The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage

by Louise Fuller

  ‘Normal’ with the occasional necessary public display of affection.

  Now, though, she was starting to see flaws in the plan—the major one being that Vicè didn’t appear to have a plan.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said.

  They were heading up a hill now, along a road edged with cypress trees and pines. Away from the town it was quieter, the air heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and lemon trees, and there was a surprising lushness to the greenery around them.

  She felt the car slow again, her heartbeat accelerating as he turned between two scuffed pillars.

  ‘Don’t worry—I can do all the talking.’

  He made it sound so easy. But then, of course, he was good at painting castles in the air.

  Remembering how effortlessly he had persuaded her to believe in him, she gritted her teeth. ‘As long as you keep to the script and don’t contradict me—’

  ‘Spoken like a true wife,’ he said softly, stopping the car. Pulling off his sunglasses, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’re here.’

  Her heart gave a startled leap and, blinking into the sunlight, Imma looked up and felt her mouth drop open. She’d seen photos, but nothing did justice to the building in front of her.

  Surrounded by palm trees, flecked with sunlight, the peaches-and-cream-coloured hotel oozed Italian Riviera style. But this was more than just a playground for VIPs, she thought, watching a flurry of petals flutter down from the wisteria-draped facade. It was magical, and the knowledge that Vicè was the man behind the magic made her heart hammer in her ears.

  She jumped slightly as Vicè opened her door.

  ‘It used to be a monastery, would you believe?’

  He gave her one of his pulse-fluttering smiles and she bit her lip. In this mood he was impossible to resist—just like the hand he was holding out to her.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  His fingers threaded through hers and she stepped out of the car, her muscles tightening as he slid an arm around her waist.

  ‘It’s true. The monks kept getting overrun by pirates, so they abandoned it. Moved further inland.’

  ‘What happened to the pirates?’

  ‘Oh, they’re still here.’ He smiled, his dark eyes glittering in the early-evening sunlight. ‘One of them, anyway.’

  The heat of his body matched the heat in his eyes. For a moment he stared down at her, and the pull between them she’d been trying so hard to ignore flared to life inside her.

  ‘Ehi, capo! You’re back!’

  Swinging round, Vicè raised his hand, his smile widening as a young man with streaked blond hair, sleepy brown eyes and an equally wide smile strode towards them.

  ‘Matteo. Ciao!’

  ‘I was expecting you two days ago.’

  ‘What can I say? I got distracted.’

  As the two men embraced Imma watched in confusion.

  Capo? Was Vicè his boss?

  She tried and failed to picture any of her father’s employees talking to Cesare in such a casual, effusive manner. But all she could think about were those emails she had read and his treatment of Alessandro.

  She felt her stomach clench. She still wasn’t ready to go there, and she was almost grateful when Vicè turned towards her, reaching out for her hand.

  ‘Come here, cara.’

  He pulled her closer, his dark gaze on her face.

  ‘This beautiful woman is the reason I got distracted. Imma, this is Matteo, the hotel manager here and a good friend. Matteo—this is Imma, my wife.’

  Her pulse jumped. Vicè was looking at her—really looking at her—so that it felt as if he was reaching inside of her, claiming her for his own.

  ‘My wife,’ he repeated softly.

  It was an act, she told herself. It was all for show. Only she couldn’t stop her stomach from turning over in an uncontrollable response to the intimacy of his words and the flame in his eyes.

  For a split second time seemed to end. Just stop.

  She forgot where she was and why she was even there. Around her the air seemed to thicken into an invisible wall, and inside the wall was Vicè, his skin dappled with sunlight, his dark gaze pulling her closer...

  ‘You got married!’

  She blinked as Matteo grabbed Vicè in a one-armed hug.

  ‘Che bello! That’s fantastic news. I’m so pleased for you both.’

  ‘Thank you, bro. It was all a bit di impulso.’ Glancing over at Imma, he grinned. ‘What can I say? She swept me off my feet.’

  Imma forced her mouth into a smile. Vicè made it all sound so plausible—no wonder Matteo was beaming at them in delight. But his congratulations were warm and genuine, and it felt wrong accepting them under such false pretences.

  She felt a flash of anger. How was she going to do this for a whole year? Smile and lie to every single person she met? It was a daunting prospect, and the wider implications of what she’d agreed to do made her heart cramp.

  She felt Vicè’s hand tighten around hers.

  ‘Matteo, can you get the bags brought round?’

  ‘Sure, boss.’

  ‘Come on.’

  He turned and, still holding her hand, led her away from the hotel to a narrow path that disappeared into the lush undergrowth.

  ‘I’ll show you to the villa.’

  She let him lead her between the citrus trees and beneath the boughs of myrtle and laurel, but as soon as they were out of sight she jerked her hand away.

  ‘That’s enough,’ she snapped.

  * * *

  Vicè stopped. His pulse was racing.

  In that moment when he and Imma had been talking to Matteo he’d forgotten that their marriage wasn’t real. More confusingly, watching her face soften, he’d wanted it to be real.

  Pulse slowing, he thought back to when he’d agreed to marry her. At the time he’d been too stunned by her conditions, too determined to get back his father’s business, to think about what it would mean to live this particular lie. He’d been lying for so long, to so many people, why would one more matter?

  Except now it did.

  He wanted to stop, to erase the past and start again.

  And not just his marriage to Imma. He wanted to go back—way, way back, to before his father’s death—and live his whole life differently.

  He turned to face her, his expression benign, one eyebrow raised questioningly. ‘Enough what?’

  ‘I don’t want you touching me,’ she snapped.

  ‘Really?’ he said, one eyebrow raised sceptically. ‘You didn’t seem to have any objections on the plane. You know, when you were sitting on my lap...’

  Watching the pink flush rise over her face up to her hairline, Vicè held his breath. Was it embarrassment or desire? Maybe it was embarrassment at her desire?

  Briefly he wondered what she would do if he pulled her closer and kissed her. Kissed her until she melted into him and she was his again. Beneath the overhanging greenery, he saw her eyes had darkened but, glancing over at her taut, flushed face, he pushed back against the heat rising like a wave inside his body.

  Sadly this wasn’t the right time or place.

  ‘In fact, things seemed to be getting quite...cosy.’ He drew the word out, elongating it deliberately until the colour in her cheeks grew darker.

  She ignored his remark and, tipping her head back in the manner of a queen addressing a commoner, she gave him a glacial stare. ‘Are you going to show me where we’re going or do I have to find my own way?’

  He sighed. ‘Isn’t it a little early in our married life to start with the nagging, cara? Could we at least get to our one-week anniversary first?’

  Whistling softly, he sidestepped, moving past her furious face.

  Coming to Portofino had been a whim. But, watching her reaction as they’d pu
lled up in front of the hotel, he had felt his stomach grow warm. She had obviously been expecting some seedy ‘no-tell motel’, but he could tell she was surprised. And impressed.

  He breathed in on a rush of pleasure. Was it impressive? He tried to see it through her eyes.

  To himself, and to everyone else too—especially his family—he’d always downplayed how much he cared about the Dolce, making out that it was more of a hobby than a business so nobody would suspect that it mattered to him. But Imma’s open-mouthed wonder made him want to stop pretending and tell her how he really felt.

  At the villa, he unlocked the door, feeling the usual rush of conflicting emotions.

  He loved the spacious rooms. The polished hardwood floors, high ceilings and antique Murano chandeliers all captured the glamour of a bygone era, and the tall windows caught the gentle sea breeze and offered mesmerising views of the serene cerulean bay.

  It was the perfect backdrop for his dolce far niente lifestyle. But it was not home. Home would only ever be his family’s estate in Sicily.

  Turning, he found Imma standing at the entrance, one foot over the threshold. He felt his breath catch. With her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, and anger mingling with apprehension in her green eyes, she looked some like a woodland nymph who had stumbled across a hunter.

  It took him a moment to realise that he was the hunter. Another to realise that he didn’t like how that made him feel.

  He felt something pinch inside his chest. Revenge was supposed to be sweet, but he hated the guarded expression on her face—and knowing that he was the cause of it.

  ‘Okay, this is it. I’ll give you a tour of the house first, and then we can just chill for a bit. Maybe have an aperitivo and then—’

  Distracted by the various and all equally tempting versions of ‘and then’ playing out inside his head, he broke off from what he was saying and headed towards the kitchen.

  He kept the tour brief and factual, opening doors and listing rooms.

  ‘That’s it for this level.’ He gestured towards the staircase. ‘Shall we?’

  For a moment she stared warily back at him, as though he was Bluebeard, inviting her to see where he kept his other wives, and then, averting her gaze, she stepped past him. His chest tightened first and his groin next, as he caught the scent of her perfume, and he took a moment to steady himself before following her upstairs.

  ‘There are no guest rooms,’ he said. ‘Not that we need any.’ He gave her a slow, teasing smile. ‘Guests on a honeymoon would be a little de trop, don’t you think, cara?’

  ‘Not on this one,’ she said sweetly.

  Touché, he thought, holding her gaze. He liked it that he could get under her skin—metaphorically speaking. Of course, what he’d like more would be to actually strip her naked and lick every centimetre of her smooth, satiny body.

  They had reached the top of the stairs.

  The large, beautiful bedroom stretched the whole length of this floor, and it was filled with light and the scent from the honeysuckle that grew prolifically in the gardens below. Strangely, though, he could still smell Imma’s perfume.

  He watched as she stopped and turned slowly on the spot, stilling as she caught sight of their bags sitting side by side at the end of the bed.

  ‘What did you say about the other bedrooms?’

  ‘There are none.’

  Catching sight of the vibrant aquamarine sea, he walked towards the French windows and opened them, blinking into the sunlight as he stepped onto the balcony.

  ‘You know, sometimes you can see dolphins swimming in the bay. When the Romans came here there were so many of them they named it Portus Delphini—that’s why it’s called Portofino.’

  Imma came and stood beside him. She was frowning.

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘Portus Delphini—it means Port of the Dolphins—’

  ‘I meant about the bedrooms.’

  He dropped onto one of the chairs that were scattered casually around the balcony, extending his legs and stretching his arms above his head. He was fully aware that she was watching him, waiting for his reply, and the tension in her body made his own body grow taut.

  ‘Oh, that...’ he said casually. ‘I said this is the only one. This is our bedroom.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, her green eyes narrowing. ‘This is your bedroom. I will take a room at the hotel.’

  Now he frowned. ‘At the hotel? How is that going to work?’

  She was looking at him as if she wanted to take off her shoes and throw them at his head.

  ‘Very simply. You sleep here. I sleep there.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re not making sense, cara. We’re supposed to be crazily in love. People who are crazily in love don’t sleep in separate beds—never mind separate rooms in a different building.’

  Eyes narrowing, she put her hands on her hips. ‘But we’re not in love, Vicè.’

  Her voice was tense, and he heard the depth of her hurt and anger.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry—did you start to believe your own lies? I suppose that’s what happens when you never tell the truth.’

  His jaw tightened. ‘You don’t get to lecture me about the truth. Not after that show you put on in your bedroom the other night.’

  For a moment he thought she was going to slap him again and knew on some level he would deserve it. Knew also that he didn’t like this version of himself. Worse, he knew his father would be appalled. Alessandro had been a gentiluomo. He had treated everyone with the same quiet courtesy, but had reserved a special respectful tenderness for his wife.

  ‘At least it was only one night,’ she said acidly. ‘Your whole life is a show, Vicè.’

  Her blunt words felt like the waves that battered the coastline during winter storms.

  He stared at her in silence.

  Probably ninety-nine percent of what was written about him was untrue, or at best vaguely based on the truth, but he never bothered demanding a retraction. There was no point. His ‘bad’ reputation was good for business. And, as Ciro’s brother, he had grown so used to unfavourable comparisons that he hardly registered them or even knew how to resent them.

  But this woman seemed to know exactly which buttons to press. She made him feel things—good and bad—that no one ever had before. Somehow she’d sneaked under the barriers he’d built against the world, so that he was finding it harder and harder to maintain his usual couldn’t-care-less attitude.

  With an effort, he tethered his temper. ‘I’m well aware we’re not in love. But what matters is that we appear to be.’

  ‘In public,’ she countered. ‘Look, we made an agreement—’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ he agreed. ‘It’s called marriage.’

  Her chin jutted forward. ‘A marriage that I made clear would not include our sleeping together.’

  He shrugged. ‘Okay, so go back to your father,’ he said.

  It was an idle threat. She had already made it clear that was not an option. But as her eyes darted towards the staircase he felt his heart jolt, his mind tracking back to the way she’d looked at him when Matteo had been there.

  Her smile had felt like the sun breaking over this balcony in the afternoon. Warm and irresistible and real.

  He didn’t want her to leave.

  In fact, he was determined that she should stay.

  Obviously he wanted her to stay, or he wouldn’t get his father’s business back, but for some reason that seemed to matter less than getting her to share that soft, sweet smile with him in private.

  ‘Let him find you another husband,’ he said softly. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. There must be a queue of men wanting to marry a woman who walked out on her wedding night. And, if not, I’m sure your papà will persuade someone to step up.’

  Watching the colour leave he
r face, he knew she was cornered.

  ‘You did this on purpose—didn’t you?’ she prompted, her incredible green eyes flashing with anger and resentment. ‘You knew there was only one bedroom. That’s why you wanted to come here.’

  ‘Me? I’m just a passenger, cara,’ he said disingenuously. ‘This is your itinerary. I go where you tell me.’

  Her green eyes flared. ‘Well, in that case, you can go to hell!’

  ‘Maybe later.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Right now, we need to get ready.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘We have dinner plans. At the hotel.’

  * * *

  Was he being serious?

  Imma gaped at him. They were in the middle of an argument—no, scratch that, they were in the middle of a power struggle—and he wanted them to just wrap it up and have dinner together.

  As if!

  Fury rose up inside her and, lifting her chin, she folded her arms. ‘I’m not feeling hungry.’

  His eyes met hers, and the sudden dark intensity of his gaze made her breath stall in her throat.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry... I’m sure I can find something on the menu to prick your appetite,’ he said softly.

  The air between them seemed to thicken, his words making her heart miss a beat in such a maddening and all too predictable way that she wanted to scream. He’d tricked her into coming here. He was vile. Manipulative. Duplicitous.

  So why was her stupid body betraying her like this?

  Her pulse jolted as he began unbuttoning his shirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting changed.’ Catching sight of her face, he sighed. ‘We have to eat. Well, I do, anyway. And we’re going to have to face people sooner or later. So let’s get it over with. We’ll show our faces, smile, look loved up and then it’s done.’

  ‘Fine. Since you put it so nicely,’ she said stiffly. ‘But just because I’m going to dinner with you it doesn’t change anything.’

  He looked at her for a long moment. Probably it was a new experience for him. No doubt most women would move continents to have dinner with Vicenzu Trapani.

  ‘Of course not,’ he murmured. ‘The bathroom’s through there. I’ll see you downstairs.’ His dark eyes met hers, then dropped to her mouth, then lower still. ‘Call me if you need me to zip you up. Or, better still, unzip you. I’ll be happy to help.’