‘It was Matteo,’ he protested. ‘And he’s seen me naked hundreds of times...’ He paused. ‘You know, at the orgies.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘The orgies—’
‘At the hotel. Surely you’ve read about them?’
He was grinning.
‘Oh, very funny, Vicè.’
He got up, moving smoothly around the table to grab her, laughing softly when she tried to bat him away.
‘Cara, come on. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. You just look so sexy when you’re outraged.’
‘I wasn’t outraged. I was—’
‘Jealous?’
His dark eyes were watching her intently and she felt her pulse jump.
She lifted her chin. ‘Curious.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to stay curious, I’m afraid,’ he said softly, and his calm tone was at odds with the slight tightening of his jaw. ‘You’re mine, and I’m not about to share you with anyone.’
Leaning forward, he kissed her fiercely, parting her lips to deepen the kiss until her head was spinning.
‘Vicè...’ Closing her eyes, she whispered his name, her voice trembling, her stomach flipping over in frantic response to his words as much as to his mouth, her body screaming in protest as slowly he released her.
Opening her eyes, she found him still watching her, his face impassive again.
‘So,’ he said. ‘How would you like to spend the rest of the day?’
He shifted against her, and as his arm grazed her shoulder blade her heart jerked. Earlier, she’d been worried this wasn’t real. Now, though, she could see that a far more likely scenario was her letting it get real in her imagination. Getting ahead of herself, making connections that simply weren’t there and never would be.
For her, every soft word and dark glance might feel meaningful, but the truth was Vicè liked to flirt. It was his default setting. He liked sex too, and it was great that sex had unlocked this wild, uninhibited woman hiding inside of her. But the year was supposed to be about discovering who she was, and sex was only a part of that.
Essentially, the facts hadn’t changed. Theirs was a marriage of convenience and in a year it would be over. She needed to remember that. And until it was over she was going to have to set some rules.
First rule: take a step back. Stop allowing the passion she found in his arms to mislead her and make her forget why she had agreed to this marriage in the first place.
Second rule: get out there and do and try everything at least once. How else was she going to work out who she was?
Smoothing her sundress over her knees, she said offhandedly, ‘I know I said I didn’t want the two of us to go out in public again, but I’d really like to take a proper look around.’
If he noticed the forced casualness in her voice he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he leaned back in his seat and gave her an approving smile. ‘Of course, cara. It would be my pleasure.’
* * *
Imma found the hours that followed both enjoyable and enlightening.
The hotel was larger than she had realised, but still small enough to feel like a private sanctuary, with a decor that cleverly blurred the lines between vintage and contemporary, homely and hip. Chequerboard floors sat alongside huge gilt mirrors and faded hand-painted frescoes of the Dolce’s guests and staff.
‘My friend Roberto painted them in exchange for my letting him have a room over the winter,’ Vicè explained as they wandered out into the lushly beautiful tiered gardens.
There were grander, more opulent, more glamorous hotels, she was sure. But there was something special about the Dolce.
She glanced over at where Vicè stood, joking with Edoardo, the hotel’s legendary seventy-year-old pianist, who played everything from show tunes to swing for the guests sipping aperitivi on the terrace.
Unlike most hotels, everything felt authentic, rather than staged to create a certain vibe. But then not many hotels so closely embodied the personality of their owner. The Dolce was Vicè, and so, like him, it was effortlessly glamorous, flirty and cool.
‘Do you want to dance?’
Vicè had stopped in front of her.
‘Edo can play anything. Although I’d steer clear of rap or thrash metal.’
Biting into her smile, she shook her head, feeling suddenly conspicuous as around them everyone seemed to sit up straighter and glance covertly in their direction.
‘Maybe later.’
Grinning, he took her hand. ‘I’ll hold you to that. Come on, I want to show you my favourite view. Ciao, Edo.’ He turned and waved at the older masn.
‘Ciao, boss. Maybe catch up with you and Signora Trapani later? At the party!’
Imma frowned. ‘There’s a party?’
‘Not here—on the yacht.’ When Imma raised her eyebrows, he shrugged. ‘I have a yacht—the Dolphin. I keep her down in the bay for guests who like to cut loose. There’s a party on board tonight, but obviously I wasn’t going to go.’
She felt a ripple of relief—and then, remembering her refusal to dance, she stiffened her shoulders. What had happened to rule number two?
‘Why not?’ she said quickly. ‘I’d like to go.’
‘You would? Okay...well, if that’s what you want to do, great.’ He shook his head. ‘You are full of surprises, cara.’
She gave him a quick, tight smile. Full of fear, more like. How did you even ‘cut loose’?
‘You’re very quiet,’ he said a moment later, as he led her along a shady path. ‘If you’ve changed your mind about the party—’
‘I haven’t.’ She stared up at him. ‘I was just thinking that you’re full of surprises too.’
He eyed her sideways. ‘Then you’re in a minority of one. Most people think they can read me like a book.’ His eyes met hers. ‘At a guess, I’d say a well-thumbed easy read—a beach blockbuster, maybe.’
He was smiling, but she had that same feeling she’d had before—that there was something more than what he was saying. And suddenly there was nothing she wanted to know more than what he’d left unsaid.
‘That’s what you let them think.’
He’d let her think that too, at first. Now, though, she could see that there was more to him—a whole lot more.
Take the Dolce. She might have limited hands-on business experience, but she understood enough to know that running one required more than charm and a sexy smile.
His guests loved him. His staff too. She could sense real affection and admiration, and they worked hard for him. He seemed to bring out the best in people. Or at least reveal their untapped potential.
‘You have a gift, Vicè,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ve made this like a wonderful private club that’s open to everyone. And you did it on your own.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s a living. It’s not exactly in Ciro’s league. He’s Mr Midas.’
They had reached the villa now and, frowning, she followed him upstairs. ‘Maybe. But some things are more important than money—and I know you believe that or we wouldn’t both be here.’
It felt strange, putting it that way, but it was true. Vicè cared about his father’s legacy enough to put aside his distaste and marry the daughter of his enemy. He had wanted revenge on her father, but he had also thrown her a lifeline by agreeing to marry her for a year.
And if revenge was all he was after he certainly wouldn’t have agreed to sleep on any sofa.
‘You care about your staff, your guests, your family. And it shows. You should be proud of that—of everything you’ve achieved. I’m sure your family is.’
‘Careful, cara. I’m already “impossibly arrogant”.’
She recognised her own words, but she didn’t smile. ‘Actually, I don’t think you are,’ she said quietly.
His eyes locked with hers.
‘You’r
e very smart, Imma.’ Lifting a hand, he stroked her dark hair away from her face. ‘Way too smart for me.’
Her heart began to beat faster and she felt heat break out on her skin. Vicè was wrong. If she was smart she would follow her own rules and stop her body reacting to his lightest touch.
‘Not always.’ Glancing round the bedroom, she frowned. ‘I thought you were going to show me your favourite view?’
‘I’m looking at it,’ he said softly. He hesitated, his eyes never leaving her face. Then, ‘Although I might need to make one small adjustment...’
He took a step towards her and, hooking the thin straps of her dress with his thumbs, he slipped them down over her shoulders. A muscle flickered in his jaw as it slid down her body, pooling around her feet.
Her mouth dried. Caught in the beam of his dark, shimmering gaze, she felt herself melt.
‘Perfect,’ he said hoarsely.
He leaned over to kiss the bare skin of her throat, and then she was pulling him backwards, onto the bed, all rules forgotten and broken.
* * *
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I bought you something for tonight.’
Leaning forward, Vicè planted a kiss on Imma’s lips. As she stared up at him dazedly he sat down on the bed, handing her a large cardboard box wrapped in ribbon.
‘I’m going to go and get changed, and then I’ve got a couple of things to go over with Matteo. Come down when you’re ready.’
Ten minutes later he was downstairs, pouring himself and Matteo a glass of wine, his eyes dutifully scanning the guest list.
But his mind was elsewhere.
After they had made love Imma had fallen asleep, but he had been too restless to doze off. Lying next to her soft, naked body had been impossible too, so he’d got dressed and wandered down to the town for the early-evening passeggiata.
He’d been wandering through the square, past the cafes and bars, stopping occasionally to greet people, when he’d seen it.
It was the first dress, the first anything, he’d ever bought for a woman.
His mother didn’t count.
He hadn’t blinked—just walked in through the door of the boutique and walked out again five minutes later, with the box under his arm and a stupid grin on his face.
It was only now that he was wondering why he’d felt the need to get her a gift. Why he was suddenly so keyed up, so desperate to see her happy.
But wasn’t it obvious?
She’d been upset, in tears, and he’d felt guilty. Great. He could add it to the teetering pile of guilt he already carried around.
His breath scraped his throat as he remembered their conversation.
Imma thought he was an amazing businessman. A self-made man. The pride of his family. What a joke. She’d been closer to the mark when she’d accused him of living a charade.
His whole life was a charade. And the worst part was that his father—the one person who had known his weaknesses, his flaws—had lost his life playing along with it.
He wanted to tell her the truth, but he couldn’t bear the idea of losing the respect and trust he’d gained. So now he was trapped in yet another charade.
Only how long would it be before he messed up and she saw him for what he really was? It was only a matter of when, and how, and in the meantime there was nothing he could do but wait for things to fall apart.
‘Any problems, boss?’
Glancing at Matteo, he shook his head. He’d barely looked at the names on the guest list, but frankly he didn’t care who was going to the party as long as Imma was there.
His stomach knotted.
He wanted to show her that he wasn’t just a playboy who used his hotel as a private clubhouse. Okay, it was true that if Ciro had been running the business he would have already turned it into a global chain of luxury hotels. But his business was about more than world domination.
It was about people. Treating people like VIPs. And tonight he wanted to make Imma feel special.
He wanted her to enjoy herself. To relax, to laugh, to smile. More specifically, he wanted her to turn that sweet, shy smile his way.
‘It all looks great, Matteo.’
The two men stood up and Vicè clapped his manager on the shoulder.
Matteo grinned. ‘Okay, capo. I’ll catch up with y—’ He stopped midsentence, his mouth hanging open.
Turning, Vicè did the same. Imma was hovering in the doorway, biting her lip. Her hair was in some kind of chignon, and with her smoky eye make-up and glossy lips she looked as if she’d wandered off the set of a Fellini film.
And then there was her dress.
Beside him, Matteo whistled softly. ‘I’ll leave you to it, boss.’
He skirted past Imma, smiling, and Vicè heard the soft click of the door.
She turned, the smile she had given Matteo still on her face. ‘Could you finish zipping me up, please?’
‘Of course.’ Finding his voice, he crossed the room. ‘There—done.’
He couldn’t stop himself from dropping a kiss to the column of her throat, his body hardening as he felt her shiver of response.
‘Thank you for the dress,’ she murmured.
‘You look beautiful.’
Glancing down, he swallowed. The heavy satin looked like freshly poured cream, and his groin clenched as his brain feverishly rushed to bring that image to life in glorious 3D Technicolor.
‘It fits perfectly.’
She smiled. ‘You look pretty perfect too.’ Her eyes skimmed appreciatively over his dark suit.
Recovering his poise, he made a mocking bow. ‘This old thing?’ As she started to laugh he held out his arm. ‘Shall we go?’
* * *
Gazing across the water, Vicè breathed in the fresh, salt-tinged air.
The blunt outline of the motorboat was skimming easily over the indigo waves, the hum of its engine lost in the vastness of the bay. Behind him the glittering bracelet of lights along the Portofino seafront was starting to fade.
He glanced over to where Imma sat beside him. Her green eyes were wide with nerves or excitement or both, her cheeks flushed already from the rushing breeze.
They were on their way to the yacht, and he was still slightly surprised at her eagerness to go. But then nothing should surprise him about this woman who had agreed to be his wife. She had been surprising him ever since she’d walked into that church and refused to meet his eye.
Leaning back against his seat, he studied her profile.
Immacolata Buscetta. Prized eldest daughter of a notorious bully and a thief and a chip off the old block. But Imma was most definitely not what she seemed. The clues had been there. He’d just been too blinkered with anger to do anything more than focus on the obvious.
He had believed what he’d wanted to believe, and the fact that she was not the woman he had thought her to be was unsettling enough. More unsettling still was the fact that had she just walked away he would never have known his mistake.
Never got to know her.
The thought of that happening made his stomach clench.
Or maybe it was the sudden swell of the sea as the motorboat slowed alongside the yacht.
‘Party’s started,’ he remarked as they stepped on board.
He felt a rush of exhilaration beat through his body in time to the music drifting down through the warm evening air. Here, he was king. This was his world. And he loved it. He loved the laughter, the pulsing bass notes and the waiters with their trays of champagne. He loved the buzz of energy and the beautiful women with their sequins and high heels.
His eyes roamed slowly down over Imma’s body. Actually, make that one specific woman...
His heartbeat stalled. But who said anything about love?
Turning towards her, he caught her hand and pulled her towards him. ‘Le
t’s join in.’
* * *
Imma felt her heart start to pound.
As they made their way through the crowded yacht she felt even more exposed than when they’d first walked into the hotel together.
Everyone was so beautiful. Particularly the women. All of whom were looking at Vicè with naked longing. She knew what they were thinking. It would be like seeing a peahen with her mate. They must all be wondering how such an ordinary bird could attract this glittering peacock.
‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly as someone called out Vicè’s name. ‘I think everyone here believes we’re married. You don’t need to stay glued to my side all evening.’
His brows locked together. ‘I couldn’t care less what they believe, cara. I’m staying glued to your side because I want to. I like being with you, okay?’
She stared at him, her doubts suddenly losing shape, growing hazy next to his muscular solidity and the steady focus of his dark eyes.
‘Okay then...’
It took them some time to actually get anywhere. People kept coming over to talk to him, and every person needed introducing.
‘Do you know everyone here?’ she asked as finally they made their way out into the deck, what seemed like several hours later.
‘I suppose I do.’
Glancing back into the crowded saloon, he made a face. ‘I know that must seem crazy, but it’s what I do—it’s who I am.’
She smiled. ‘You have a lot of friends.’
And yet he still seemed to prefer her. The thought made warm bubbles of happiness rise inside her.
He smiled down at her. ‘They’re your friends too now. Now, how about that dance?’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’
Swinging round, Vicè grinned at the lanky dark-haired man standing beside him. ‘Is that the best you’ve got, Roberto? Really?’
‘I’m a starving artist. I’m used to humbling myself.’
‘You’re an artist?’ Imma frowned. ‘Are you the Roberto who painted those frescoes in the hotel?’
‘One and the same.’ He made a small bow. ‘But I would much prefer to paint you, bella.’
The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage Page 14
