Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

She stared at him. Her eyes glittered, pools of darkest blue in her pale face. “No. Nicolo—”

“Take them off. Or I’ll do it for you.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You are not this kind of man,” she whispered. “You are good. You are kind. You are—”

“I am Nick Orsini.” His hands went to his jacket. Undid the buttons. He shrugged it off, unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged that off, too. “As far as you’re concerned, I am exactly the man you expected me to be. I see what I want and I take it.” A cruel smile twisted across his lips. “We suit each other, principessa. A man who takes what he wants. A woman who does the same.”

He closed the distance between them, put his hand in the V of the pale pink silk dress that, only hours before, he had thought the most perfect thing a bride could wear. One hard tug, one gasp from her, and the dress tore and fell to her feet.

“Oh, God,” she said, weeping, “Nicolo, don’t—”

“I told you,” he said grimly. “The name is Nick.”

And he swept his wife into his arms and took her to bed.

He’d meant to take her coldly.

Pin her arms above her head if she fought him. Thrust his knee between her thighs. Take her hard, ride her hard, get himself off without giving a damn if she was ready or not.

Except, she didn’t fight him.

She lay still, her face turned away from him. And she wept. Silently. Agonizingly. Her tears soaked the linen pillowcase; her teeth caught and held her bottom lip.

All his rage drained away. In its place was despair so terrible, so deep, that Nick felt his throat constrict.

He got to his feet. Put on his shirt. Tossed his jacket on a chair. She could use it to hide what he had done to her dress.

Then he walked out of the cabin, went to the front of the plane and sank into a seat.

And knew that he had touched his wife, his achingly beautiful, heartbreakingly dishonest wife, for the very last time.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE marriage had been a mistake.

Nick sat in his leather swivel chair, his back to a massive oak desk, staring out his office windows at the narrow streets of Soho four stories below. He’d endured another day of meetings and phone calls just as he’d done for the past couple of weeks by deliberately blanking his mind to anything but business.

Now, in the waning hours of the long day, he had the one thing he didn’t want.

Time to think.

It was the same every day. Work kept him busy. Busier than ever. He’d taken on meetings and calls that should have been his brothers’ responsibilities. They were happy to let him do it. Things were happening in their lives. Rafe and Chiara were eagerly preparing for the arrival of their first child. Dante and Gabriella had their hands full with their cute toddler. Falco and Elle were looking for a weekend home in Connecticut.

“You sure you don’t mind?” they’d say, when he offered to take a meeting in their place.

“Hey,” he’d say lightly, “what are brothers for?” Or he’d flash a smile and say he’d get even some day and payback would be hell.

What he didn’t say, had not said, had no intention of saying, was that he was as married as they were. His marriage, his wife, the child she carried…

Secrets, known only to him.

There was no way he could keep secrets like those from his family forever.

“Dammit,” he said wearily.

Nick turned toward his desk, propped his elbows on its paper-strewn surface and put his face in his hands.

He wasn’t as married as his brothers. He knew damned well that neither Rafe or Dante or Falco went home to silence at the end of the day, or to a meal eaten alone, or that any of them slept alone as he did, while his wife slept in a bedroom at the end of the hall. And he’d have bet everything that he was the only one who cursed himself a dozen times a day for having been used and trapped into marriage because he’d let himself be played for a fool.