He had wanted so much more than just her mouth. And, judging by the dull ache in his groin, he still did.
His heart beating out of time, he struggled to pull his brain back online. ‘Imma—’
Her green eyes fluttered to his face, wide and startled. The curves of her cheeks were flushed with desire, or embarrassment, or maybe both.
He swore inwardly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t expect—I didn’t mean for that to happen—’
Actually, what he hadn’t expected was for it to feel like that—for her to be so gloriously responsive, so fierce, so sweet, so everything he’d ever wanted in a woman.
But how was that possible?
He was only supposed to be seducing this woman to avenge his family.
‘I understand.’
She inched backwards, slipping her hand free of his. He watched her fold it back into her lap, his heart beating as violently as if he’d just sprinted for a finishing line. Only for once—incredibly—he didn’t appear to be on the winner’s podium.
‘Imma—’
‘Please.’ She held up her hand and her beautiful mouth no longer looked soft and kissable but pinched, as though she was trying to hold something in. ‘I don’t need to hear it.’
‘Hear what?’
Her face was pale and set, and there was a tension to her body he recognised. It was as though she was bracing herself for bad news.
‘I’ve heard it all before,’ she said, staring past him. ‘Let me guess. You’re worried things are moving too fast. Or maybe you respect me too much? That’s always popular.’
He frowned. Her words made no sense. ‘I don’t understand—’
She ignored him. ‘You know, back at the wedding I thought you were different. But I guess when it comes to the crunch you’re just like everyone else.’
The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable now.
‘I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, Signor Trapani. But don’t worry. You can go back to your precious hotel and the rest of your “sweet life” now. Just tell Marco where you need to go and he’ll take you.’
There was a slight judder as the helicopter touched down, and before he had a chance to respond, even to absorb her words, she’d pulled off her seat belt and was out of the door and gone.
He stared after her, shock and outrage swirling up inside him, and then he was wrenching himself free and following her into the warm night air. She was moving fast, and he found himself having to run to catch up with her.
He’d never run after a woman metaphorically, let alone in reality, and the fact that he was having to do so made his irritation intensify with every step.
‘Imma!’
She carried on walking and, frustrated by the sight of the smooth, untroubled knot at the nape of her neck, he caught her arm, jerking her round to face him.
‘Where’s all this coming from? All I said was—’
Her eyes narrowed and she shook his hand off. ‘I heard you the first time.’
Watching the bow of her mouth tremble, Vicè felt his breath hitch in his throat. Before her anger had been crimped, confined by a forced politeness, now she was clearly furious.
‘Look, I get it. It was a wedding. You were bored, or curious—maybe both. But I do have feelings and I am done with being picked up and dropped like some toy.’
She glared at him, her hands curling into fists. ‘But I suppose I should be thankful that at least one Trapani brother has the courage of his convictions.’
His jaw clenched. Being compared unfavourably to Ciro was such a frequent occurrence he rarely even reacted any more, but Imma’s criticism, delivered in that clipped, dismissive manner, somehow got under his skin, so that suddenly he was having to rein in his temper, usually so slow to rise.
‘Meaning?’ he said.
Her lip curled with contempt. ‘I mean, unlike you, Ciro’s not scared of my father.’
* * *
Listening to her words echo in the silence, Imma felt slightly sick.
She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, only there was no real point in continuing with this farce.
Vicenzu Trapani was a beautiful liar, and she was an unforgivable idiot.
What was worse, for just a few short hours she had actually started to hope...started to think that Vicè was different—that, incredibly, like Claudia, she had met a man who was prepared to stand proudly beside her.
And not just any man—a man who was in a class of his own. Cool, glamorous, and with a smile that made her body ache and a mouth that turned her inside out.
Remembering her uninhibited response to his kiss, she felt her skin grow warm. She had kissed men before—three, to be precise—but Vicè’s kiss had been like nothing she’d ever experienced, and if Marco’s disembodied voice hadn’t interrupted she would have gone on kissing him forever.
Her cheeks burned as she replayed that sound she’d made when he’d pulled her against his hard body. It had felt so good, so right—but clearly not good or right enough for him to want to continue.
She hung on to her temper as he took a step towards her, his eyes narrowing like chips of volcanic rock.
‘Scared? Of your father? Let me tell you something, Imma. I feel many things for your father, but fear isn’t one of them. I’m no more scared of him than Ciro is.’
Gone was the handsome easy-going playboy. The skin across his cheekbones was tight, like a ship’s sail in a strong wind. But it was the rawness in his voice that convinced her that he was telling the truth.
And just like that her own anger turned to air.
‘I thought you’d changed your mind.’ She swallowed. ‘Like all the others.’
There was a beat of silence and she heard him breathe out unsteadily.
‘I panicked,’ he said.
His dark eyes found hers, and the naked heat in them sent a jolt through her body.
‘But not because I wanted to back out. I thought I’d come on too strong.’ He hesitated, and then, reaching out, took her hand and pulled her closer. ‘I meant what I said earlier. I want to get to know you better.’
As he gazed down at her she felt her pulse begin to beat a little faster.
‘And if you still want that too then I won’t let anything or anyone—including your father—get in the way of that happening. Do you understand?’
Her heart was pressing against her ribs. It was what she’d wanted to hear for so long—and, more importantly, it was clear he meant it.
Nodding slowly, she let him pull her into his arms.
CHAPTER THREE
‘SO, WHO ARE these “others”?’
Glancing up at Vicè, Imma frowned. Neither of them was hungry, but they were drinking wine on the vast terrace next to the pool. Or rather he was drinking. She was too jittery to do anything but clutch the stem of her glass. Besides, just looking at him made her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.
Watching him languidly stretch out his long legs, she felt knots form in her stomach. He was so perfect, with his dark poet’s eyes and panther-like grace...
Trying to stay calm, she gazed past him. It was a bad idea. Somebody—probably Marianna, the housekeeper—had lit some candles, and the twitching flames made the curves of his face even more dangerously appealing.
Accompanying the darkness was the lightest of breezes—a whisper of dry air from Africa—and on it came the scent of the roses and jasmine that Marianna cherished in the garden that surrounded the villa on all sides.
The undiluted romance of it all sent a tremor through her blood.
She cleared her throat. ‘Others?’
He picked up his wine glass, lounging back in his seat, his dark eyes roaming her face. ‘Earlier, you said something about me changing my mind “like the others.”’
‘Oh, that...’ She felt a prickle spread ov
er her skin and down her spine. ‘It’s nothing, really.’
How could someone like him truly understand? But he held her gaze.
She sighed. ‘Just that my dates were always ever so keen on me—until they worked out who my father was. And then—’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said softly.
She nodded. ‘Papà has a reputation. Friends in low places. I’m sure you’ve read the stories about him?’
He shook his head, his eyes gleaming. ‘Too busy reading about myself.’
The teasing note in his voice made her skin sting. Pulse quickening, she glanced away. What was he thinking when he looked at her like that? And why did her body like it so much?
Reaching across the table, he took her hand. ‘Look, what they can’t find out they make up. It’s not important.’
His voice was gentle but his dark eyes were burning into her, the intensity of their focus accelerating her already racing pulse. He was everything she wanted, but everything she feared. Compelling. Confident. Curious about her.
She had never talked like this to anyone. Her father’s moods were too changeable and Claudia was so young and innocent.
She felt his fingers tighten around hers.
‘Those men had no right to judge you, cara.’ His beautiful mouth twisted. ‘Believe me, I know. People think because they read about you that they know you, but they don’t.’ His eyes met hers. ‘They really don’t.’
Remembering the stories she’d read about him, she felt a twinge of guilt. How could she complain about being judged when she was guilty of doing the same to him?
‘And those people don’t know you,’ she said, her words tumbling over themselves. ‘The real you. You’re funny, and smart, and kind, and sweet...’
Her voice petered out. Beside her, Vicè leaned back a little, his expression midway between surprise and amusement—unsurprising, given that she’d sounded like some teenage fangirl.
Cringing inwardly, she frowned. ‘Look, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I’ll get Marco to drop you back to your hotel—’
Reaching over, he tugged her towards him. Then he smiled...a slow, flickering smile like a candle being lit that made a pulse of excitement beat beneath her skin.
‘Cara, forget about my hotel...you’re the sweetness in my life.’
Oh, she liked him so much—and she’d almost ruined everything with her stupid accusations. But this was all so new and different. She was different with him. More impulsive and open. Bolder.
Her body tensed. Only not so bold that she was looking forward to facing her father.
Picturing Cesare’s outburst, she shivered. He would be angry enough about her leaving the wedding early, but his fury would be visible from space when he found out she had left with Vicè and come here. Particularly as he’d hinted that he was finally ready to talk about her role at Trapani.
‘How mad is he going to be?’
Her chin jerked up. ‘How did you know what I was thinking?’
‘Just a guess.’ He sighed. ‘Come on, let’s go inside. I think you need something stronger than wine.’
Inside, he poured two glasses of grappa and, dropping down beside her on the sofa, handed her one. ‘Look, I feel like this is my fault. Why don’t I call him? Explain—’
‘No, absolutely not.’ She shook her head. She could think of nothing that would antagonise Cesare more.
Leaning forward, Vicè stroked the curve of her cheekbone with a tenderness that made her skin melt.
‘I’m not scared of him, Imma.’ His face stilled as though something had just occurred to him. ‘Are you?’
She shook her head. ‘Of course not. Papà just doesn’t like surprises. He has plans for me. Expectations. Your father’s business—he wants me to run it.’
He lifted his glass. ‘And you don’t want to.’
It was a statement, not a question. And just for a moment his eyes seemed to narrow. But when he lowered his glass she realised he was just curious.
‘Yes, I do. It’s a wonderful business. And it’s the least I can do for Papà. I want to be there for him.’
Her pulse skipped. Her father was going to be apoplectic, but it was the aftermath of his rage she was dreading.
He would become even more controlling—particularly regarding her matrimonial choices. Claudia could have her Ciro, but Cesare wanted Imma to marry well—and by ‘well’ he meant to a man nearer his own age, whose wealth was equal to the GDP of some small country.
Love hadn’t been mentioned.
She shivered inside. She couldn’t disappoint her father. He needed her to fulfil his dreams.
All she wanted was just one night for herself.
An experience that was hers and hers alone.
An experience she would remember forever—an encounter that would imprint on her body and mind to help her through years of dutiful marriage to a man she didn’t love.
Tonight she wanted fire and ecstasy. She wanted to understand her own needs and desires...be in charge of making that small but important change from sheltered, uninformed virgin to a woman who had experienced the storm of passion.
Picking up her glass, she saw her hand was shaking a little. Her body was humming...fear mingling with desire. Fear of missing out. Fear of giving in to what she wanted.
And she wanted Vicè.
Her hunger, her need for him, was like a tornado inside her, upturning everything in its path so that her skin could barely hold it in.
And by bringing Vicè here she had already sealed her fate. Her father was going to come down on her hard and fast. So shouldn’t she make sure it was for something that mattered?
And what mattered more than choosing your first lover?
This might be her last opportunity to make that choice and she was choosing Vicè. Because he was handsome, charming, and most importantly she trusted him.
‘But I want to be here with you too,’ she said slowly. ‘And I don’t care how angry that makes him.’
Their gazes locked.
‘He has no reason to be angry.’
His dark eyes held her fast and heat shivered down her spine.
‘Nothing’s happened.’
Something stirred deep inside her, and she took a steadying breath.
‘Nothing’s happened yet,’ she said softly.
Her hunger for him was like the lick of a flame. Only he could put out the fire.
The glass in her hand was shaking. Reaching over, he took it from her.
‘Are you saying you want something to happen?’ he asked.
His eyes were steady on her face, his expression intent, as though he was trying to read her mind.
She didn’t know where to start, or how to ask for what she wanted. But she knew that she wanted to share it, feel it, with him—with this man. With Vicè.
She nodded. ‘Yes, that is what I’m saying.’
Her belly clenched. She sounded so formal, so uptight, but she couldn’t help it. Her body was just so wound up, so hot and tight with hope and need and anticipation. And fear of rejection.
Her stomach was a ball of nerves. ‘It’s just that I’m scared—’
‘Of being hurt?’ He gave her a crooked smile. ‘It’s a risk, and I guess it’s a particularly big risk with someone like me...someone with my history.’ His dark, mocking face was suddenly serious. ‘But if it makes you feel better I think I’m the one in danger here. You make me feel things I’ve never felt, want things I’ve never wanted before—’
Heat surged over her skin, lifting the hairs on her arms, making her breasts tingle and tighten. So many choices had been made for her already. So much decided and dictated. This night with Vicè would be hers, and hers alone.
‘I want them too,’ she whispered. ‘I want you.’
But he was gorgeous and sexy, and
he had his pick of beautiful, experienced women. Would he really want someone so inexpert and gauche?
For a moment she thought about telling him the truth. Only what if it changed things between them?
Vicè might be a playboy, but he was also a Sicilian. What if beneath the languid posturing he retained an old-school Sicilian attitude to taking a woman’s virginity? What if he backed off?
She made up her mind.
Being here with him was straight out of a fantasy, and raising the topic of her virginity would introduce a cool reality she wasn’t ready to face yet.
‘Shall we go somewhere even more private?’ she said softly. ‘More intimate...’
* * *
Vicenzu stared at her in silence, a pulse beating in his throat, her voice replaying inside his head.
Intimate.
He felt his belly flip over.
Intimate.
The word brushed against his skin. It made him think of subdued lighting, soft laughter and naked bodies.
His own body turned to granite as she bit her lip.
‘Imma, are you sure?’ Holding her gaze, he softened his voice. ‘I know my reputation, and I don’t want you to think that’s why I’m here.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think that.’
She was staring up at him, her face expressionless, but he could hear the nervous edge in her voice and knew she was trying to sound calmer than she felt.
It was understandable. Given how protective Buscetta was about his daughters, it was unlikely she did this kind of thing very often—and certainly not under her overcontrolling father’s nose. Clearly being here, in her father’s lair, was spooking her.
Her cheeks were flushed and her dark hair was coming undone from the knot at her neck. He studied her face, lost momentarily in the delicacy of her features and the flame in her eyes. He felt his pulse accelerate. He could do this, but he needed to take charge, keep it light—not let her beauty get in the way of what was really happening here.
‘I’m happy to wait, cara. Well, maybe happy is pushing it.’ He grimaced. ‘Obviously I’d be in a lot of pain—’
The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage Page 4
