Bound to the Sicilian's Bed

‘You never talk about our child, Rocco.’

She saw a shadow briefly cloud his face but if she’d been expecting heartache, or anger, or pain, or longing, or any of the dark stream of emotions which had dragged her down into the depths of despair so many times, then she was about to be disappointed. Because Rocco was putting his cup down on the saucer as calmly as if she’d just asked him how often it rained in Monaco, his rugged features as impassive as she’d ever seen them, his blue eyes their habitual shade of cold.

‘What is there to talk about?’ he questioned tonelessly. ‘It happened and there’s nothing we can do to change it. We both wish it hadn’t, but there you go.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more I can add to that and neither do I intend to.’

She wanted to shake him. To rail at him. To accuse him of being unfeeling and heartless—but how could she do that when he’d never pretended to be otherwise? Everything she’d ever wanted from Rocco Barberi, he was incapable of giving her. She had been determined to somehow win his love if only she tried hard enough. But love wasn’t a competition you could win, she realised—and even if it was, surely having a winner would imply there had to be a loser.

And she didn’t want to be that loser.

She didn’t want to be anchored by the past. She wanted to be free of heartache and regret. Of him.

Briefly she thought about getting up from the table and telling Rocco she was going back to England and if he wanted to make her wait for her divorce, then she would just have to suck it up. But she had run away once before and where had that got her? It had left her with an underlying feeling of failure, no matter how many modest achievements she’d managed to chalk up along the way. Wasn’t facing up to the truth like this—in a way they had never done in their marriage—a therapy of some kind, even if it hurt like hell?

But Rocco didn’t hurt, did he? Rocco didn’t give anything away. Not then and certainly not now.

Pushing back her chair, she rose to her feet and flung her napkin over her uneaten toast. ‘Oh, what’s the point of trying to talk to you?’ she said. ‘So why don’t I make it easy for you, Rocco? Let’s just spend the day apart and I’ll join you for your cocktail party later. That way neither of us will have to endure a second more of each other’s company than we need to. I’ll be there for you in public and that’s what matters. That was the deal, wasn’t it?’

Rocco’s eyes narrowed. He was aware that he had hurt her and wondered if that had been deliberate. Part of him had suspected that his blunt answers to her unwanted questions would have her running for the hills again—and wouldn’t that have been simpler? Things were certainly less complicated when Nicole wasn’t around, because she was turning into a constant stream of surprises. For a start, she wasn’t intimidated by him. Not any more. She had the courage to ask him stuff and had been surprisingly calm when he’d given her the brutal truth.

At times during that uncomfortable conversation, she had clearly been trying to hold back her own feelings. There had been anger on her face and bitterness, too. And pain, of course—plenty of that. But no tears. He found himself wondering if it was a struggle for her to maintain that politely enquiring expression and from somewhere he felt the unfamiliar stab of his conscience. Had he been unnecessarily harsh with her?

‘Yes, that was the deal,’ he agreed slowly. ‘But maybe we could amend it.’

‘Really?’ Their eyes locked. ‘And just what did you have in mind, Rocco?’

It was unlike Rocco to search for the unspoken but he did so now. He saw the expression of resignation which had flattened her green eyes—as if sex was all he was capable of offering her. And even though up until a few minutes ago he might have echoed those very sentiments, now his ego rebelled against such an assumption. He would not tolerate being regarded as a stud, but it was more than that. Their conversation had left him feeling disquieted. He could see how vulnerable it had left his estranged wife, no matter how hard she tried to disguise it. And vulnerability was always a danger where women were concerned. It made them capable of misinterpreting an act of physical intimacy and loading it with imaginary significance. If they had sex right now, wouldn’t it be asking for trouble?

He let his gaze drift over the simple white sundress which flattered her curvy body. She looked as sweet as on that first evening he’d met her, when she’d stood in front of him in her cleaner’s uniform, looking guilty for having splashed him with soapy water. The fabric of his trousers had been warm and wet against his ankle but all he could remember was the emerald blaze of her eyes—and Rocco was unprepared for the sudden jolt of nostalgia he experienced.

His jaw clenched.

No. Sex would be a bad idea. He needed to get them as far away from the vicinity of a bedroom as possible and, for once, the idea of leaving her to sun herself by the pool while he buried himself in work was leaving him cold. ‘Why don’t I take you walking?’ he said.

‘Walking?’ she echoed.

‘I meant around the Rock.’

‘The Rock?’

‘That’s what everyone calls Monaco. Because it’s built on a rock,’ he added.

‘I’d kind of worked that one out for myself, Rocco.’

He gave a reluctant laugh as his gaze travelled to her feet—currently encased in a pair of high, strappy wedges which defined her shapely ankles and briefly made him regret his impetuous decision. ‘Do you have anything more suitable you could wear?’

‘Like trainers?’

‘Trainers would be fine,’ he said evenly. ‘Why don’t you go and put them on?’

Glad to escape the disturbing scrutiny of his gaze, Nicole sped upstairs, her heart pounding as she pushed open her bedroom door. She’d straightened the rumpled bedding before going down to breakfast but someone had obviously been in and changed the linen because now the bed looked so pristine that last night might never have happened. But it had. She could feel her cheeks heating as she located her sneakers, trying to forget their explosive passion and to remember instead what he’d just told her.

He had only married her because of the baby.

She remembered the doctor telling her that early miscarriage was very common. That she should go home to her husband and get pregnant again as soon as possible. But how could that be possible when Rocco h

ad resolutely stayed away from her after she’d lost the baby? When he’d seemed almost relieved to have a legitimate reason not to resume marital relations. Was that how he’d felt only been afraid to admit it? Had some part of him recognised that the terrible thing which had happened was probably best in the long run, if it freed him from a marriage he had never intended?

But she had never asked him, had she? Had never sat him down or confronted him and not just because she was feeling out of her depth as the billionaire’s new bride. She hadn’t talked about stuff because, in a way, she hadn’t known how. Those years in foster homes hadn’t exactly been warm and although Peggy Watson had loved her like a mother, she had come from a fierce generation of practical Irishwomen who got on with things, rather than discussing how they made them feel.