Bound to the Sicilian's Bed

‘That’s fine,’ she said.

‘Then let’s get going,’ he said roughly.

Silently, they slipped away from the party and Nicole could see people smiling as they passed. Were they assuming that she and the Sicilian were sneaking away to celebrate the impending deal, or maybe the renewal of their own relationship?

And for one brief moment, didn’t some rogue part of her wish it had been a real reconciliation instead of a cold-blooded arrangement to settle some unfinished business? Instead, she risked getting herself in even deeper than before, by agreeing to return to a place full of difficult memories—a place where she had been nothing more than an outsider. Would Rocco remember that and look out for her or would he simply throw her to the lions, the way he’d done before?

A hundred questions were bubbling up inside her and she stole a glance at Rocco as his private jet soared up into the starlit skies over Monaco, wondering if she should just be upfront and ask them. But his profile was hard and uncompromising and, sensing he had little appetite for conversation, or any more of her unwanted questions, Nicole spent the flight in an uneasy silence.

CHAPTER TEN

IT WAS DARK when Rocco’s jet landed in Sicily and the air was as deeply scented as Nicole remembered. She breathed it in with remembered clarity, her senses saturated by the fragrance of lemon and jasmine, and earth baked warm by the sun. She thought how peculiar it was that the stars on this island always seemed brighter than they did anywhere else, or maybe it was just that the sky was darker.

Suddenly a whole shoal of memories began to bombard her. Memories which had the power to make her heart twist with regret. The way she’d felt about Rocco when he’d brought her here. The way he’d kissed her and told her that he would try to be the best father he could. The way she’d lain in his arms and imagined a future for them with their baby. She shook her head a little, surprised by the sudden yearning which washed over her. Was it self-protection which had made her forget all the positive stuff about their marriage, hoping that would make it easier to forget him?

She walked down the aircraft steps where a car was waiting, with a driver Nicole recognised sitting behind the wheel. He gave her a brief nod of acknowledgment, and as he and Rocco slipped naturally into dialect Nicole turned to look out of the window as they drove through the darkened Sicilian countryside.

She stared at the olive trees which lined the roads, their leaves metallic as they glinted beneath the moonlight, their fruits tiny and as yet unripened. The countryside looked unfamiliar in the darkness but the sprawling Barberi residence was exactly as she remembered. As the electronic gates swung open Nicole could see the various residences laid out before her, and the lateness of the hour would have normally ensured that the main house was dark and silent. But the lights blazing from the windows indicated that things were far from ‘normal’.

Rocco turned to her as soundlessly the car slid to a halt in the forecourt, his features shadowed. ‘Why don’t you make your way to our house and get settled in?’

She nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘‘I’ll go straight to Turi. If you want anything to eat or drink, Maria will still be up.’

Was that a flash of fear she could read in his eyes as he pushed open the car door? The fear of confronting the mortality of someone you loved? Impulsively, she reached across for his hand and squeezed it and for a moment Rocco stilled before squeezing hers back. And Nicole thought how strange it was that such a small gesture could somehow seem more intimate than sex itself.

‘Send Turi my love,’ she said huskily.

‘I will.’

Carrying her small suitcase, Nicole made her way across the terrace towards the house where she and Rocco had begun and ended their married life. Security lights flickered on and illuminated the imposing building in a golden halo of light. Our house, Rocco had said, but it had never really been her house, had it? And it had certainly never felt like home. It had been filled with dark antique furniture which had been in the Barberi family for many decades, and she’d found the style heavy and oppressive but had been too timid to suggest any changes. Too timid to do anything really, except feel eternally grateful that Rocco hadn’t kicked her out on the street when she’d fallen pregnant.

Pushing open the door, she clicked on the lights and began to reacquaint herself with the place, trying to get herself into a state of calm to face whatever lay ahead. It was all exactly as she remembered. Only the room they’d designated as a nursery had altered. The crib had gone and so had that swirly animal mobile which she’d brought with her from England. Everything gone. The walls were painted a neutral colour instead of that sunny yellow, and, although it was furnished with a couple of comfortable armchairs and a sophisticated sound system, it didn’t look like a room anyone had ever used. Because Rocco didn’t live here any more, she reminded herself fiercely. And he’d never even told her why he’d left.

She went to the bathroom, stripped off her red dress and took a long shower—the soapy water sluicing off her heated skin making her feel relatively human again. Afterwards she raided her suitcase for the T-shirt which doubled as a nightshirt and slipped it on. She found some cold water in the fridge and drank it and thought maybe she should stay awake in case Rocco came back. But she was tired. Bone-tired. So much had happened in such a short time. Perhaps she would just lie down and wait.

Unable to face the master bedroom, she grabbed a blanket and lay on one of the sofas in the sitting room, yawning heavily and trying to keep her heavy eyelids open. But Rocco didn’t return and the minutes ticked by—and next thing she knew she could feel the warmth of the morning sun on her face. Blinking, she scrambled off the sofa. She’d left the shutters open and she gazed out at the Sicilian morning. Alrea

dy, the sky was a deep and cloudless blue and in the distance she could hear the sound of church bells. The birds were singing like crazy and the sheer beauty of the morning inexplicably bolstered her spirits. She found her case and she put on jeans and a T-shirt. As she brushed her curls she thought about Turi and offered up a silent prayer that he’d made it through the night.

It would have been easier to go into the kitchen to see if there was any coffee but Nicole knew she couldn’t keep putting off going into the room she’d never thought she would see again. Her pulse was skittering against her wrists as she walked into the bedroom she’d shared with Rocco—an elegant room dominated by a huge antique bed. She remembered how gentle he’d been with her. So protective of the new life inside her. Only now could she understand the reason for the exaggerated delicacy with which he’d handled her, when at the time she’d feared he now longer found her attractive. It was strange the perspective which distance gave you.

Swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat, she looked around. On one of the walls was her only contribution to the décor—a black and white photograph of New York, which she’d admired on their honeymoon and which Rocco had secretly bought and had shipped here, so it was waiting for her on their return. She remembered being overwhelmed by the gesture, thinking it symbolised a romantic future which hadn’t ever materialised. And it twisted her heart with nostalgia as she stared at it. Why was it still hanging there?

She wasn’t sure what made her open the closet but what she found inside unsettled her even more than the picture had done. Because all her clothes were there—exactly as she’d left them. Neat lines of colour-coordinated outfits which had been chosen by the expensive London stylist. Shirtdresses and neat trousers—all with toning shoes and accessories. Yet looking at them now she could see that, although they weren’t her style, they were in no way offensive. Why had she made such a fuss about them?

She sighed. The problem hadn’t been in the choice of clothes, but in her. If you let people treat you like a doll then you couldn’t really complain when they did, could you? She wondered, if she could do it all again, whether she would have behaved differently, but really she knew the answer. Of course she would—but the outcome would probably have been the same. Because a marriage could only work if it was based on love and Rocco didn’t have the ability to love—he’d told her that himself.

As if thinking about him had somehow conjured him up, Rocco chose that moment to walk into the bedroom and Nicole’s questions were forgotten as she searched his face, registering eyes which were shadowed from lack of sleep and a hard and unsmiling mouth.

Her heart squeezed. ‘Turi?’ she questioned, her voice squeaky with anxiety.

His jaw tightened but he nodded. ‘He’s hanging on in there. He’s in some kind of deep sleep. He didn’t seem to know I was there.’ He paused and a muscle began to work at his temple. ‘I don’t know if he’s well enough to see you right now and—’

‘Honestly, Rocco—it doesn’t matter.’ Her words tumbled over themselves. ‘He may not have been himself when he suggested seeing me—and there’s your brother and sister to consider. I don’t want him exhausted when they arrive and maybe I’d better not—’

‘Shh,’ he said, and his voice was unexpectedly gentle. ‘It’s okay. The doctor says that, physically, he’s as strong as an ox—and he’s been defying the odds all his life. Let’s just see how he goes. He wants to see you, Nic—and as far as I’m concerned, that’s what’s going to happen.’