She thought about the fuss which had surrounded their unlikely marriage and all the lurid newspaper headlines which had been splashed around. It had been a big story at the time. ‘Sicilian Billionaire Weds Cleaner’—and the inevitable: ‘Fairy Tale Marriage Turns Sour’. And then it had ended as abruptly as it had begun. She’d walked away from him and their marriage because she’d needed to. The gulf between them had widened to such a distance that she’d known there was no going back, and when she’d lost the baby there had been no reason for them to be together any more. She’d needed to break free in order to survive.
She had told herself that over and over again in those early days after she’d left Sicily. At first every painful minute had seemed like an eternity but gradually the days had drifted into weeks and eventually months. She hadn’t taken Rocco’s phone calls or answered his letters because she’d known that a clean break was the only way she would have the courage to end it, although it had felt like torture at the time. When the months had turned into years she’d assumed Rocco had accepted they were better off apart, just as she had done. Yet here he was, just turning up out of the blue. In her shop and in her life. It felt as if someone were crushing her heart between their fingers. It brought the pain of the past rushing back so fast that she had to remember to breathe.
And that was what she needed to focus on—her brief tenure as Rocco’s wife. The reality—not the fairy tale, which had never really existed anyway. When even her choice of clothes had been dictated by the influential Sicilian billionaire who had treated her like an old-fashioned chattel he’d been forced to purchase against his better judgement.
But that didn’t stop her looking at him. From letting her gaze drift over his muscular physique, clad today in one of those expensive charcoal suits he favoured, which emphasised every honed sinew of his remarkable body. Her throat dried as she registered the pale shirt which contrasted so vividly with his olive skin. Had she hoped she might have acquired some kind of immunity to him in the intervening years? Of course she had—because hope was the one emotion which defied logic, the one which could make you get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other no matter how dark the world seemed outside. Yet Rocco seemed even more dazzling than she remembered—as if absence had only added an extra dimension to his powerful sexuality.
His glowing skin was dark and his startling blue eyes spoke of a distant Greek ancestry. Eyes which could fell you with a single look. Which could undress you in seconds before his hands accomplished the task far more efficiently. The last time she’d seen him Nicole had felt numb with pain and an emptiness which had left little room for anything else.
But now?
She could feel the erratic thumping of her heart. There was no such numbness now. Her senses felt as if he’d kick-started them into life without even trying. She could feel it in the prickle of her breasts and the molten rush of heat to her belly. A familiar restlessness entered her body as it shivered into life and memories of being in his arms were enough to bring a renewed flush of colour to her cheeks. But those thoughts and feelings were nothing but a distraction—as well as a waste of time. There was no point in desiring Rocco. She was nothing to him and she never had been. Just the woman he’d married who had failed to give him the child she’d been carrying. It was over. It had never really begun. So don’t prolong it or drag it out and make it any worse than it needs to be. Keep it cool and businesslike.
‘So what can I do for you, Rocco?’ She looked at him enquiringly, trying to keep her expression neutral. ‘Is there something in particular you wanted to discuss with me—and if so, don’t you think it might be better done through our lawyers?’
‘I’m here,’ he said slowly, ‘because I think we might be able to do each other a favour.’
She studied him warily. ‘I don’t understand. We’re separated—and separating people don’t really do each other favours.’
Rocco ran the edge of his thumb over his bottom lip. He was fully aware that some people might describe what he was about to do as emotional blackmail—but so what? Didn’t his shallow, green-eyed wife deserve everything she was going to get? He felt the beat of a pulse at his temple. Wasn’t it time she discovered that you didn’t cross Rocco Barberi unless you were prepared to pay the price? That was why he had come here today, intending to tell her exactly what he wanted, knowing she would be forced to grant him his wish if she wanted her damned divorce.
He’d thought it would be easy. Straightforward. A simple equation of A + B = C. But he had failed to factor in desire, hadn’t he? A desire which had taken him completely by surprise. He had imagined he would look at her as he might any other ex-lover—with a cool impartiality, which had always served him well in the past, because once you had repeatedly tasted a woman’s body your appetite for her inevitably diminished. But that wasn’t happening. He wondered what it was about her which was making him grow as hard as rock, so he was having difficulty concentrating on anything other than what it would feel like to be deep inside her again—riding her until she shuddered out his name. Was it because she had once worn his wedding band and the significance of that went deeper than he’d imagined?
His voice became hard. ‘I need you to do something for me.’
‘Sorry, Rocco. You’re talking to the wrong person.’ She shook her head so that all those thick dark curls shimmered around her shoulders. ‘I don’t have to do anything for you. We’re getting divorced. Remember?’
‘Maybe we are,’ he answered softly. ‘Or maybe not.’
She blinked at him in consternation. ‘But the law says we can divorce after two years of living apart.’
‘I know what the law says. But that can happen only with the agreement of both parties.’ There was a pause. ‘Think about it, Nicole. You need my consent to terminate our marriage. I could drag it out for years if I wanted.’
As she heard the unmistakable threat behind his words, Nicole’s instinct was to turn and run. To run so far that he’d never be able to find her. Until she reminded herself that instinct had never served her well where Rocco was concerned. It had led her into his arms and into his bed, even though she’d known deep inside that he’d only wanted her for sex. And she had been right, hadn’t she?
But she was no longer that woman. The star-struck virgin who had allowed her powerful boss to seduce her. Who had fallen victim to the practised heaven of his touch. The innocent young cleaner who had believed the smooth lies which had flowed from his sensual lips and allowed herself to be guided by them. Who had obediently worn the crotchless panties he’d bought for her from shops in London’s Soho and bucked with pleasure when he’d slid his fingers inside them. She’d even pretended to enjoy the light lash of a whip caressing her bare buttocks because she had wanted to bring him as much pleasure as he brought her. Because she had wanted to please him. To be his perfect lover in the hope that one day he might care for her as much as she’d begun to care for him. Yet soon after she’d given him her virginity, Rocco had begun to distance himself. Had started avoiding her at work. Suddenly there had been pressing business trips which had desperately needed his attention—something which apparently was a ploy of his when he was trying to get some needy lover off his back.
In fact, he probably would have gone out of his way never to have seen her again if nature hadn’t intervened and cast them both in the unexpected roles of parents-to-be. She swallowed as the painful memories crowded into her mind and tried to remind herself that was all in the past. Things were different now. She was getting used to life as a single woman. And yes, it was a struggle to exist on the pittance she earned from this little art shop she’d opened with the help of a grant from the local council—but at least she was following her dreams instead of living a nightmare. She didn’t need Rocco Barberi or his billions—or his cold, emotionless heart.
Drawing her shoulders back, she tilted her chin to meet his sapphire gaze. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you give me your consent when we both
know our marriage is over?’
‘Is that why you didn’t answer any of my letters? Because you’d come to that decision all on your own?’
‘It was what we both knew in our hearts!’ she defended. ‘I just couldn’t see the point in dragging it out any longer.’
His body tensed and he opened his mouth to respond when the sound of the shop bell punctured the atmosphere as a middle-aged woman opened the door. Did she pick up on the fraught atmosphere? Was that why she glanced uncertainly from Rocco to Nicole as if she were gate-crashing a private party?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, automatically prefacing her sentence with the ever-present apology of the English. ‘Are you—?’
‘We’re closed,’ said Rocco shortly, watching as Nicole opened her mouth to protest—but by then it was too late because the woman had scuttled out again, murmuring yet more words of apology.
And then his estranged wife turned on him, all her studied politeness a distant memory, her emerald eyes spitting fire at him.
‘You can’t do that!’ she declared indignantly. ‘You can’t just march into my shop and order prospective customers to leave!’
‘I just did,’ he said, without any hint of apology. ‘So let me put this to you carefully, just so that there can be no misunderstanding. You have a choice, Nicole. Either I turn the shop sign around to say you’re closed, or you agree to meet me when you’ve finished work. Because I don’t want any more interruptions like that when I put my proposition to you.’
‘Proposition?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Why would you refuse? You want your freedom, don’t you? The precious freedom which is so important to you. It might be in your best interests to�what is it that you English say?’ He rubbed a reflective finger over the hint of stubble at his chin. ‘Ah, yes. To keep me sweet.’
Nicole felt herself stiffen because his voice had taken on that velvety caress which used to have her hurling herself into his arms and raining kiss after kiss all over his rugged features. Well, not any more. That ship had sailed. No matter how much her body might be longing to feel him close to her again, she was going to fight that attraction with every fibre of her being. And he was right. Another customer might walk in and it didn’t look very professional to have a divorcing couple slugging out their differences. Surely it wouldn’t hurt her to listen to what he had to say. To humour him a little in order to facilitate her freedom.
‘Okay,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘How about I meet you for a coffee when I’ve finished work? There’s a café at the far end of the harbour which will still be open. It’s got a red and white awning at the front—you can’t miss it. I’ll see you in there.’
‘No.’ He shook his head and his mouth hardened. ‘I’m not meeting you in public in some damned café. I want to visit your apartment, Nicole. To see for myself the place you have chosen above your Sicilian home.’
It was on the tip of Nicole’s tongue to tell him that the lavish Barberi complex had felt more like a prison than a home, but what was the point of upping the ante? Mightn’t it drive home how serious she was about this divorce if she showed |Rocco where she lived? Mightn’t he get it into his stubborn head that wealth and privilege meant nothing, not when you measured those things against peace of mind?
‘Very well, I live in the flat above the tea shop on Greystone Road. Number thirty-seven,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But don’t come before seven.’
‘Capisce.’ He nodded his dark head.
He was just on his way to the door when he paused in front of a small display of pottery, picking up one of the pieces to study it. It was a glowing terracotta jug with a handle fashioned to look like the twisted leaves on a lemon branch. Raised yellow fruits dotted the surface and in the background was the flash of blue—an artistic representation of the distant sea. Slowly he turned it around in his olive fingers to study it, before glancing up to meet her eyes.
‘This is good,’ he said slowly. ‘It reminds me of Sicily.’
She nodded, the sudden clench of her heart making her wish he hadn’t made the connection. ‘That’s what inspired me.’
‘Perhaps I should buy it,’ he reflected. ‘You certainly look as if you could do with a few more customers.’
‘Particularly when you drive away the ones I do have,’ she observed acidly. ‘Anyway, it’s not for sale.’
She pointed to a bright red sticker, though in reality nobody had bought it, because it had never actually been for sale. It was the last remaining piece of the collection she’d made when she’d returned from Sicily, feeling heartbroken and empty. Her bestselling collection, as it happened, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Just as she wouldn’t tell him about the tiny, hand-embroidered romper suit she’d bought soon after she’d had her first pregnancy scan, which was lying shrouded in tissue paper in one of her bedroom drawers. She was planning to sell the jug just as soon as the ink was dry on her divorce papers. The romper suit she suspected she would never be able to part with.
He replaced the piece and all Nicole was aware of were those amazing sapphire eyes searing into her. He was always the most beautiful man she had ever seen and nothing about that had changed. He could still make her heart beat fast. Still make her shiver and her breasts swell into vibrant life against her lacy bra. Just as he reminded her of the darkest time in her life and her fear that she would never be able to recover. But she had recovered. And she’d done it without him—because they were no good for each other. She had accepted that. It was time that Rocco did, too.
And suddenly she wanted him out of the shop, before she gave into the pain which was welling up inside her and threatening to spill over. Before it dissolved into bitter tears, which would remind her of everything she had lost.
Copyright © 2018 by Sharon Kendrick
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ISBN-13: 978-1-488-09813-0
The Borghese Bride
First published in 2003
This edition published in 2018
Copyright © 2003 by Carole Mortimer.
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