The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage

by Louise Fuller

  ‘So how did it go? Am I going to be swimming with the fishes? Or did you manage to sweet talk him into accepting me as his son-in-law?’

  A shadow fell across her face and, glancing up, she felt her pulse trip. Vicè was next to her, his dark eyes gazing down into her face, a mocking smile pulling at his mouth.

  He was wearing a pair of jeans and a slim-fitting navy T-shirt—the kind of low-key clothes that would make anyone else look ordinary. But Vicè didn’t need logos or embellishments to draw the eye. His flawless looks and languid grace did that all on their own.

  Dry-mouthed, she watched wordlessly, her heart lurching from side to side like a boat in a storm, as he dropped into the seat opposite her.

  ‘It was fine. How about you?’

  Ignoring her question, he picked up the coffee pot. ‘How do you like it?’ he murmured. ‘Actually, no, don’t tell me... I already know.’

  Her stomach muscles trembled. She knew he was just talking about the coffee, but that didn’t stop a slow, tingling warmth from sliding over her skin.

  ‘I’m going to go with no milk and just a sprinkle of sugar.’

  He held her gaze, his eyes reaching inside her so that for a moment she didn’t even register what he’d said. Or that he was right.

  Since agreeing to the terms of their marriage he’d been distant, cool, aloof... Sulking, presumably, at having the tables turned on him. Now, though, he seemed to have recovered his temper, and his dark gaze was lazily roaming her face. She knew it wasn’t real but, try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself—or her body anyway—from responding to him.

  Annoyingly, she knew that he could sense her response and was enjoying it. The hairs on her arms rose. She had dictated the terms of their marriage. She was the one in control. So why did it feel as if he was playing with her?

  Suddenly she wondered if she had done the right thing.

  ‘Marianna told you,’ she said quickly. She knew her face was flushed, and as he shook his head she frowned.

  ‘She did not,’ he said. His eyes hadn’t left her mouth. ‘But you’re my wife, so I assume you want your coffee like your husband. Dark, firm-bodied, and with a hint of sweetness.’

  He poured the coffee and held out a cup.

  For a fraction of a second she hesitated, and then she took it. ‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.

  His eyes gleamed and, reaching across the table, he picked up his own cup. He seemed utterly at ease, and she wondered if he was still acting or if his mood really had changed.

  It was impossible to tell. Up until a few days ago he’d been a stranger. Yet in the space of those few days so much had happened between them. Big, important, life-changing things.

  ‘Sorry I took so long.’ He lounged back in his chair, his dark lashes shielding the expression in his eyes. ‘I needed to clear my mind. You know—’ he made a sweeping gesture with his hand ‘—so much emotion after that wonderful ceremony. It was simple and yet so beautifully romantic.’

  Hearing the mocking note in his voice, she gave him an icy glare. ‘It’s all you deserve.’

  His gaze locked on hers. ‘All I deserve?’ He repeated her words softly. ‘That’s a missed opportunity.’

  The glitter in his eyes made her nerves scream. ‘What do you mean?’

  Tilting his head back, he smiled slowly. ‘Just that if I’d known you were trying to punish me I would have suggested something more exciting. Mutually satisfying.’

  Her muscles tightened and she felt heat creep over her cheeks. Stiffening her shoulders, she forced herself to look him in the eye. ‘I wasn’t trying to punish you. It was the only option under the circumstances. And I don’t see why you even care about the ceremony anyway. You seduce virgins under false pretences. You don’t do romance.’

  Something flared in his eyes. ‘I don’t care, cara. But I can’t believe a convent girl like you had that kind of ceremony pinned on her wedding board.’

  Without warning he leaned forward and brushed her hair lightly with his fingertips. For a heartbeat she forgot to breathe. And then, as heat rushed through her body, she jerked backwards. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You have coriandoli in your hair,’ he said softly, holding out his hand.

  She gazed down at the rose petals, felt her pulse slowing. Vicè was wrong. She’d never planned her wedding day. In fact, she’d blocked it from her mind. Why would she want to plan a day that would so blatantly remind her that her life choices were not her own?

  No, it had been Claudia—her sweet, overlooked little sister—who had dreamed of marriage and a husband and a home of her own.

  Remembering her sister’s tears, she curled her fingers into her palms. ‘It’s sweet of you to be concerned, Vicenzu,’ she said. ‘But I can have my dream wedding with my next husband.’

  * * *

  Vicenzu stared at her, her words resounding inside his head. Seriously? They had been married for less than two hours and she was already thinking about her next wedding? Her next husband?

  His chest tightened. The thought of Imma being with another man made him irrationally but intensely angry. And as his gaze roamed over her tight, taunting smile and the defiance in her green eyes, he felt his body respond to the challenge. To her beauty.

  But his response wasn’t just about the swing of her hair or the delicacy of her features—the dark, perfect curve of her eyebrows, the full, soft mouth, those arresting green eyes. There was something else...something hazy, elusive...a shielded quality.

  Looking at her was like looking through a kaleidoscope: one twist and the whole picture shifted into something new, so that he couldn’t imagine ever getting bored with her.

  He felt his body harden. It had been a very long time since he’d got an erection from just looking at a woman.

  Containing his temper, and the ache in his groin, he smiled back at her. ‘But I’ll always be your first, in so many ways, and that means something—don’t you think?’

  Watching colour suffuse her face, he knew he had got to her.

  Leaning back in his seat, he glanced out of the window. ‘So which godforsaken rock are we heading to now?’ he asked tauntingly. ‘Hopefully one with fewer monkeys and more beaches. I mean, this is our honeymoon, after all.’

  ‘This is not our honeymoon.’

  She leaned forward, her blush spreading over her collarbone, her narrowed green eyes revealing the depth of her irritation.

  ‘This is business. We need to convince everyone, particularly our parents, that we are in love and that this marriage is real.’

  Her mouth twisted.

  ‘Otherwise you won’t get your father’s olive oil company back. And we both know that’s all you’re interested in.’

  His pulse twitched. Not true. Right now he was extremely interested in whether the skin beneath the neckline of her dress was also flushed.

  He forced his eyes to meet hers. Had she been inside his head on the flight over to Gibraltar, and in the car on the way to the register office, she would have found herself to be right. He had been furious at having lost the upper hand—having thrown it away, more like—and it had only been the thought of the family business that had kept him going.

  Marriage to Imma was just a means to an end. In a year’s time he would have his reward and he would have fulfilled his promise to Ciro. Vengeance would be his.

  But a year was a long time. And right now, with Imma sitting so close, the business seemed less important than the way the pulse in her throat seemed to be leaping out at him through her skin.

  ‘Fine...whatever.’ He shrugged, lounging back and letting his arm droop over the back of his seat with a languid carelessness he didn’t feel. ‘But I meant what I said about monkeys and beaches.’

  She gave him a look of exasperation.

  ‘Fine...whatever. If it’s such a big deal to
you, then you can choose where we go.’

  ‘Okay, then—let’s go to Portofino. Let’s go to my hotel.’

  He’d spoken unthinkingly. The words had just appeared fully formed on his lips before he’d even realised what he was saying. Only now that he had said it, he knew that was what he wanted to do.

  She was looking at him with a mixture of shock and confusion, as if he’d suddenly announced he wanted her to sleep in a bath of spaghetti. He felt nettled by her reaction.

  For some inexplicable reason—maybe a desire to be on his home turf, or perhaps to prove there was a whole lot more to him than just a pretty face—he wanted her to see La Dolce Vita.

  ‘Is that a problem?’ he asked quietly.

  But before she could reply, the steward appeared beside them.

  ‘Signora Trapani—Chef would like to know if you’re ready for lunch to be served?’

  Imma nodded. ‘Yes—grazie, Fedele.’

  The steward began clearing the table.

  ‘Scusa—I’m in the way. Here, let me move.’

  Moving smoothly, Vicè swapped his seat for the one next to Imma. Taking advantage of Fedele’s presence, he slid an arm around her waist, one hand snaking out to clasp hers firmly.

  ‘That’s better—isn’t it, cara?’

  She must have had a lot of practice in hiding her feelings, he thought, watching her lips curve into a smile of such sweetness that he almost forgot she was faking.

  ‘You can let me go now,’ she said quietly, her smile fading as Fedele disappeared.

  ‘Why? He’ll be back in a minute with lunch.’

  He pulled her closer, tipping her onto his lap and drawing her against his chest. The sudden intimacy between them reminded him vividly of what had happened in her bedroom.

  ‘Don’t be scared, cara...’ His heart was suddenly hammering inside his chest. ‘This is just business...’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ she said hotly.

  But she was scared. He could feel it in the way she was holding herself. Not scared of him, but of her response to him. Of this tingling insistent thread of need between them.

  ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Because, as you so rightly pointed out, we need to convince everyone this is real—and that’s not going to happen if we’re sitting on opposite sides of the room. We need to practise making it look real.’

  He stared down into her eyes.

  ‘We need to act as if we can’t keep our hands off one another. As if we want each other so badly it’s like a craving. As if, even though it doesn’t make sense, and it’s never happened to us before and it’s driving us crazy, we can’t stop ourselves...’

  That pretty much described how he’d been feeling ever since they’d met. How he was feeling right now, in fact. His blood was pounding in his ears and his body was painfully hard. He felt as though he was combusting inside.

  Instinctively he lowered his face, sliding his hand into her hair.

  ‘Vicè, stop—’

  Stop? He hadn’t even started!

  Longing and fierce urgency rose up inside him, and as her fingers twitched against his chest it took every atom of willpower he had to stop himself from pressing his mouth to hers.

  With an effort, he leaned back, smoothing all shades of desire from his voice. ‘So, are we going to Portofino, or not?’

  There was a beat of silence, and then she nodded.

  He kept his face still. ‘I think ten days should be about right for a honeymoon. Or are you thinking longer...?’

  ‘No.’

  She shook her head, and he felt his stomach flip over at the sudden hoarseness in her voice.

  ‘Ten days sounds perfect.’

  Yes, it did, he thought, his body tensing as she slid off his lap.

  Ten days.

  And if he had his way every minute of all those days would be spent in bed...

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time they arrived in Genoa. At the airport Vicè picked up his car—a surprisingly modest black convertible—and they drove south.

  It wasn’t just the modesty of his car that was surprising, Imma thought as they left the city’s outskirts. Vicè was actually a good driver.

  He was certainly nothing like her father. Cesare drove as he lived. Rushing forward aggressively and raging when he was forced to slow down or, worse still, stop.

  Vicè drove with the same smooth, fluid grace as he did everything else.

  She glanced over at him. They had barely spoken since setting off, but maybe that was a good thing. Every time they talked she seemed to start the conversation feeling in control but end it feeling he had the upper hand.

  It didn’t help that, despite everything she knew about him, her body persisted in overriding her brain whenever she was near to him.

  Remembering exactly how near he had been earlier, on the plane, she felt a coil of heat spiral up inside her. She could tell herself it had been the plush intimacy of the plane or the glass of champagne that had affected her judgement. But it would be a lie to say she hadn’t wanted him in that moment.

  Only it was going to stop now. It had to.

  This marriage might be a lie, but she couldn’t lie to herself for a whole year.

  She might have agreed theoretically with what Vicè had said on the plane, about making their marriage look real, but she knew she was going to find faking it far more difficult and painful than he would.

  For him, those hours in her bed had been a necessary step in his plan to win back his father’s business. A trick, a trap, a seduction.

  For her, ignorant in her bliss, it had been something more.

  He’d taught her about sex. About the sleek warmth of skin, the melting pleasure of touch and the decadent ache of climax.

  It didn’t matter that he’d been lying to her; her feelings for him had been real. And, even though she knew the truth now, the memory of how she had felt that night remained, overriding facts and common sense.

  Admitting and accepting that would stop her repeating the reckless intimacy between them on the plane. But she needed to set some ground rules. Make it clear to him that she would play her part—but only in public, and only when absolutely necessary.

  Feeling the car slow down, she glanced up ahead. The road was growing narrower and more winding. The palms of her hands were suddenly clammy.

  Were they here?

  As though he’d read her mind, Vicè turned towards her and, taking one hand off the wheel, gestured casually towards the view through the windscreen.

  ‘This is it. This is Portofino.’

  She wasn’t ready, she thought, her heart lurching. But it was too late. They were already cruising past pastel-coloured villas with dark green shutters, some strung with fluttering lines of laundry, others decorated with trompe l’oeil architectural flourishes that made her look twice.

  The town centre was movie-set-perfect—a mix of insouciant vintage glamour and stealth wealth chic. Beneath the striped awnings of the cafes hugging the piazzetta, women in flowing, white dresses and men wearing linen and loafers lounged in the sunlight, talking and drinking Aperol spritz.

  It was all so photogenic, so relaxed and carefree. A part of the world where dolce far niente was a way of life.

  She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. No wonder Vicè chose to live here. And now she would be living here too. Living here as Signora Trapani.

  A shiver wound down her spine. Up until that moment she had been so focused on getting married she hadn’t considered what being married would mean for her day-to-day life.

  But here in Portofino, with Vicè, she would be free. For the first time ever there were no bodyguards tracking her every move, no Cesare dictating her agenda.

  No rules to follow.

  No rules at all.

  Her stomac
h flipped over.

  It was nerve-racking—like stepping from the safety of a ship onto new, uncharted land—and yet she wasn’t scared so much as excited.

  She let go of a breath. So much of her life had been spent feeling unsure about who she was, being scared to push back against the weight of duty and expectation. But without noticing she had pushed back, she realised with confusion. She had already changed, something shifting tectonically inside her.

  How else could she be here with Vicè?

  Her stomach knotted.

  Much as she might want to flatter herself into believing that she had done so alone, incredibly—unbelievably—he was part of it. He had backed her into a corner and she had come out fighting. She had found another side of herself with him.

  Feeling his gaze on the side of her face, she turned. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said simply.

  His expression didn’t alter, but she could sense he was pleased with her reaction.

  ‘I’ll save the guided tour for another time.’

  His lip curved, and she felt his smile curl its way through her pelvis.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get out of those clothes.’

  Refusing to take the bait, she lifted her chin. ‘So what happens at the hotel?’

  Shifting in his seat, he changed gear, his smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, there are people who come and stay and use the rooms—I call them guests—’

  She clenched her jaw. ‘I meant what’s the plan for us?’

  ‘Relax, cara.’ He was grinning now. ‘We’ll just play it by ear.’

  ‘That’s not a plan,’ she snapped.

  Back on the plane, she had told herself that it was a good idea to come here. La Dolce Vita was a magnet for Hollywood actors, rock stars and rappers, so there was bound to be a bunch of paparazzi hanging around the hotel. Obviously they would be hot news for a couple of days, but it would all die down pretty quickly and then their lives could go back to normal.