Bound to the Sicilian's Bed

His words had faded but a sudden chill had washed over Nicole’s skin.

‘Yours?’ she’d questioned with a perception which had made her suddenly feel quite sick. ‘Is that what you were going to say, Rocco?’

He had shaken his head. ‘Of course not.’

She hadn’t believed him and had started to cry when he’d ‘jokingly’ suggested she might have deliberately sabotaged the condom in order to trap him. Had her woeful, red-eyed face tugged at his conscience? Was that why he’d risen from his desk and walked across the office towards her? His unkind words had been blotted out by the deep sense of gratitude she’d felt when he’d taken her in his arms and told her that of course she must marry him. He was going to stand by her and that meant a lot to someone who had been abandoned as a baby. And of course, she had thought herself in love with him. Yet all the time she had been acutely aware of the dutiful way he went about preparing for their marriage—as if he was being forced into something he’d never intended.

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; If she’d been an independent woman instead of a broke cleaner with hardly any qualifications, might her answer have been different? Would she have tried to go it alone to bring up her baby and told him he was very welcome to have access visits whenever he wanted? She thought not. Even if she had been inclined to embrace single parenthood, she recognised that Rocco would never have allowed that to happen. She had been carrying his child and therefore she had been his possession. That was something else she understood. It was something to do with being Sicilian and something to do with being a Barberi.

Their unlikely union had excited a flurry of interest in the European gossip but the Cinderella slant of the newspaper articles had made her feel somehow...less than—and that wasn’t a good way to start a marriage. And anyway—the whole thing had been a waste of time, hadn’t it? Rocco had only gone through with the wedding because she’d been pregnant—but her body had been unable to hold onto the baby she’d wanted so much. She had failed the baby, just as she had failed Rocco. She had let everyone down. She felt the sting of tears at the backs of her eyes and dabbed at them furiously with a curled-up fist.

She wasn’t going to think about that.

She wasn’t going to let herself go there.

But Nicole’s hands were trembling as the powerful car suddenly turned off the main drag and began to ascend a steep and curving street before eventually coming to a halt at the top, outside a deep rose-hued house with its amazing view over Monaco’s harbour. She looked up at it in surprise. Somehow she hadn’t imagined Rocco living somewhere like this—in a house on a street—not when he had grown up amid roaming acres of olive groves and vineyards in beautiful rural Sicily.

The front door was opened immediately, almost as if someone had been watching out for the car. But it wasn’t Rocco who stood on the doorstep, but a chic woman in a black and white uniform, which made Nicole realise why so many women wore French maid outfits to fancy-dress parties when they were trying to look sexy.

‘Welcome, signora,’ the woman said, with a coral-tinted smile. ‘I’m Veronique and I’m the housekeeper. Signor Barberi’s assistant, Michele, is waiting upstairs for you in his office and I will take you there.’

Slightly disorientated by the size of the entrance hall, Nicole turned to stare out of the still-open front door where the limousine was parked. ‘But my suitcase—’

‘The driver will bring it in and leave it in your room,’ said Veronique. ‘Do not concern yourself. Please. Come with me.’

Nicole followed the housekeeper along a gleaming marble corridor and into a huge room whose only concessions to being an office were a giant desk and a row of clocks on the wall depicting different time zones around the world. For the most part it just looked like an amazing room with an equally amazing view. A tall blonde was waiting for them, her high-heeled shoes matching her fitted pink dress, and Nicole wondered just how many beautiful women Rocco surrounded himself with and whether any of them provided any additional extras.

But that’s none of your business, she told herself fiercely trying to downplay the savage little kick of jealousy which flared up inside her. If he wants to sleep with the staff, that’s up to him.

The blonde stepped forward and extended her hand. ‘Hi! I’m Michele, Rocco’s assistant, and I’m delighted to be able to welcome you to Monaco, Signora Barberi.’

‘Please—call me Nicole.’

Michele smiled. ‘Nicole it is. I’m afraid he’s a bit tied up at the moment.’ She gave an apologetic shrug which suggested she was no stranger to conveying this message. ‘His last meeting went on longer than anticipated and he’s taking a conference call right now. He said to tell you he’ll be with you as soon as he can and that I should show you around.’

Unsure if Rocco’s assistant was aware of the make-believe nature of their reconciliation, Nicole forced herself to adopt an expression of lively curiosity. ‘That would be great.’

‘So why don’t we start down here?’

Nicole followed Rocco’s shapely assistant through the most luxurious house she had ever seen. High-ceilinged reception rooms were studded with modern furniture and once again, she couldn’t help comparing it to Rocco’s Sicilian home. There was no dark wood, or furniture which had been worn down by previous generations who were now unsmiling faces in framed sepia photographs. Everything looked so new and so...bright. She found herself liking it because it had no obvious history and an unexpected smile curved the edges of her mouth. A bit like her, really.

Briefly, she looked around the well-stocked library, peered into an imposing gym and gazed wistfully at the infinity pool which overlooked the Mediterranean, wishing she’d remembered to bring a swimsuit. There were six bedrooms in all, the largest of which was obviously Rocco’s, and Nicole’s heart flipped when she saw her suitcase sitting in the centre of the floor.

‘And this is the master suite,’ Michele was saying. ‘I think you’ll find everything you need, but please let me know if there’s anything else I can get you. The fundraiser doesn’t start until eight tonight so you have plenty of time to acclimatise yourself. Would you like me to leave you to unpack? I expect you want to hang up your dresses.’ Michele glanced diplomatically at Nicole’s battered little suitcase as she indicated a section of inbuilt wardrobe doors. ‘Rocco has left plenty of space for your belongings. Or perhaps you would rather have something to drink first?’

Nicole wasn’t planning on putting her belongings anywhere near Rocco’s, but she didn’t want to embarrass his assistant by telling her that. And there was no way she could ever sleep in here—it was too unsettling on too many levels. She could sense Rocco’s presence everywhere. That tantalising scent which was all his—a subtle mix of sandalwood and bergamot. The well-thumbed crime novel which lay open on the bedside table which was probably on exactly the same page as it had been since his last holiday. She could see a pair of gold and lapis lazuli cufflinks lying on the dressing table—and the intimacy of being inside his bedroom again was causing her heart to contract with a flurry of emotions which was making her feel dizzy.

‘Actually, I’d love something to drink,’ she said weakly.

‘In that case, come and I’ll have someone bring it up to the terrace, which I think you might like.’ Michele’s smile widened. ‘You see, I saved the best for last.’

As soon as Nicole stepped out onto the terrace she realised Michele hadn’t been exaggerating. Pursing her lips into a silent whistle of appreciation, she looked out over the balcony. This was the kind of view which only wads of money could buy and Nicole’s first thought was how much she would like to recreate these colours on clay. The deep azure of the sea lay before her in an endless dazzle and above it was the paler hue of the sky. How incredible it would be to make a collection in all these different shades of blue and maybe to hint at the greens and greys of the distant mountains. It was opulent and stunning and it felt unreal. In fact, she felt unreal. But hadn’t she always felt out of place in this wealthy world she’d left behind?

‘Would you like water, or tea?’ Michele was asking. ‘Or we have champagne, if you prefer.’

Nicole shook her head. ‘No, honestly. Water would be perfect. Thanks.’