Public Wife, Private Mistress

Just a few days and he was falling under her spell. It wasn't enough that he had her in his bed every night, he wanted her in every part of his life.

So what sort of a fool did that make him?

Blind to the spectacular view, Rico stared out of the window, remembering the conversation on the beach.

He was not a man given to introspection, not a man given to dwelling on the past. What was the point, when the past couldn't be changed? So why was it that since that conversation he hadn't been able to concentrate on anything?

How could she accuse him of being self-centred?

He worked punishing hours to provide security and a lavish lifestyle for his family. In what way did that make him self-centred? He'd given everything to the marriage. Had offered total commitment, and she'd thrown it back in his face.

Deciding that women were totally incomprehensible, he stared across the garden, forcing himself to review his marriage from a different angle.

Her angle.

Had he really been blind to her needs? His frown deepened. It was true that their relationship had changed once they had returned to Rome after their honeymoon.

He'd been aware of the change but he hadn't stopped to question that change. Until now.

He cast his mind back and shifted slightly, realizing for the first time that he had spent a large amount of time working and possibly neglecting his bride. But pre­vious girlfriends had been all too happy to spend their days exercising his credit card and he'd assumed that Stasia would be the same. Instead he'd found her im­patiently pacing the marbled floors of his palazzo, wait­ing for him to come home. And then she'd stopped waiting and had started working. And there had fol­lowed several occasions where he'd arrived home and she hadn't been there.

He gritted his teeth, acknowledging the fact that he had not reacted well to the fact that his wife had been pursuing her own business interests. But then he wasn't exactly a modern guy. Was he?

What did she think? That he wasn't capable of look­ing after her? That he couldn't provide for his own fam­ily?

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck with a soft curse, remembering that night when he'd come home unexpectedly and found her with a naked man in their bedroom.

Their bedroom.

Sweat broke out on his brow and Rico felt his mus­cles bunch in an instinctive territorial reaction. No, in some areas he most definitely wasn't a modern guy.

But in others-He paused for a fraction of a second, looked round his study with narrowed eyes and then lifted the phone.

Chiara didn't join them for dinner.

'She has a headache,' Stasia explained as soon as Rico strolled on to the terrace. He'd changed into a pair of casual trousers and an open-necked shirt and Stasia allowed herself one glimpse and then fixed her gaze firmly on the view across the terrace. Looking at Rico was a fast route to self-destruction because she knew only too well that looking was never enough. Looking led to touching and before she knew it all her senses were involved. Not just seeing and touching but taste, smell and hearing. Her enjoyment of him was all consuming.

She expected him to sit down opposite her, so when she felt the brush of his thigh against her bare leg she jumped.

'Wine?' Without waiting for her answer, he filled her glass and then his own, his hand strong and steady. 'Is Chiara ill? Do I need to call the doctor?'

Stasia shook her head and tried to inch her chair away slightly. He was too close. 'She just stayed up too long today, I think. She needs to have a siesta tomorrow.'

He nodded and helped himself to some olives, lean­ing back in his chair while one of his staff served the first course. 'She is starting to look a little better.'

Stasia found it hard to concentrate. She was just too aware of him. Did he have to sit so close? What was the purpose, when Chiara wasn't even here to see it?

Unable to stand the mounting tension, she rose to her feet, her breathing rapid, her pulse racing. 'I'm not that hungry—I think I'll just go and paint on the beach-—'

Strong fingers closed around her wrist. 'Sit down.' His dark eyes swept her face. 'It's time we talked. And you should eat. This mozzarella is delicious. The best. It has a very delicate flavour. My cousin keeps one of the top herds of buffalo. The milk is too rich to drink but it makes the very best cheese. Try it.'

She didn't want to eat and she didn't want to talk but one look at his face told her that she was being given no choice so she sat down again and picked up her fork.

'What's the point of talking,' she muttered, 'when Chiara isn't here to listen?'

'This isn't for Chiara,' he said, releasing his grip on her wrist and reaching for his fork, 'it's for us. I want to talk about our marriage. Being here in Sicily has reminded me of how it was at the beginning.'

His voice was slightly roughened and she knew in­stinctively that his mind had been down all the same paths that hers had been down. And she knew that he had found it an equally painful experience.