch pad with her everywhere she went?—there was a light rap on the suite door.

  She checked the spyhole, only opening the door when satisfied her visitor was a member of the hotel staff.

  ‘Signora Mastrangelo?’ the severe-looking woman asked, a large package in her hands.

  ‘Sì,’ Grace replied, showing off a little of her Italian.

  ‘This has just arrived for you,’ the woman said in perfect English.

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘I do not know, signora. Maybe there is a note inside for you?’ she added helpfully.

  ‘Thank you. I mean, grazie.’

  ‘Prego.’

  Grace closed the door and took the box to the dining table, intrigued and a little wary of what could be inside and who could have sent it.

  Clenching her teeth together, she took a deep breath and ripped off the brown packaging. Inside was a long cream box with a familiar motif.

  Her heart suddenly wedged in her throat, she opened the lid as if she were expecting a load of cobras and rattlesnakes to be inside.

  Her hands flew to her mouth. No note accompanied it. No note needed to accompany it.

  Inside was the peacock-skirted dress she had fallen in love with before Luca had forced the beige monstrosity on her.

  He must have noticed her staring at it on the mannequin. Not only had he noticed but he had remembered.

  If her belly wasn’t already a mass of noodles and butterflies before, it was now a riot to match the beautiful colours of her dress.

  When had he bought it? And why? Why now? So many confused thoughts were flying through her head that at first she didn’t hear the new rap on the suite door.

  Opening it, she found the same employee standing at the threshold, this time holding another, smaller package.

  ‘My apologies, signora. I had not been informed that this too was delivered by the courier.’

  Less than a minute later, Grace opened the package and discovered the most amazing pair of high, strappy gold sandals.

  * * *

  Grace was applying her make-up when she heard Luca enter the suite. Immediately her steady hand began to shake, violently enough for her to stab herself in the eye with her mascara wand.

  ‘Grace?’ he called out.

  ‘I’m in my room,’ she replied, putting a palm to her smarting eye.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘Will you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ready in fifteen minutes? Never mind that she needed to reapply her make-up and change from the hotel robe into the dress, she could have fifteen years and she doubted she would be ready.

  ‘Are you all right in there?’ He must have heard something in her voice because his tone was concerned.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Removing her palm, she almost laughed out loud at her reflection. One eye was still perfectly made up. The other, the one she had stabbed, had all the make-up running, the eye itself bright red and weeping.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Her door opened.

  ‘You’re not fine,’ Luca accused, strolling over and peering closely at her. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Stabbed myself with my mascara. Don’t worry. I’ll give it a couple of minutes to stop weeping and then I’ll redo it.’

  A slow grin spread over his face. ‘You look like Morticia Addams.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Or that clown. What’s its name? Poirot?’

  ‘Pierrot,’ she corrected with a snigger.

  ‘That’s the one. You painted your friend Cara as Pierrot once.’

  ‘So I did.’ She grinned, remembering. Luca had belly-laughed when he’d seen the finished product. ‘It was revenge after she trashed one of my dresses when she’d drunk too much wine.’

  ‘Was that when we’d been out to that party in Palermo and she tripped over a tree?’

  ‘Yep.’ Taking a quick peek in the mirror, she grimaced. ‘I look a mess.’

  ‘How did you come to assault yourself with your make-up?’

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ she said, fixing him with a stern look. ‘You startled me when you started barging around the suite like a jumbo elephant.’

  ‘I’m nothing like a jumbo elephant.’ He raised a brow. ‘Apart from one particular part of my anatomy.’

  She raised a brow in turn and indicated the door. ‘Shouldn’t you be going for a shower?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to discuss my jumbo-sized appendage?’

  A warm, bubbly feeling spread through her veins. She slapped his arm lightly. ‘Your modesty never fails to astound me. Now go and have a shower before you stink the whole suite out.’

  ‘I’m going, I’m going,’ he said with mock surrender. When he reached the door, he turned back to her. ‘Did you receive any packages while I was at my meeting?’

  And just like that, she remembered where she was, and all the good feelings inside her vanished.

  Consternation hit.

  For a few brief seconds, time had turned and transplanted her—them—into the past.

  The
here and now had disappeared. For that brief moment in time when they had teased each other she had forgotten that she hated him.

  ‘Yes. I received them. Thank you.’ And shortly she would have to put on the dress and shoes. Call her contrary but part of her would prefer to wear the hideous beige creation. At least then she would be able to seethe at him all night, would be in no danger of further softening.

  When he left, she went straight to the bathroom and washed her face. She was patting it dry when Luca came back into her room.

  ‘Here, take this,’ he said, handing her a small tube. ‘Put a couple of drops in your eye and it should get rid of the redness.’

  Don’t be touched at his thoughtfulness, she warned herself. Keep your guard up.

  He stood, watching her, waiting for her to say something.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He nodded. ‘No problem. I’ve told the driver we’ll be a few minutes late, so don’t rush.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m sure the last thing you want is for your perfect wife to look as if she was thrown together.’

  His mouth tightened. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I was thinking of you. If you want to twist it then that’s your problem.’

  Grace stared at his retreating figure wishing she could take it back.

  But take what back? Luca had been very clear in his expectation that she be a good Sicilian wife and nothing had been said to alter that.

  They couldn’t live in a permanent state of angst. It was natural some of the good feeling from their previous marital incarnation should seep into the fabric of this new form. She just had to be alert and ready for it.

  She could not afford to drop her guard. Not for a second.

  * * *

  When Luca left his room twenty minutes later, he found Grace sitting on the sofa with her back to him, a glass of red wine on the table in front of her.

  ‘You were quick,’ he commented, helping himself to the glass and opened bottle she had left out for him.