Bound to the Sicilian's Bed

by Sharon Kendrick

  She sighed. The problem hadn’t been in the choice of clothes, but in her. If you let people treat you like a doll then you couldn’t really complain when they did, could you? She wondered, if she could do it all again, whether she would have behaved differently, but really she knew the answer. Of course she would—but the outcome would probably have been the same. Because a marriage could only work if it was based on love and Rocco didn’t have the ability to love—he’d told her that himself.

  As if thinking about him had somehow conjured him up, Rocco chose that moment to walk into the bedroom and Nicole’s questions were forgotten as she searched his face, registering eyes which were shadowed from lack of sleep and a hard and unsmiling mouth.

  Her heart squeezed. ‘Turi?’ she questioned, her voice squeaky with anxiety.

  His jaw tightened but he nodded. ‘He’s hanging on in there. He’s in some kind of deep sleep. He didn’t seem to know I was there.’ He paused and a muscle began to work at his temple. ‘I don’t know if he’s well enough to see you right now and—’

  ‘Honestly, Rocco—it doesn’t matter.’ Her words tumbled over themselves. ‘He may not have been himself when he suggested seeing me—and there’s your brother and sister to consider. I don’t want him exhausted when they arrive and maybe I’d better not—’

  ‘Shh,’ he said, and his voice was unexpectedly gentle. ‘It’s okay. The doctor says that, physically, he’s as strong as an ox—and he’s been defying the odds all his life. Let’s just see how he goes. He wants to see you, Nic—and as far as I’m concerned, that’s what’s going to happen.’

  Nicole nodded, thinking that the things they were saying to each other were polite and functional but there was a whole different conversation going on underneath the surface. At least, for her there was. She looked into Rocco’s eyes and wondered what he thought when he saw them both standing here in this bedroom, like ghosts of the people they used to be. Did he find it as poignant as she did? Were the memories flying out of nowhere to remind him that it hadn’t been all bad? But these were questions she would never ask because she had no right to.

  ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he said, his hand reaching up to undo the buttons of his shirt. ‘And then we’ll go over to the main house and have some breakfast. Maria is waiting for us.’

  The sight of her husband about to start undressing was enough to have Nicole scuttling from the bedroom and thirty minutes later they were sitting in the kitchen of the main farmhouse, with Maria bustling around them. The housekeeper had been with the Barberi family since Rocco was a baby and greeted Nicole with a surprising affection, enveloping her in a fierce hug which left her breathless. Afterwards she turned and said something in rapid dialect to which Rocco made a drawling response which had Nicole looking at him questioningly.

  ‘She says that Turi’s fate is in God’s hands now,’ Rocco interpreted. ‘That he is very frail but she is certain he will recover now that I have returned. And I told her that if she was trying to make me feel guilty about moving to Monaco—then it wasn’t going to work.’ Unexpectedly, his eyes flashed with humour. ‘She also wants to know if you’d like some granita with your coffee?’

  ‘I’d love some,’ said Nicole, sitting down at the table and taking the bowl which was being pushed towards her.

  Rocco watched as Nicole began spooning up the famous Sicilian granita which Maria had made using lemons taken from the estate. His grandfather had made it through the night, his brother and sister were on their way and the coffee he was drinking was strong and dark. There were many reasons to count his blessings, but the tension in his body remained as tight as ever. Was it having Nicole here which was disturbing him so much? Sitting across the table from him with her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders and her rosy lips looking so kissable. He put his cup down with a bang, resenting the sudden shafting of his body because surely he shouldn’t be feeling desire when his grandfather lay upstairs, so sick.

  But it was desire, that was the trouble. It was there, ever-present—as much a part of him as the blood which pulsed through his veins. He watched as his wife popped a piece of deep-fried ciambella into her mouth and tried not to be distracted by the luscious curves of her breasts pushing against her simple T-shirt. She was simply...captivating and suddenly he found himself wondering what the hell he was going to do with her all day while she was here—if you discounted the very obvious.

  A pulse flickered at his temple. Occupying himself wouldn’t normally be a problem but this was different. For once Rocco realised he couldn’t escape into the endless refuge of work, or allow himself to be consumed by its constant demands. He could hardly leave Nicole to amuse herself while he locked himself in the office, could he? He glanced across at her, mentally sifting through all his options. If he took her to the nearby village or even into Palermo itself—by evening it would be all round the island that Rocco Barberi was back with his wife. And that was not going to happen—because it wasn’t true.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a walk round the estate?’ he said, watching as her benign expression changed into one of wariness. Was she remembering how their walk around the Rock of Monaco had ended, with him hiring a room after lunch—a room blatantly intended for sex? Was that why she produced a distinctly cool smile in response?

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  This time he didn’t need to suggest she change her shoes, because her footwear was sensible, and this time there was no sense of showing her somewhere new. Because she knew this place. He didn’t have to point out the way when he suggested going to the orchards—she turned left automatically. It had been easy to forget that she’d lived here. Too easy, perhaps.

  To Rocco’s surprise, the morning unfolded with a surprising sense of effortlessness as Nicole reacquainted herself with the Barberi estate. Her enthusiasm seemed genuine as she admired the terracotta and green landscape and she even remembered the word for goat as she surveyed the rangy-looking creatures who were gnawing away in one of the scrubby meadows. It was when they reached the olive groves and he was congratulating himself on managing to kill a few hours without any kind of drama, when she asked the question he guessed he should have been expecting all along.

  ‘So why exactly did you move to Monaco, Rocco?’ she said, her English voice sounding very clear and steady. ‘Why leave Sicily when it’s clear you love the place so much?’

  Rocco took his time before answering, bending down to study one of the rose bushes planted at the end of each line of olive trees, to discourage insects away from the precious fruit. Satisfied with the gardener’s efforts, he straightened up, brushing his hands down over his thighs. ‘Because most of my work is in mainland Europe and it cut my commuting time right down.’

  ‘And your grandfather didn’t...’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘Didn’t he miss you?’

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ he drawled. ‘But he soon got used to it. People migrate all the time. And my sister lives here. The last thing Turi would want would be for me to stay here out of some kind of duty.’

  Rocco’s mouth hardened. Because he’d been absolved of duty. He’d done more than his fair share of it and Turi understood that. He glanced at his watch, wanting to put an end to this. To stop the introspection which always seemed to affect him whenever Nicole was around. ‘The nurse said you could go in before lunch, even if Nonno’s asleep. Shall we go back to the house to get something to drink first?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, please. And I’d like to freshen up.’

  Back at the house, Rocco took the opportunity to check his emails while Nicole went to change and he was just passing the partially open door of the spare room when a movement from inside made him glance in.

  He had automatically thought she’d be using their old bedroom even though he’d noticed earlier that the bed hadn’t been slept in last night. But she hadn’t. Yet again she had chosen a room away from him, and as he looked in he could see she was struggling with her dress. He saw her hand angling awkwardl
y down her back as she struggled to pull up the zip and even though he knew it was the wrong thing to do, he found himself standing in the doorway, as if somebody had wound the clock back and he were her husband again. As if he had a right to take part in all those small domestic rituals which were a part of every marriage.

  ‘Can I help?’

  She looked up and a flurry of emotions crossed her face. She screwed her nose up, as if something inside her was hurting—and then suddenly she gave an almost efficient nod of agreement. As if she would be a fool to struggle with her own zip when someone was willing to take over the troublesome task for her.

  Only it didn’t quite happen that way.

  Rocco honestly didn’t think he had intended seduction at that moment but the instant his fingers connected with her silky flesh, he was lost. Maybe she was, too, because he heard a shuddered sigh escape from her lips. So that suddenly, instead of doing the zip up, he was sliding it down. All the way down to where her back curved inwards and then beyond even that, so that all it needed was the slightest tug of his fingers to let the garment slide to the ground. But he paused before he did that. Long enough to allow her to move away or chastise him and ask him what the hell he thought he was playing at.

  But she didn’t. Her sigh became a quickened breath and still she said nothing as he slid his hands around her back to cup her straining breasts. He could feel his erection hard and almost painful as it pressed against her lacy lingerie and he thought maybe it would be better if he did this almost...anonymously. He could push her up against that wall and pull her panties down before freeing himself. He could slip inside her from behind. He could take her quickly and efficiently and give them both pleasure and not a single word need be exchanged. They didn’t even have to look at one another. And afterwards they could make as if it had never happened. They would never speak of it again. He’d done that with other women before, but never with Nicole.

  And he didn’t want to do that now. Not with her. Never with her. He gave a little groan as he turned her round to find her eyes as darkened and as full of sensual promise as he’d hoped they would be. He bent to slide his arm beneath her knees and carried her over to the bed.

  ‘I want you,’ he said unsteadily as he laid her down on top of the embroidered cover, before ripping the shirt from his body, uncaring of the buttons which broke free.

  ‘And I want you,’ she echoed chokingly.

  ‘Nicole—’

  But she silenced him with a fierce shake of her wild curls. ‘I don’t want analysis or promises neither of us can keep,’ she said. ‘I just want you, Rocco. Now. That’s all.’

  And wasn’t it ironic that by taking his line—by removing all the emotion from what was about to happen—she somehow increased her power over him? So that, for the first time in all the time he’d known her, it felt as if it was Nic who was taking charge. As if everything he’d ever taught her had crystallised into this one, single act. It felt as if they were doing it in slow motion. As if their bodies were glued together, with no space between them. He kissed her. And kissed her. His lips brushed over hers in a tantalising graze until hers eagerly parted and he licked his way over their trembling surface.

  She gave a gasp as he entered her and he blotted out the sound with the slow caress of his lips. She wrapped her soft thighs around his bare back and he thrust. And thrust again. He made it last for as long as he could, until the little cry she gave sounded as if she might be in some sort of pain, and then he came too and all thought was temporarily banished from his mind.

  But her smile was dreamy when he studied her afterwards and he could instantly feel himself hardening again. He leaned over her, his lips automatically seeking hers, but she wriggled away from him with a decisive shake of her head.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know exactly why not, Rocco. We shouldn’t have done it once—and we’re certainly not going to do it twice.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because... There are a million reasons, which you really don’t need me to articulate for you, but mainly because I have to go and see your grandfather and the nurse will be expecting me.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay. Go and take a shower. I’ll use one of the other bathrooms and wait for you downstairs.’

  Her words echoed round in his mind as Rocco stood beneath the jets of the gushing shower, and he reluctantly realised Nicole had been right. They shouldn’t have done it. Because what purpose had it served? Okay, it had fed his desire—and hers—but they were supposed to be over, and divorcing couples didn’t keep having sex.

  He turned off the shower and towelled himself dry but once he’d dressed and gone downstairs he was surprised by a wave of emotion. He found himself thinking about the future and about what might happen when Turi died. Even if he survived this bout of illness, he couldn’t go on for ever. Nobody could. Rocco found himself asking what it was going to be like here once Turi had gone and why he’d never stopped to think about it before.

  Because Turi had always been there. A man who was larger than life—and you imagined that those kinds of men never died.

  But they did.

  He wondered if his siblings would turn to him and expect him to slip into the replacement role of patriarch? What if he told them he wasn’t interested in such a role? That he had already given as much as he was prepared to give to ensure the survival of the family?

  Was he in danger of overthinking matters because he’d been stirred up by Nicole’s presence here? And wasn’t he in danger of allowing her to skew his vision? Just because the sex had been dynamite, didn’t mean it couldn’t be as good with somebody else. His lips hardened with renewed resolve as he heard her light footstep on the stairs.

  Once she had returned to England everything would shake down. He could stop looking at his life and questioning it. He could start bedding women who didn’t mess with his head.

  He clenched his fists.

  Once she had gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘DO YOU WANT me to stay?’ Rocco questioned as he pushed open the door of the sickroom.

  Nicole wasn’t sure what she wanted as she stepped into the shuttered room and gazed over at the inert body in the bed. Would Rocco be a comforting presence at her side, or a distraction? The latter, probably—especially after what had just happened back at the house. The sex which had just sort of happened and which had blown her away. Not because of his amazing technique, which had never been in question, but because of his unexpected tenderness which had made her heart want to burst with pleasure and break with sorrow, all at the same time. She was just about to politely tell him she’d be fine on her own when the figure in the bed spoke.

  ‘Leave us, Rocco.’

  Turi’s voice wasn’t as strong as Nicole remembered but it still wasn’t the kind of voice you ignored and she watched as his grandson gave a terse nod.

  ‘The nurse will be in the room next door, if you need anything,’ Rocco said. ‘Don’t wear yourself out, Nonno.’

  Turi lifted a wavering hand to indicate that he should cut short the lecture and leave. ‘Come,’ the old man said to Nicole, once the door had closed.

  Nicole approached the bed. The quietness and the dimness of the room reminded her of nursing her adoptive mother and at that moment she missed Peggy Watson very much. As she grew closer she could see that although age and sickness had diminished him, the faded blue eyes, which must once have been so like Rocco’s, were unexpectedly bright as the elderly patriarch gestured for her to sit down.

  ‘Turi,’ she whispered as she perched on a chair next to the bed and squeezed his gnarled old hand in hers. ‘I wish I could say I hope you’re feeling better, in dialect.’

  ‘I think we had better speak in English,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’

  Nicole couldn’t hide her surprise and something in the way he said it made her suddenly want to get honest wi
th him. Because if you couldn’t say what was really on your mind at times like this, then what was the point of anything? She remembered his refusal to use her native tongue when she’d arrived at the house—even rejecting her faltering attempts in Italian as he’d insisted on conversing in Sicilian dialect. ‘Unlike before,’ she said quietly.

  He nodded in agreement. ‘That was foolish of me. I recognise that now. I wanted you to integrate fully with life here and I thought that imposing a tough regime from the beginning was the way to do it.’ He gave a croaky little sigh. ‘I wanted so much, but none of it happened the way it was supposed to. I handled it wrong. Just like I handled Rocco all wrong.’

  Nicole felt a frown pleating her brow. ‘What do you mean, Nonno? What did you do wrong with Rocco?’

  His voice gained more strength as he began to speak. ‘Did he ever speak to you of his childhood?’

  She shook her head. ‘Never. He used to shut all my questions right down and make me feel bad about asking them. It was only very recently that he talked about his parents.’

  Turi’s eyes were inquisitive. ‘You know he was only fourteen when they died?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I knew that much.’

  ‘His brother was nine, his sister only five and the little ones, they were...’ The old man blinked his rheumy eyes rapidly. ‘They were broken,’ he said at last, clearing his throat. ‘I was trying to do it all. My wife was no longer alive and I had the business to run—as well as the younger children to cope with. I leaned on Rocco too much. I see that now. I told him...’

  Nicole leaned forward as his words faded away. ‘What, Nonno? What did you tell him?’

  He indicated she should plump up the bank of pillows behind his head, and once she’d done so he lay back on them and continued. ‘I told him that the younger children would look to him for strength and that was what he needed to show them. To keep his head down and work hard and carry on, no matter what—because that would hold the family together. To follow my example and never cry or show his feelings. And he didn’t. He learned his lesson well. Too well, perhaps.’