‘Are you sleepy, tesoro?’ Rocco’s softly accented voice broke into her thoughts.
She shook her head. ‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Then shall we sit outside? Drink some limonata on the terrace and watch the stars unfold?’
The complex was quiet after the excitement of the party, which had included most of the villagers and gone on throughout the afternoon and well into the evening. Nicole had listened to smatterings of conversation and had understood most of them, because she had quickly realised that becoming fluent in her husband’s language was a necessity and not a hobby. She recognised that communication was key, so she had knuckled down to regular one-to-one lessons with a local schoolteacher and was growing more confident with each day. It amused Rocco no end to hear his English wife calling to him in dialect!
The ice was chinking in her glass and the sweet-sharp limonata made from the estate’s lemons was cool and refreshing. Above them the darkening indigo sky had begun to glimmer with the promise of the brightest stars Nicole had ever seen and she sighed.
Did Rocco hear her? Was that why his head turned towards her.
‘Felici?’ he questioned softly.
‘Oh, yes. Totally happy,’ she said.
Rocco smiled. Who would have realised he could find everything he wanted here, in the arms of his beautiful wife, amid his rapidly expanding family? Sometimes he thought about how much Nicole had taught him. How to face up to your feelings, even if they brought you pain—because with pain came understanding and, from that, true contentment. She had taught him how to love and in so doing had taught him how to live.
He glanced over at her, where she had kicked off her sandals and was wiggling toes which were painted a violent shade of orange. She tied her hair back much more frequently these days because the twins tended to use the thick strands like ropes—but tonight she had shaken the curls free so that they flowed down her back in a dark cascade. Her ankle-length dress in filmy pink chiffon was still more Boho than classic, but that was okay. She looked beautiful in whatever she wore—and she was an artist, after all.
She glanced up to find his gaze trained on her and raised her eyebrows.
‘What?’ she said.
He moved his shoulders a little restlessly as the heat in his body began to rise. ‘I was just wondering if perhaps we might have an early night...’
The answering glint in her eyes answered his question and as he rose from his chair she held up her hands so that he could pull her to her feet.
‘You must have read my mind,’ she whispered.
‘I wonder if you can read mine?’ came his answering growl.
She giggled. ‘Rocco Barberi, you are a terrible man.’
‘I know,’ he said, lacing his fingers in hers and leading her towards their house. ‘And that’s one of the reasons why you love me.’
* * * * *
Coming next month
IMPRISONED BY THE GREEK’S RING
Caitlin Crews
Atlas was a primitive man, when all was said and done. And whatever else happened in this dirty game, Lexi was his.
Entirely his, to do with as he wished.
He kissed her and he kissed her. He indulged himself. He toyed with her. He tasted her. He was unapologetic and thorough at once.
And with every taste, every indulgence, Atlas felt.
He felt.
He, who hadn’t felt a damned thing in years. He, who had walled himself off to survive. He had become stone. Fury in human form.
But Lexi tasted like hope.
“This doesn’t feel like revenge,” she whispered in his ear, and she sounded drugged.
“I’m delighted you think so,” he replied.
And then he set his mouth to hers again, because it was easier. Or better. Or simply because he had to, or die wanting her.
Lexi thrashed beneath him, and he wasn’t sure why until he tilted back his head to get a better look at her face. And the answer slammed through him like some kind of cannonball, shot straight into him.
Need. She was wild with need.
And he couldn’t seem to get enough of it. Of her.
The part of him that trusted no one, and her least of all, didn’t trust this reaction either.
But the rest of him—especially the hardest part of him—didn’t care.
Because she tasted like magic and he had given up on magic long, long time ago.
Because her hands tangled in his hair and tugged his face to hers, and he didn’t have it in him to question that.
All Atlas knew was that he wanted more. Needed more.
As if, after surviving things that no man should be forced to bear, it would be little Lexi Haring who took him out. It would be this one shockingly pretty woman who would be the end of him. And not because she’d plotted against him, as he believed some if not all of her family had done, but because of this. Her surrender.
The endless, wondrous glory of her surrender.
Copyright ©2018 by Caitlin Crews
Continue reading
IMPRISONED BY THE GREEK’S RING
Caitlin Crews
Available next month
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Bound to the Sicilian's Bed Page 15
