Public Wife, Private Mistress

He'd accused her. Matching his temper, burn for burn, she'd walked out without even bothering to de­fend herself, so angry with him that she hadn't trusted herself to speak. Hadn't trusted herself not to do him physical damage.

If she'd needed further evidence that they just couldn't live together, that they were just too different, then she'd had it that night. And if a small part of her had secretly hoped he'd come after her— fight for their relationship —then that part of her had soon been dis­appointed.

They hadn't seen each other since. He'd seen and he'd judged. End of story.

'In my vocabulary "we" means you and I,' he snapped impatiently, 'and, despite your constant digs about my lifestyle, I have never had delusions of gran­deur.'

That may probably be true, she conceded, and yet in Sicily and Italy he was treated like royalty.

It had been another one of their shared jokes— Cinderella and the Prince.

But neither of them was joking now.

Why would he possibly want her to go anywhere with him ?

They both knew that she wasn't what he wanted in a wife.

And yet here he was, standing in her doorway, his broad shoulders almost obliterating the light. And it wouldn't have surprised her to discover that Rico could control night and day. He had control over almost ev­erything else. He was a man who led while others fol­lowed.

And something had led him to her door.

'I can't imagine what possessed you to come here when you know full well that I'd never agree to go anywhere with you again. I gave up being a groupie a year ago.'

Had given up being a slave to sex. because that had been the only level on which they had truly connected. Whatever else had gone wrong between them, the sex had always been amazing.

Instead of the incisive retort she'd been expecting, a tense silence followed her declaration. Anticipating the usual verbal sparring. Stasia braced herself and then registered the tension in his broad shoulders and the signs of strain stamped on his flawless features. With a sudden feeling of unease, she realized that he looked tired. And Rico Crisanti was never tired. He had more stamina than anyone she'd ever met. He'd frequently kept her awake all night only to leap out of bed at dawn to attend a business meeting, leaving her to sleep off the sex-induced exhaustion brought on by a night of continual love-making.

Something was very wrong.

She glanced behind him and noticed his driver and two bodyguards that she didn't recognize.

She frowned. 'Where's Gio?'

During the brief period of their marriage, she'd grown fond of Rico's head of security and she knew that he was much more than an employee to Rico. A fellow Sicilian who had known Rico from birth, Gio was frank and straightforward and was rarely far from Rico's side. He'd made Rico's protection and privacy his personal crusade.

'He is at the hospital.' Rico's tone was terse. 'He's the only person I trust to keep the mob at bay.'

His words sank in slowly. 'Hospital?' She frowned. 'Why is he at the hospital? What's happened?'

'Chiara had an accident. She came off her horse.' He delivered that piece of news in clipped tones, his voice displaying not a flicker of emotion. 'She is in a coma. I assumed you would have seen the papers. The story has been everywhere.'

Chiara was in a

coma?

'I don't read newspapers any more.' She'd had enough of featuring in newspapers when they had been together and she had every reason to loathe the press. Since they'd parted, she'd stopped reading newspapers of any sort. Stasia stared at him. 'Is she badly injured?'

'Si.' He seemed to sag in front of her and she felt a flicker of concern.

She'd never seen Rico like this before. He looked grey. Exhausted. Like a man at the very limit of his reserves. Instinctively she stepped to one side. 'You'd better come in.'

He followed her into the cottage, stooping slightly to avoid banging his head on the door, a frown drawing his ebony brows together as he glanced around him. 'Why are you living like this?' He glanced round him, distaste evident in every angle of his handsome face as he surveyed her tiny sitting room with the one ancient sofa. 'Are you short of money?'

Temporarily forgetting her concern, she felt the anger bubble inside her. With him, everything came down to money. It never occurred to him that she might choose to live in this cottage because she liked it.

'My life is none of your business.' How could she ever have fallen in love with a man who was so emo­tionally stunted? 'You didn't show any interest in it before, so I don't see why you would now.'

'You do not need to live like this. You are my wife—'