The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage

by Louise Fuller

  Groaning, Vicè slipped his arm around Imma’s waist. ‘Get your own wife and paint her.’

  ‘This is your wife?’ The other man raised an eyebrow appreciatively. ‘Lucky man.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he agreed.

  Imma felt a blush suffuse her cheeks as he stared down into her eyes.

  ‘Very lucky...’

  Roberto shook his head. ‘I think I need to come up with a reason to get you alone, Signora Trapani. Then I can give you the low-down on this guy.’

  ‘She already knows.’ Vicè shook his head. ‘Now, go and stretch some canvases, or whatever it is you do when you’re not bugging me.’

  Imma glanced up at him. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘I just want to dance with my wife.’

  * * *

  She looked so beautiful. A little nervous but she was hiding it well, so that only he would have known. His spine tensed. He liked knowing that he could see beneath her poise, but it made him feel responsible.

  Only how could he be responsible for Imma? He could barely manage his own life, let alone someone else’s.

  Taking her hand, he drew her away from the dance floor.

  She frowned. ‘I thought you wanted to dance.’

  ‘I do. But I want it to be just the two of us.’

  He thought back to when she’d said he had a lot of friends. Were they friends? He stared at the faces, feeling suddenly confused. Tonight none of them seemed even the slightest bit familiar. Nor did he feel like talking to any of them.

  Normally he liked being at the centre of the crowd, surrounded by happy, smiling faces. But tonight the music was too loud, the lights too bright.

  Turning, he led her through a door marked Private, up a spiral staircase and back outside.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said softly. ‘I can hear myself think.’

  ‘You need to think? What kind of dancing are you planning?’ she teased.

  He smiled and pulled her closer. He thought about the party downstairs. And then she leaned forward, her cheek pressing into his shoulder, and he forgot about everything but the feel of her body against his and his hunger for her.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Are you having fun?’

  Looking up at him, she nodded. ‘Yes, but I’m happy to leave whenever you are.’

  Her lips were parted and her eyes looked dark in the moonlight. Without replying, he took her hand and led her back downstairs, his self-control unravelling with every step and turn.

  CHAPTER NINE

  RAISING A HAND to shield her eyes from the sun, Imma put down her book and gazed across the terrace. It really was very hot today—far too hot to read anyway.

  Totti, Matteo’s French bulldog, lay panting beneath the wilting shrubs, and down in the bay even the motorboats were still, smothered into silence by the heat haze shimmering above the blue water.

  She was lying on a lounger, half shielded from the sun by the trailing wisteria that overhung the terrace. And for the first time since arriving in Portofino she was alone in the villa.

  Vicè was dealing with something at the hotel—she wasn’t sure what. After a night of making love she had been too sleepy to do more than mumble when he’d said goodbye.

  At first she’d been glad to have a few moments to herself. To think back to last night...to how he’d held her close as if she was precious to him. She knew he had held her because he liked her, and in his arms all those years of wondering who she was had dissolved.

  But, much as she might have liked to daydream about those blissful hours when he had chosen her over everyone else, she was still Claudia’s big sister and after a few days of just texting she needed to check in with her properly.

  Feeling guilty, she had called her, expecting her to be tearful and crushed and needing reassurance.

  She had been wrong on all counts.

  Claudia had been quiet, but calm, and instead of wanting to talk she had been the one to end their conversation.

  Imma shifted against the cushions. Of course she was glad that her sister was coping so well, and yet it was a shock. Claudia had always been so sweet and shy. But she had sounded focused, determined—like a different person, in fact.

  ‘There you are.’

  She jumped slightly as a cool hand slid over her shoulder and a shadow blocked the sun. Dropping down onto the lounger beside her, Vicè leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth.

  Her heart bumped against her ribs and she tensed, her breath hitching in her throat, her body taut and aching. Surely she should be used to his touch by now? But she was already melting on the inside, her limbs and her stomach dissolving into a puddle of need.

  For a moment her lips clung to his, and she was lost in the warmth and the dizziness of his kiss, and then she shifted back, blinking into the light as he lifted his mouth from hers.

  ‘Was it okay?’ she asked quickly. ‘At the hotel?’

  ‘It’s fine. The guests in Room Sixteen decided to record some new songs. At three a.m. Then they got upset when someone uploaded them to the web.’ He grinned. ‘Here—I thought you might need a drink. I know I do.’ Squinting into the sun, he handed her a glass. ‘One perfect Negroni.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘At ten o’clock?’

  ‘It’s pretty perfect at any time.’ The ice clinked as he tipped his glass up to his mouth. ‘Come on, cara, this is supposed to be your year of living dangerously.’

  As she took the drink, he glanced up at the flawless sky.

  ‘Accidenti, it’s hot today! If you want we can take the yacht out later. It’ll be cooler at sea. We could head down the coast to the Bay of Poets.’

  With his shirt hanging loosely open and his dark hair flopping into his eyes he looked like a poet, she thought. She felt her stomach clench. He might not be as bad or as mad as Lord Byron, but he was certainly dangerous to know.

  Dangerous to her self-control.

  ‘Does that mean you’re going to write me a poem?’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘I might. What rhymes with Immacolata?’

  She smiled. ‘Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. Free verse doesn’t follow any rules.’

  ‘That sounds more like it.’

  His dark eyes rested on her face, the corners of his mouth curving up into a smile that was so unapologetically flirtatious that she burst out laughing.

  ‘You’re impossible.’

  ‘So I’m told.’ He frowned. ‘You’re not getting too hot in the sun, are you?’

  She felt her pulse accelerate, and a shivery pleasure danced down her spine as he leaned forward and ran his fingers lightly over her stomach, stopping at the triangle of her bright yellow bikini bottom.

  ‘Maybe I should rub in some oil,’ he said softly. ‘Just to be on the safe side...’

  That might work for her skin, she thought, but no amount of oil was going to appease the heat inside her.

  She lifted her chin. ‘Or I could just go for a swim.’

  He grinned. ‘Chicken.’

  Ignoring his teasing gaze, she stood up and walked down the steps into the pool. He watched her as she did a slow length, and then, downing his drink, he stripped off his shirt and dived in, slicing through the water without a ripple and surfacing beside her.

  His hands circled her waist.

  ‘You don’t need to hold me.’ She held his gaze. ‘I can swim.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m holding you.’

  He pulled her closer and her eyes widened with shock as she felt the thickness of his erection through his shorts.

  ‘If I pass out, I’m relying on you to get me to safety.’

  His voice had a huskiness to it that made her heart thump out of time.

  ‘So you see me as some kind of lifebelt?’

  His eyes dropped to her mouth, then
lower to where the water was lapping at her breasts. ‘If that means you’re going to wrap yourself around my waist, then yes.’

  ‘I think it’s you that needs cooling off, Vicenzu,’ she teased. And, grabbing hold of his head, she pushed him under the water, then turned and swam away.

  He came up, spluttering, and swam after her, snatching for her ankles and making her scream with laughter and terror until finally he caught her in the shallow end.

  Laughing down at her, he scooped her into his arms and carried her out of the pool, his dark eyes glittering. ‘You are going to pay for that, Signora Trapani. With interest.’

  Her hands gripped his bicep as he lowered his mouth to hers...

  ‘What the—’ He swore softly, his face creasing with irritation. On the other side of the terrace his phone was ringing. ‘I won’t answer it.’

  ‘It’s fine. Honestly.’ Her body twitched in protest but she managed to smile. ‘It might be important.’

  Grimacing, he put her down and strode over to his phone. Picking it up, he glanced briefly at the screen, and her throat tightened as he immediately turned away to answer it.

  It was Ciro. It must be. There was a tension to his body that hadn’t been there before and he clearly didn’t want her to hear his conversation.

  Moments earlier she had been laughing in his warm arms. Now, though, she felt as if someone had slapped her in the face. For the last few days she had all but forgotten how he and Ciro had plotted together against her family. Now here was a blunt reminder.

  Her body stiffening with misery, she watched him pace back and forth, his head bent over the phone, and then, picking up her book, she walked quickly back into the villa.

  Inside it was dark and cool and she felt some of her panic recede.

  Nothing had changed.

  So why did she feel as if it had?

  ‘Imma?’

  She turned. Vicè was standing behind her, a frown still touching his handsome face.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to take you down the coast today.’ His eyes avoided hers. ‘Something’s come up—’

  ‘What’s he done now?’ Her heart was suddenly thumping so hard she could hardly speak. Claudia had sounded fine earlier, but—

  ‘Who?’ He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Your brother.’

  ‘Ciro?’ His eyes widened. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t talking to him. That was my mother.’

  Her pulse slowed. She saw that his face had none of its usual animation, and something in the set of his shoulders made her hold her breath.

  ‘Is she okay?’

  Vicè had told her very little about his mother. All she knew was that Audenzia had moved to Florence, to live with her sister and brother-in-law.

  He shook his head. ‘She’s had a fall.’

  ‘Oh, Vicè...’ Reaching out, she touched his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘She’s okay—just a bit shaken up. She’s not alone. My aunt and uncle are with her. But—’

  ‘She wants you.’ She finished his sentence. ‘Of course she does. We can leave right now. I’ll go and get changed.’

  ‘You want to come with me?’ He looked confused.

  ‘Of course. You can’t go all that way on your own.’ Now it was her turn to look confused. ‘And besides, won’t it look odd if I don’t go with you?’

  He didn’t reply and she stared at him, suddenly mortified. Earlier, in bed and when they’d been laughing by the pool, she had been lulled into forgetting that this was just a mutually convenient arrangement.

  But clearly Vicè hadn’t forgotten. For him, this was still about sun and sex and drinking cocktails by the pool. It was obvious—should have been obvious to her—that his mother would be off limits. He didn’t need or want her there for reasons that were glaringly self-evident.

  She felt his fingers tighten around hers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said slowly. ‘I’d love you to come with me. It just didn’t occur to me that you’d want to.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ She tried to smile. ‘I mean, why would you want me there? After everything my father’s done?’

  ‘I don’t care about what your father did.’ A muscle flickered in his jaw and he pulled her closer. ‘Look at me, Imma. I don’t care—not any more. I told you that’s over. Done. Finished. Forgotten. I just didn’t want you to have to lie to my mother that’s all, to pretend that you love me—’

  Her arms tightened around him. ‘This isn’t about me. It’s about your mother. So if you want me to be there, I’ll be there.’

  Tipping her face up to his, he kissed her softly. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  * * *

  They were about an hour away from Florence when steam began swirling up from the bonnet of the car. Swearing softly, Vicè pulled off the road and switched off the engine.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s overheated. Wait here. I’m going to flip the bonnet and check the radiator.’

  Imma leaned back in her seat. Without the air-conditioning the car began to grow warmer immediately, and she was opening the window when he returned.

  ‘Sorry about this. It’ll be fine. We just need to wait about half an hour for it to cool down a little, and then I can add some water. It gets a bit moody when it’s hot.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Which you’d probably worked out already.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t know anything about cars,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t even drive.’

  ‘What?’ He was staring at her in disbelief. ‘Why not?’

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘There was no point. Papà wouldn’t have liked me going out on my own, and anyway I have a driver.’

  Her heart began to thump. Why had she mentioned her father? The confusion between them back at the villa seemed to be forgotten, but reminding him why his mother was now alone had been stupid and insensitive.

  But after the briefest hesitation his eyes met hers. ‘I’ll teach you to drive, if you want. Maybe not in this one—like I say, she’s a bit moody. But I’ve got other cars.’

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘Of course. A year’s plenty long enough.’

  She kept on smiling, but the implicit reminder that this was a temporary arrangement stung a little more than she knew it should. Not liking the way that made her feel, she searched her mind for something neutral to say.

  ‘So why did you drive this car today if it’s so moody?’

  His face stilled. ‘My mother likes to see me using it. It was my father’s car. His pride and joy. We used to work on it together when I was a teenager.’

  She felt her stomach knot. He seemed distracted by the memory—wistful, even.

  ‘I bet he loved spending man-time with you and Ciro.’

  He hesitated. ‘Ciro wasn’t there. He couldn’t see the point in wasting half a day getting covered in oil. It was just me and Papà.’

  The ache in his voice made that knot tighten.

  ‘You must miss him so much.’

  This time there was a definite pause before he answered. ‘Every day.’ His mouth tensed. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet him. You would have liked him and he would have liked you.’

  ‘I wish I’d met him,’ she said truthfully. ‘From everything I’ve heard he was a true gentleman and a good man.’

  Alessandro Trapani’s reputation was, in fact, the antithesis of her father’s.

  Vicè smiled, but the expression in his eyes was bleak. ‘He was a good man. He had no failings, no flaws.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Actually, that’s not true.’

  He glanced away, and now the knot in her stomach was making her feel sick.

  ‘He had one major flaw. Me.’

  She stared at him in silence, shocked and distressed by the pinched lines around his eyes as much as
the brutality of his statement.

  ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Yeah, you do.’ A muscle pulled at his jaw. ‘You saw right through me.’

  Slowly, she shook her head. ‘If that were true then I would never have slept with you.’

  ‘Oh, you would still have slept with me, cara. You would have told yourself that I needed saving, or maybe that I was misunderstood,’ he said calmly. ‘That’s what you do, Imma. You take care of people...you protect them.’

  ‘And so do you. You take care of people. That’s why they like you.’

  Now he shook his head. ‘They like me because of how I look and how I make them feel about themselves.’

  ‘Your father didn’t feel that way.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. My father knew everything about me. He saw my weaknesses and he loved me anyway. He loved me completely and unconditionally and that was his weakness—like I said, I was his flaw.’

  He smiled at her crookedly.

  ‘You asked me why he didn’t come to me and Ciro for help. Do you remember? You said that neither of his sons had what was needed to save him.’

  ‘I was angry.’

  ‘But you were right. Almost right.’ His shoulders tensed. ‘He couldn’t come to me. He knew I didn’t have any money because I’d just asked him for a loan. Another loan.’

  The tension was spilling over into his shoulders now. And his spine was so taut it looked as though it might snap.

  ‘He could have gone to Ciro. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t—he didn’t want to do that to me. And that’s why he’s dead. Because he wanted to protect me—my ego, my pride. Just like he did my entire life.’

  Imma felt sick. ‘That’s not true, Vicè.’

  ‘It is true.’ His voice cracked. ‘You were right about me. My whole life is a charade and my father played along with it until it killed him. And, you know, the worst part is that since his death I’ve had to just get on with it—and I have. So I could have done it all along. I could have been the son he wanted...the son he needed. Maybe if I had he’d still be alive.’