Public Wife, Private Mistress

They'd never even talked about what had happened. Incensed by the accusation in his eyes and frantic at the steady destruction of their relationship, she'd walked out, expecting him to follow and demand an explana­tion. He hadn't.

She lifted an eyebrow. 'You finally want to talk about this? A year after the event? Don't you think it's a bit late?'

He chose to ignore her sarcasm, but streaks of colour highlighted his incredible bone structure, always a warning of impending trouble. 'Did he know how wild you were in bed? How totally insatiable? There's no way a pathetic little guy like that ever would have been able t

o satisfy your appetite for sex.'

Stasia paled. Only with him. He was the only man who'd ever done that to her. The only man she'd ever been to bed with. But then he'd always credited her with more experience than she had. The night he'd discov­ered that she was a virgin he'd been so shocked that he'd almost been driven to apologize, which would have been a first for Rico Crisanti, a man not given to apol­ogizing for anything.

‘Madre de Dio, why are we even talking about this?' He raked a hand through his dark hair and snatched a jagged breath. 'I need to get some air or I will do some­thing I regret.'

With a final dangerous glance in her direction that left her in no doubt as to the volatile state of his temper, he strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

CHAPTER SIX

Chiara was allowed home a few days later on the un­derstanding that she rested and was supervised.

Stasia knew that she should feel pleased that the teen­ager had recovered sufficiently to be discharged from the hospital, but instead her anxiety levels grew.

She and Chiara had spent a fair degree of time to­gether when she had lived in Rome as Rico's wife and it had been a thoroughly stressful experience. She knew that Chiara hated Rico's villa in Sicily, finding it iso­lated and boring in the extreme. How would they get on, forced to endure what might be weeks in each other's company?

But Chiara, it seemed, was a changed person.

From the moment she arrived at the villa she was pathetically eager to please, determined not to be a nui­sance and outwardly charmed by the view from the ter­race.

'Do you think I might be able to swim in the sea,' she asked, staring longingly across the private beach to where the ocean sparkled in the summer sunshine.

'Try the pool first,' Rico advised, handing her a hat and gesturing to a sun lounger. 'Sit down and Maria will bring you a drink. And you should probably try and sleep. I need to make a few calls. If you need any­thing, ask Stasia. I'll see you at dinner.' He brushed his sister's head in an affectionate gesture and then strode off, leaving her staring after him.

'He's always been more of a father to me than a brother,' she murmured and Stasia looked at her warily, unsure how to respond. She knew that, in the past at least, Chiara had hated that fact. Had hated the fact that Rico was so strict with her.

Stasia kept her response neutral. 'He loves you very much.'

Fortunately Chiara fell asleep and the afternoon passed quickly. Stasia went for a wander through the fruit orchards that surrounded the villa, struggling with memories of the first time Rico had brought her here. She'd fallen in love with the island, with the blend of history and culture and the sheer beauty of the scenery. As excited as any tourist, she'd made

Rico take her to all the most famous sights and together they'd visited magnificent Greek temples, Norman cathedrals and Baroque palaces until the heat and the sheer volume of people had driven them back to the cool privacy of his villa and more intimate pleasures. But those heady, happy days had given her some insight into what it meant to be Sicilian. And she knew that for Rico it was everything.

Deep in thought, Stasia walked under the trees, picked herself an orange and then returned to the cool, vine-covered terrace. Chiara still slept and Stasia curled up on a sun lounger and lost herself in her sketchbook, enjoying the faint breeze from the sea.

By the time Chiara woke it was time to dress for dinner.

Retiring to the sanctuary of the bedroom she'd been using while Chiara had been in the hospital, Stasia found it stripped bare of her belongings.

Immediately she went and found Rico's housekeeper.

'Your things have been moved to the master suite, signora,’ the woman told her gravely and Stasia frowned.

Why would Rico have done that?

Feeling decidedly uneasy, Stasia marched to the mas­ter bedroom and walked in without bothering to knock just as Rico strolled out of the shower, his glorious bronzed body touched by specks of water, a small towel in his hand as he dried his sleek, dark hair.

Stasia stopped dead and ceased to breathe.

Her eyes feasted on him, taking in his broad shoul­ders and the powerful swell of his biceps. She bit back a whimper of need as her eyes drifted to his powerful chest. The shadow of dark body hair seemed to intensify his masculinity and guided the greedy female eye down over his board-flat stomach and lower still to his awe­some manhood.

Suddenly feeling dizzy, she finally remembered to suck breath into her starving lungs, but she couldn't shift her eyes.

His response to her gaze was instantaneous and shockingly basic but he showed absolutely no embar­rassment by his body's blatant arousal. Instead of using the hand towel to preserve his modesty, he threw it carelessly to one side, his eyes fixed on Stasia's face.