Rocco’s outrageous proposition:

His estranged wife will spend one final weekend in his bed!

When Rocco’s runaway wife asks for a divorce, the Sicilian billionaire seizes his chance! They’ve never discussed their painful past, but this is the perfect opportunity to get Nicole out of his system for good. He offers her a deal: if Nicole wants to move on with her life, she will be his one last time!

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition by describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring often stubborn but always to die for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Also by Sharon Kendrick

The Billionaire’s Defiant AcquisitionCrowned for the Prince’s HeirDi Sione’s Virgin MistressA Royal Vow of ConvenienceSecrets of a Billionaire’s MistressThe Sheikh’s Bought WifeThe Pregnant Kavakos BrideThe Italian’s Christmas Secret

The Bond of Billionaires miniseries

Claimed for Makarov’s BabyThe Sheikh’s Christmas Conquest

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Bound to the Sicilian’s Bed

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07180-2

BOUND TO THE SICILIAN’S BED

© 2018 Sharon Kendrick

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For darling Pete Crone, who is a constant inspiration to this sometimes (!) frazzled writer, and has many of the attributes of the romantic hero.

And for Charlie Bell, director at Vardags—the amazing law firm with the amazing view over London—who provided invaluable help for this story.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

ROCCO BARBERI FELT anger pumping through his veins and it was enough to stop him in his tracks. Because he didn’t do anger. He was known as a man of cool calculation. His implacable Sicilian features were notorious for never betraying a flicker of emotion and his business rivals often said he would have made a world-class poker player. So why was rage flooding through him like hot lava as he stood outside a tiny art shop in some God-forsaken Cornish town?

He knew why. Because of her. His wife. His mouth twisted. His estranged wife. The woman who was standing inside the shop studying some sort of vase, her thick dark curls cascading down her back, leading the eye naturally to her narrow waist and the luscious curve of her bottom. The woman who had walked away from him without a qualm, uncaring of his reputation and everything he had done for her.

He pushed open the door and the doorbell jangled loudly as he walked in. He saw her look up, her face freezing with shock—and Rocco enjoyed a brief moment of pleasure as he read disbelief in those green eyes, which had once so bewitched him. He heard her suck in an unsteady breath and as she put the vase down he noticed her fingers were trembling. Good, he thought grimly. Good.

‘Rocco,’ she said breathlessly and he could see her throat constricting as she swallowed. That long, pale neck he had once covered in urgent kisses before moving on to the infinitely softer territory of her breasts. ‘What...what are you doing here?’

The deliberate pause he allowed was just long enough to increase the sudden tension, which had gathered like a storm cloud in the small shop. ‘You’ve just served me with divorce papers, Nicole,’ he drawled. ‘What did you think would happen? That I would just sign over half my fortune and let you walk off into the sunset with a toss of your pretty curls? Is that what you were hoping?’

She was brushing a dark spiral of hair away from a face flushed pink—acting with the self-consciousness of a woman who was uncertain about her appearance and Rocco was unprepared for the sudden wave of lust which washed over him. Would she have taken a little more care with her clothes if she’d known he was coming—worn something a little more flattering than those faded jeans and a filmy white shirt, which concealed far too much of those luscious breasts?

‘Of course I wasn’t,’ she answered, still in that faintly breathless voice. ‘I just thought...’

‘Yes?’ His voice rang out flatly and he saw her flinch.

‘That you might have given me some kind of warning.’

‘You mean, like you did when you walked away from our marriage?’

‘Rocco—’

‘Or when your lawyer sent me those papers last week?’ he continued relentlessly. ‘You didn’t even do me the courtesy of a phone call to let me know you were about to file for divorce, did you, Nicole? Which naturally led me to the conclusion that you were the kind of woman who favoured surprises. So here I am,’ he finished softly. ‘Your big surprise.’

Nicole felt dizzy. Faint. And not just because of the steely accusations which were slicing through the air towards her. She met the blaze of his eyes and wondered how, after just a few seconds in his company, she was already feeling mixed up and at a disadvantage. She hadn’t seen Rocco Barberi for two whole years yet his impact was as devastating as it had ever been. Maybe even more so. She’d forgotten the way he could dominate the space around him and make any room seem to shrink whenever he walked in. She’d forgotten because she’d forced herself to forget the man she had loved even though duty had been the only thing on his mind when he’d slipped that wedding band on her finger. She licked her lips. Maybe she’d been foolish to expect anything deeper when their relationship had been doomed from the start—because those kinds of relationships always were. Rich man/poor girl was all very well in theory, but in practice...

She thought about the fuss which had surrounded their unlikely marriage and all the lurid newspaper headlines which had been splashed around. It had been a big story at the time. ‘Sicilian Billionaire Weds Cleaner’—and the inevitable: ‘Fairy Tale Marriage Turns Sour’. And then it had ended as abruptly as it had begun. She’d walked away from him and their marriage because she’d needed to. The gulf between them had widened to such a distance that she’d known there was no going back, and when she’d lost the baby there had been no reason for them to be together any more. She’d needed to break free in order to survive.

She had told herself that over and over again in those early days after she’d left Sicily. At first every painful minute had seemed like an eternity but gradually the days had drifted into weeks and eventually months. She hadn’t taken Rocco’s phone calls or answered his letters because she’d known that a clean break was the only way she would have the courage to end it, although it had felt like torture at the time. When the months had turned into years she’d assumed Rocco had accepted they were better off apart, just as she had done. Yet here he was, just turning up out of the blue. In her shop and in her life. It felt as if someone were crushing her heart between their fingers. It brought the pain of the past rushing back so fast that she had to remember to breathe.

And that was what she needed to focus on—her brief tenure as Rocco’s wife. The reality—not the fairy tale, which had never really existed anyway. When even her choice of clothes had been dictated by the influential Sicilian billionaire who had treated her like an old-fashioned chattel he’d been forced to purchase against his better judgement.

But that didn’t stop her looking at him. From letting her gaze drift over his muscular physique, clad today in one of those expensive charcoal suits he favoured, which emphasised every honed sinew of his remarkable body. Her throat dried as she registered the pale shirt which contrasted so vividly with his olive skin. Had she hoped she might have acquired some kind of immunity to him in the intervening years? Of course she had—because hope was the one emotion which defied logic, the one which could make you get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other no matter how dark the world seemed outside. Yet Rocco seemed even more dazzling than she remembered—as if absence had only added an extra dimension to his powerful sexuality.

His glowing skin was dark and his startling blue eyes spoke of a distant Greek ancestry. Eyes which could fell you with a single look. Which could undress you in seconds before his hands accomplished the task far more efficiently. The last time she’d seen him Nicole had felt numb with pain and an emptiness which had left little room for anything else.

But now?

She could feel the erratic thumping of her heart. There was no such numbness now. Her senses felt as if he’d kick-started them into life without even trying. She could feel it in the prickle of her breasts and the molten rush of heat to her belly. A familiar restlessness entered her body as it shivered into life and memories of being in his arms were enough to bring a renewed flush of colour to her cheeks. But those thoughts and feelings were nothing but a distraction—as well as a waste of time. There was no point in desiring Rocco. She was nothing to him and she never had been. Just the woman he’d married who had failed to give him the child she’d been carrying. It was over. It had never really begun. So don’t prolong it or drag it out and make it any worse than it needs to be. Keep it cool and businesslike.

‘So what can I do for you, Rocco?’ She looked at him enquiringly, trying to keep her expression neutral. ‘Is there something in particular you wanted to discuss with me—and if so, don’t you think it might be better done through our lawyers?’

‘I’m here,’ he said slowly, ‘because I think we might be able to do each other a favour.’

She studied him warily. ‘I don’t understand. We’re separated—and separating people don’t really do each other favours.’

Rocco ran the edge of his thumb over his bottom lip. He was fully aware that some people might describe what he was about to do as emotional blackmail—but so what? Didn’t his shallow, green-eyed wife deserve everything she was going to get? He felt the beat of a pulse at his temple. Wasn’t it time she discovered that you didn’t cross Rocco Barberi unless you were prepared to pay the price? That was why he had come here today, intending to tell her exactly what he wanted, knowing she would be forced to grant him his wish if she wanted her damned divorce.

He’d thought it would be easy. Straightforward. A simple equation of A + B = C. But he had failed to factor in desire, hadn’t he? A desire which had taken him completely by surprise. He had imagined he would look at her as he might any other ex-lover—with a cool impartiality, which had always served him well in the past, because once you had repeatedly tasted a woman’s body your appetite for her inevitably diminished. But that wasn’t happening. He wondered what it was about her which was making him grow as hard as rock, so he was having difficulty concentrating on anything other than what it would feel like to be deep inside her again—riding her until she shuddered out his name. Was it because she had once worn his wedding band and the significance of that went deeper than he’d imagined?

His voice became hard. ‘I need you to do something for me.’

‘Sorry, Rocco. You’re talking to the wrong person.’ She shook her head so that all those thick dark curls shimmered around her shoulders. ‘I don’t have to do anything for you. We’re getting divorced. Remember?’

‘Maybe we are,’ he answered softly. ‘Or maybe not.’

She blinked at him in consternation. ‘But the law says we can divorce after two years of living apart.’

‘I know what the law says. But that can happen only with the agreement of both parties.’ There was a pause. ‘Think about it, Nicole. You need my consent to terminate our marriage. I could drag it out for years if I wanted.’

As she heard the unmistakable threat behind his words, Nicole’s instinct was to turn and run. To run so far that he’d never be able to find her. Until she reminded herself that instinct had never served her well where Rocco was concerned. It had led her into his arms and into his bed, even though she’d known deep inside that he’d only wanted her for sex. And she had been right, hadn’t she?

But she was no longer that woman. The star-struck virgin who had allowed her powerful boss to seduce her. Who had fallen victim to the practised heaven of his touch. The innocent young cleaner who had believed the smooth lies which had flowed from his sensual lips and allowed herself to be guided by them. Who had obediently worn the crotchless panties he’d bought for her from shops in London’s Soho and bucked with pleasure when he’d slid his fingers inside them. She’d even pretended to enjoy the light lash of a whip caressing her bare buttocks because she had wanted to bring him as much pleasure as he brought her. Because she had wanted to please him. To be his perfect lover in the hope that one day he might care for her as much as she’d begun to care for him. Yet soon after she’d given him her virginity, Rocco had begun to distance himself. Had started avoiding her at work. Suddenly there had been pressing business trips which had desperately needed his attention—something which apparently was a ploy of his when he was trying to get some needy lover off his back.

In fact, he probably would have gone out of his way never to have seen her again if nature hadn’t intervened and cast them both in the unexpected roles of parents-to-be. She swallowed as the painful memories crowded into her mind and tried to remind herself that was all in the past. Things were different now. She was getting used to life as a single woman. And yes, it was a struggle to exist on the pittance she earned from this little art shop she’d opened with the help of a grant from the local council—but at least she was following her dreams instead of living a nightmare. She didn’t need Rocco Barberi or his billions—or his cold, emotionless heart.

Drawing her shoulders back, she tilted her chin to meet his sapphire gaze. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you give me your consent when we both know our marriage is over?’

‘Is that why you didn’t answer any of my letters? Because you’d come to that decision all on your own?’

‘It was what we both knew in our hearts!’ she defended. ‘I just couldn’t see the point in dragging it out any longer.’

His body tensed and he opened his mouth to respond when the sound of the shop bell punctured the atmosphere as a middle-aged woman opened the door. Did she pick up on the fraught atmosphere? Was that why she glanced uncertainly from Rocco to Nicole as if she were gate-crashing a private party?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, automatically prefacing her sentence with the ever-present apology of the English. ‘Are you—?’

‘We’re closed,’ said Rocco shortly, watching as Nicole opened her mouth to protest—but by then it was too late because the woman had scuttled out again, murmuring yet more words of apology.

And then his estranged wife turned on him, all her studied politeness a distant memory, her emerald eyes spitting fire at him.

‘You can’t do that!’ she declared indignantly. ‘You can’t just march into my shop and order prospective customers to leave!’

‘I just did,’ he said, without any hint of apology. ‘So let me put this to you carefully, just so that there can be no misunderstanding. You have a choice, Nicole. Either I turn the shop sign around to say you’re closed, or you agree to meet me when you’ve finished work. Because I don’t want any more interruptions like that when I put my proposition to you.’

‘Proposition?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Why would you refuse? You want your freedom, don’t you? The precious freedom which is so important to you. It might be in your best interests to...what is it that you English say?’ He rubbed a reflective finger over the hint of stubble at his chin. ‘Ah, yes. To keep me sweet.’

Nicole felt herself stiffen because his voice had taken on that velvety caress which used to have her hurling herself into his arms and raining kiss after kiss all over his rugged features. Well, not any more. That ship had sailed. No matter how much her body might be longing to feel him close to her again, she was going to fight that attraction with every fibre of her being. And he was right. Another customer might walk in and it didn’t look very professional to have a divorcing couple slugging out their differences. Surely it wouldn’t hurt her to listen to what he had to say. To humour him a little in order to facilitate her freedom.

‘Okay,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘How about I meet you for a coffee when I’ve finished work? There’s a café at the far end of the harbour which will still be open. It’s got a red and white awning at the front—you can’t miss it. I’ll see you in there.’

‘No.’ He shook his head and his mouth hardened. ‘I’m not meeting you in public in some damned café. I want to visit your apartment, Nicole. To see for myself the place you have chosen above your Sicilian home.’

It was on the tip of Nicole’s tongue to tell him that the lavish Barberi complex had felt more like a prison than a home, but what was the point of upping the ante? Mightn’t it drive home how serious she was about this divorce if she showed Rocco where she lived? Mightn’t he get it into his stubborn head that wealth and privilege meant nothing, not when you measured those things against peace of mind?

‘Very well, I live in the flat above the tea shop on Greystone Road. Number thirty-seven,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But don’t come before seven.’

‘Capisce.’ He nodded his dark head.

He was just on his way to the door when he paused in front of a small display of pottery, picking up one of the pieces to study it. It was a glowing terracotta jug with a handle fashioned to look like the twisted leaves on a lemon branch. Raised yellow fruits dotted the surface and in the background was the flash of blue—an artistic representation of the distant sea. Slowly he turned it around in his olive fingers to study it, before glancing up to meet her eyes.

‘This is good,’ he said slowly. ‘It reminds me of Sicily.’

She nodded, the sudden clench of her heart making her wish he hadn’t made the connection. ‘That’s what inspired me.’

‘Perhaps I should buy it,’ he reflected. ‘You certainly look as if you could do with a few more customers.’

‘Particularly when you drive away the ones I do have,’ she observed acidly. ‘Anyway, it’s not for sale.’

She pointed to a bright red sticker, though in reality nobody had bought it, because it had never actually been for sale. It was the last remaining piece of the collection she’d made when she’d returned from Sicily, feeling heartbroken and empty. Her bestselling collection, as it happened, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Just as she wouldn’t tell him about the tiny, hand-embroidered romper suit she’d bought soon after she’d had her first pregnancy scan, which was lying shrouded in tissue paper in one of her bedroom drawers. She was planning to sell the jug just as soon as the ink was dry on her divorce papers. The romper suit she suspected she would never be able to part with.

He replaced the piece and all Nicole was aware of were those amazing sapphire eyes searing into her. He was always the most beautiful man she had ever seen and nothing about that had changed. He could still make her heart beat fast. Still make her shiver and her breasts swell into vibrant life against her lacy bra. Just as he reminded her of the darkest time in her life and her fear that she would never be able to recover. But she had recovered. And she’d done it without him—because they were no good for each other. She had accepted that. It was time that Rocco did, too.

And suddenly she wanted him out of the shop, before she gave into the pain which was welling up inside her and threatening to spill over. Before it dissolved into bitter tears, which would remind her of everything she had lost.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO CUPS OF herbal tea and a stern reminder that getting emotional would accomplish nothing meant Nicole’s nerves were less jangled by the time she arrived home to find Rocco waiting outside her apartment. She’d told herself that getting sucked in by dark memories wasn’t going to help anyone. She’d told herself she needed to be calm and impartial when it came to dealing with Rocco, but maybe that was just too big an ask with a man like him.

She thought how out of place he looked in the narrow Cornish street, his powerful body drawing attention away from the cute little houses which surrounded him. Every property had window boxes full of colourful flowers dancing in the breeze, but her estranged husband was a study in unmoving darkness—the whiteness of his silk shirt the only thing lightening his shadowed body and rugged features. Her heart began to pound as she walked towards him.

The usual batch of holidaymakers was spilling out from the tea room below her tiny apartment and others were strolling along the pavement on their way to eat fish and chips, or drink dark pints of bitter in one of the iconic little pubs close by. Yet every person turned to glance at Rocco—men and women alike—as if recognising the powerful stranger in their midst. And even though he was head of one of the world’s biggest pharmaceutical companies and one of the world’s wealthiest men, Nicole suspected he would have attracted attention even if he possessed nothing. And she mustn’t forget that. She mustn’t forget that underneath all her swarm of painful feelings, she was as susceptible to him as the next woman.

And he could hurt her all over again.

His sapphire eyes were fixed on her and Nicole felt stupidly self-conscious as she reached him.

‘You’re early,’ she said, reaching into her bag for her keys.

‘You know what it’s like. I couldn’t keep away,’ he said mockingly.

She gave a tight smile. ‘Then you’d better come in.’

Rocco stood back to let her pass, unable to stop himself from reacting to her unique scent as she pushed open the front door, a scent which had nothing to do with perfume. It was the essence of her, which he had once found so intoxicating. Still did, if he was being honest—and he really hadn’t expected that. But then, Nicole had a talent for making him do the unexpected, didn’t she? Her green-eyed look of provocation had lured him into breaking every rule in the book, just as her abundance of curves had made her seem more feminine than any woman he’d ever met.

When he’d seduced her he’d thought she was experienced. Why wouldn’t he—when she’d flirted like crazy with him after their initial meeting? Yet he hadn’t touched her until their fourth date, something which was unheard of for him. Despite the fact that she’d clearly wanted him—what woman didn’t?—he’d forced himself to wait. He still wasn’t sure why. Maybe he’d just wanted to delay gratification for as long as possible, in an attempt to preserve that delicious state of desire she had aroused in him.

And then he’d discovered she had been a virgin and that had been a whole new ballgame. It had blown him away. Intimacy with Nicole Watson had eclipsed every other sexual encounter he’d ever had and Rocco was tempted to pull her into his arms to see whether she felt as good as he remembered. To lose himself in her soft and feminine body and thrust into the wet heat which had always awaited him.

But she had deserted him.

She had thrown everything back in his face.

The memory of that was enough to dissolve his desire as he followed her up a rickety old staircase—unable to prevent the moue of scorn which escaped his lips as he entered the cramped living room. His mouth twisted. She had chosen to live here? A Barberi occupying a place such as this? Why, a medieval servant would have boasted of something finer!

He looked around. It was small. Unbelievably small. A tiny sofa had been covered with a brightly coloured throw—but nothing could disguise the battered surface beneath. There was a sagging armchair, an old-fashioned electric fire and an archway leading into a cubbyhole of a kitchen. And that was it.

The only photograph on show was an old one he recognised of her mother but there were none of him. Rocco’s mouth hardened. Did he really think there might have been? Perhaps a shot of them standing outside the Sicilian cathedral, a white tulle veil billowing around her dark curls and Nicole’s flat stomach concealing the fact that she was several weeks pregnant?

His jaw tightened as he wondered what had made him start thinking about such a taboo subject but, with the ruthlessness born of practice, he pushed the powerful image to the back of his mind as he stared at the woman in front of him, thinking how different she looked. Gone were the elegant clothes which had crammed her wardrobe during their short marriage and in their place was the distinctly Bohemian look she had always favoured. Clothes he had found attractive enough in a mistress, but which had been unsuitable for a Barberi wife. Silver hoops gleamed amid the wild tumble of dark curls and the lush sensuality of her mouth was fixed and unsmiling as she returned his stare.

‘So,’ she said. ‘What exactly is this all about, Rocco?’

He thought of chastising her for her lack of courtesy. He had lifted her out of the gutter and given her the chance of a better life. He had taught her everything. Everything. What to wear and how to behave. When to speak and when to remain silent. And now she was treating him with the barely disguised impatience she might show a persistent salesman who had shoved his foot in the door.

‘You don’t even offer me coffee?’ he drawled.

‘There won’t be time. I wasn’t planning a long visit. Were you?’ She looked at him enquiringly. ‘You told me you had something you wanted to say, so why don’t you just say it?’

He sat down on the arm of the sofa, stretching his long legs out in front of him. ‘I need you to play a part for me,’ he said.

‘A part?’ she echoed non-comprehendingly. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘As my wife.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘Or rather, my reconciling wife.’

‘Your reconciling wife? Are you crazy?’

Rocco thought back to the number of times he had asked himself the same question, wondering how he could have fallen for someone like her. Why, despite the eager attentions of women of his own class, he had allowed himself to become transfixed by this one—a humble cleaner at his London headquarters. Because of her he had behaved in a way which still had the power to make him shudder as he remembered locking the door to his office and taking her over his desk. He remembered her curving hips facing upwards in a silent plea for him to remove her panties. And him complying with shaking hands, his fingers sliding over her molten heat, before entering her with a hunger so all-consuming that it had completely blown his mind. He swallowed. All his legendary self-control had deserted him the moment he’d laid a finger on her. The powerful head of Barberi associates thrusting hungrily into one of his lowly employees, with his trousers around his ankles like a teenager!

He swallowed before shaking his head. ‘On the contrary, tesoro—I’m deadly serious. This petition could not have come at a worse time for me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. I’m in the middle of a deal, which is balancing on a knife-edge right now.’

‘Gosh. I thought you had a hundred per cent success rate where business was concerned. You must be slipping, Rocco.’

He gave an impatient flicker of a smile. ‘This deal is a big one,’ he said softly. ‘The biggest in a long time. I’m attempting a hostile takeover bid of a European company, which will increase my stock to make Barberi the biggest pharmaceutical business in the world.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

His eyes narrowed as he met her gaze. ‘The problem is that there has been some opposition to my involvement. Several of the shareholders have hired a PR agency to see what dirt they can dig up on me and a complicated personal life could provide fuel for their stories. Plus, one of the biggest shareholders is a man named Marcel Dupois who’s known for being extremely conservative, particularly around family matters.’ He shifted his weight slightly. ‘The last thing I need is an estranged wife coming out of the woodwork seeking a divorce at such a sensitive time.’

‘So drop your business bid.’

‘But I don’t want to drop it.’ His voice hardened. ‘It’s too important to me.’

Nicole nodded. Of course it was. Business had always been important to Rocco. The only thing which really mattered in his life. His go-to activity which took precedence over everything else, even his wife. Especially his wife. ‘So what are you expecting me to do—call off the divorce?’

‘Only temporarily.’

‘I wasn’t being serious, Rocco.’

‘But I am.’ His sapphire eyes flattened. ‘Deadly serious.’

‘You want me to delay the petition.’

‘I want you to play a role. You were always very good at role-play, weren’t you, Nicole? It’s easy. All you have to do is pretend to be my wife for a couple of days.’

‘Pretend to be your wife,’ she repeated slowly.

‘Sure. I have a high-profile weekend coming up and having you by my side as my loving spouse could be extremely useful.’

‘Useful?’

‘You don’t like the word?’

Nicole bristled. Of course she didn’t like the word, which seemed to emphasise the only thing she’d ever been to him. Someone who was convenient. Who could be picked up and put down like a commodity. She wanted to push him towards the door. To tell him to get out and never come back—until she remembered what her lawyer had said just before he’d filed the papers.

‘Your husband is a powerful man, Mrs Barberi. Not a man you’d want to get into a protracted legal battle with. Not under any circumstances. My advice to you is to keep proceedings as amicable as possible.’

She got that, but even so.

Masquerade as his wife?

Open herself up to all that pain and frustration and make even more of a mockery of their doomed marriage?

No way.

She shook her head.

‘It’s a crazy suggestion. You must realise that. I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing, Rocco, but I can’t do it.’

He looked around the small scruffy room before returning his gaze to her. ‘I meant what I said, Nicole,’ he said. ‘Unless you were prepared to cooperate, I might not let you have your divorce.’

She shook her head. ‘You can’t stop me.’

‘Oh, but I can,’ he argued softly. ‘We’ve been separated for two years but you still need my agreement.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ve spoken to my lawyers and I can easily defend the petition by saying I don’t believe the marriage has broken down irretrievably.’

‘You wouldn’t...’ she breathed.

‘Wouldn’t I? I would do whatever it takes to make this deal, Nicole.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘The choice is yours, tesoro.’

Nicole heard the steely determination behind his words and thought about his power and influence. Her lawyer had been right—Rocco could do exactly what he wanted because he had limitless funds to support him, and she didn’t. Simple as that. In theory she could wait for her divorce—but she didn’t want to. Three more years of being tied to Rocco Barberi with all the memories that brought with it? Of feeling that something was always holding her back from living her life? Of being unable to stop those rugged features and sapphire eyes from invading her dreams every night? No way.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to his. ‘And if I agreed? What would it entail?’

He didn’t react. There was no triumph on his face. His expression was as coolly impassive as ever it had been. Of course it was, Nicole told herself bitterly. Rocco didn’t change. He was still the same cold-hearted control freak he’d ever been.

‘You will accompany me to a film screening, a dinner and a cocktail party over the course of a couple of days, that’s all.’

‘That’s all,’ she repeated slowly.

‘Se. We pretend we’re giving our marriage another go. We become yet another couple who’ve come unstuck and are trying to solve our “issues”. Everyone likes a love story and it will show a more sympathetic side to my character.’ His eyes gleamed mockingly. ‘You get a weekend in Monaco and I get my deal.’

‘Monaco?’

‘That’s where I live now.’

She stared at him in surprise. ‘Not Sicily?’

‘Not any more.’

She wondered whether she had imagined the sudden bleakness in his voice, but Nicole’s head was too full to wonder why he had left his beloved homeland. She tried sifting through her options as he stared at her and wondered if she could go through with his crazy plan. Yet how ironic was it that she needed to put on a convincing performance as his reconciling wife, in order to gain her freedom from that very role?

Could she pull it off?

In public, maybe—but in private... Her tongue slid over the sudden parchment-dry surface of her lower lip. Because yes, they might still be at war but things were never that simple. They never were with Rocco. He’d been the only man she’d ever really wanted and she was fast discovering that he still was.

And even though he hadn’t given a single indication that he might feel the same way about her, there was no knowing what was going on in that unfathomable mind of his. If Rocco still felt a flicker of the desire she was feeling right now—what then? If he should turn all that blazing Sicilian charm on her, would she be capable of resisting it?

Resisting him?

She had no choice. She didn’t want her heart broken all over again and therefore she mustn’t allow her sexy husband anywhere near her. All she needed to do was remember just how bad the pain had been and how much it had hurt to walk away.

She shook her head. ‘I can’t do it, Rocco,’ she said, swallowing down the emotion which was threatening to make her voice tremble. ‘You must be able to see that.’

But if she was hoping for understanding or for a modicum of consideration then she was about to be disappointed, because his features darkened into a look of determination she recognised only too well. He nodded and glanced at his watch as if he was late for a meeting, before giving a careless shrug of his shoulders.

‘Then it looks like I’ll see you in court, Nicole,’ he said softly.

And she believed him. Rocco wasn’t a man who said things he didn’t mean. He was a man who had the power to do exactly what he wanted and if that involved using a wife he had never loved to further his business ambitions, then he would do it. He had her in a corner. He knew it and she knew it, too. Nicole’s heart was racing as she met his brilliant gaze, unable to keep the anger from her voice. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Since you leave me no choice... I’ll do it.’

Rocco nodded, his senses on alert as he registered her reluctant agreement. He had achieved what he had set out to achieve but now he found himself wondering why she was prepared to do something she clearly detested, just to get her damned divorce.

‘So why the rush to the lawyers?’ he questioned silkily. He cast a disdainful eye around the room. ‘Can’t wait to get your hands on my money? Did you wake up one morning and decide that this shabby little place simply wasn’t for you? Did you think your wealthy husband ought to provide you with a settlement which would enable you to get out of here—is that what this is all about, Nicole?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not about the money, Rocco. I’m not planning to bleed you dry, if that’s what you’re hinting at.’

‘No?’ And then something else suddenly occurred to him—and Rocco was startled by the powerful streak of jealousy which flooded through him like dark poison. Because he had thought he was over her. He had decided that from the moment he had arrived back from the States and discovered she’d left him. ‘Then maybe it’s something else, something rather more common in these situations.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Perhaps there’s a new man on the horizon and you want to be free for him. Is that what it is, my little temptress?’ His voice hardened as he allowed the thought to grow and suddenly he could see yet another benefit to making her work for her divorce. Because if Nicole did have a new lover, then wouldn’t that lover be outraged to learn she was spending the weekend with Rocco Barberi? He felt a sudden punch of sadistic pleasure. ‘Perhaps you’ve already started a relationship and he’s telling you to get rid of your Sicilian husband pretty damned quick.’

If Nicole had been feeling more genial she might have laughed in his face. For a start, no other man had even looked at her since she’d left her husband, mainly, she suspected, because she was giving out such negative vibes. But even if they had—even in the unlikely event of some gorgeous man sashaying into her little art shop and asking her on a date—it would have left her completely cold. Because no other man could ever be Rocco and he was the only man she’d ever wanted and sometimes she worried that was never going to change. Was that going to be another lasting legacy from her failed marriage—an inability to forget him?

But he doesn’t need to know that, she told herself fiercely. He doesn’t need to know anything about you. Defiantly, she met his questioning gaze.

‘My reasons are mine and mine alone,’ she said coolly. ‘And they are none of your business, Rocco.’

CHAPTER THREE

SO THIS WAS MONACO.

Stepping from the private jet, Nicole felt the warmth of the sun beating down on her head as she looked around, narrowing her eyes behind her sunglasses. In the distance she could see the bright blue blaze of the Mediterranean with fancy white and silver yachts bobbing on the glittering sapphire water.

She’d never been here before but she knew all about the sun-drenched principality at the tip of southern France, which was home to some of the richest people in the world. A place of luxury and excess and glamour. Her heart gave a funny twist. And now it was Rocco’s home, too. She pushed her sunglasses further up her nose. Strange to think of him living in this billionaires’ playground when he’d always been so fiercely loyal to his homeland and its rustic values. When he’d insisted that simple pleasures were what turned him on, not the lure of the gaming tables, or restaurants which were all about show instead of serving real food. Not for the first time, she wondered what had made him leave Sicily.

She walked towards the shiny black car which was waiting on the Tarmac, glad she’d insisted on a few days to herself before coming here. She’d told Rocco she needed to organise someone to take her place at the shop and water her plants for her and that much was true, but really she’d needed time to compose herself. To strengthen her resolve not to do anything she might later regret and try to achieve a state of impartiality before she faced her estranged husband again. She’d told herself that whatever happened, she couldn’t afford to let desire cloud her judgement and on the plane journey here she’d convinced herself that she had succeeded. But as she looked around in vain for Rocco’s dark head and spectacular body, she realised her heart was racing and her skin was clammy—and if that wasn’t desire then what was?

The uniformed chauffeur stepped forward to open the car door for her.

‘Welcome to Monaco, Signora Barberi,’ he said in perfect English, with a marked French accent. ‘Unfortunately, your husband has been delayed and was unable to meet your flight. He asked me to say he will see you at the house.’

Nicole opened her mouth to tell the driver that she actually preferred to be called Ms Watson these days, until she remembered. None of this was real. She wasn’t a feisty singleton who was forging a new and independent life for herself. She was supposed to be a woman fighting tooth and nail to hang onto her marriage. So be that woman.

Giving what she hoped was a suitably disappointed expression, she slid onto the back seat of the limousine, pressing her knees together and trying not to think how scruffy the faded denim of her jeans looked against the opulence of the car.

The seat was deliciously soft and the vehicle was coolly air-conditioned, but even so it was difficult to relax. As they drove through the pristine streets of Monaco, Nicole sat as stiffly as someone on their way to a job interview. She’d barely slept a wink since Rocco had turned up at her shop and sent her thoughts and her senses into disarray. Suddenly it hadn’t been so easy to put him into that forbidden box where he’d been locked away for so long. Suddenly she’d found herself wondering how on earth she was going to pretend to be reconciling a marriage which had barely got off the ground in the first place. When they’d been nothing but a pair of mismatched strangers with nothing in common other than twin tragedies in their young lives.

They were both orphans: Nicole had been dumped outside a snowy hospital in a shopping bag and Rocco’s parents had been killed outright in a speedboat accident when he’d been fourteen. Nicole had thought their dual losses might have provided some kind of bond, but Rocco had adamantly refused to discuss the past. Whenever she’d tried to bring up the subject he would shake his head and tell her it had happened a long time ago and he was over it. And she should be over it, too. He’d told her they should list their blessings instead. She had found herself a kind adoptive mother—and he and his grandfather had helped rear his two heartbroken younger siblings.

They were both over it, he’d insisted.

Nicole stared out of the car window as they passed the fancy stores with designer clothes and jewellery which made you feel you’d been transplanted into the centre of Paris. This was real high-end living, she thought, and once again found it difficult to reconcile Rocco living in such a glitzy place. But what did she really know about him? She was hardly qualified to cast judgement on a man so far out of her league, who had never really allowed her to get close to him. A billionaire who would never have married her if she hadn’t been carrying his baby. Nicole felt a brief spear of pain as she pushed her fingers back through her curls. Even now she couldn’t believe how two people from opposite ends of the social spectrum should have become lovers—something which had caused outrage at the Barberi family’s swanky Mayfair offices, where Nicole been employed as an office cleaner and Rocco was the big boss.

Not that she’d ever intended to be a cleaner. She’d been about to take up a scholarship at one of London’s most prestigious art schools when her adoptive mother had been struck down by a virulent form of cancer. Fired by fear and devotion, Nicole had nursed the kindly woman who had taken in the abandoned little girl. The lonely child who had passed through streams of foster parents before Peggy Watson had appeared in her life as a saviour. Nicole hadn’t been able to imagine a life without her but, despite her frightened prayers, Peggy had died a painful death. And something in Nicole had died along with her.

Grief had left her barely able to lift a paintbrush, let alone have any ideas worth putting down on paper. Ignoring the pleadings of her teachers, she had deferred her place at art school. Suddenly, she’d felt old—as if she’d had nothing in common with the whacky art students and their garish clothes. How could she possibly behave in a carefree way when inside she’d felt so numb? All she’d wanted was a well-paid job she didn’t have to think about—and cleaning the Barberi offices had provided the ideal solution. She’d told herself it was just a case of recovering her confidence and clawing together some savings until she felt ready to continue with her art. And that had been her intended path, until the night she’d bumped into the Sicilian billionaire who, against all the odds, had been destined to become her husband.

She’d known who he was because he’d had a reputation for staying late and burning the midnight oil. And like all her co-workers, she’d agreed that the workaholic billionaire was the hunkiest man she’d ever seen. But Nicole had regarded Rocco Barberi in the same way you might regard the leading man in your favourite TV box-set—easy to fantasise about, but totally out of reach. Until the evening they had collided—literally. When Nicole had been carrying her mop and bucket along the corridor and seen the Sicilian heading towards her and they’d been so busy staring at each other that their paths had crossed. The metal bucket had caught the edge of the tycoon’s ankle and Nicole had looked down in horror to see soapy water sloshing all over his pristine suit trousers and handmade shoes.

‘Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry,’ she’d stumbled, looking up to find herself transfixed by the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. ‘I... I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

‘And neither was I. Non importa.’ He had made a careless movement with his hand. ‘They will clean.’

He’d still been staring at her, staring at her as if he’d known her, or as if he hadn’t been able to quite believe what he’d been seeing. And Nicole had felt exactly the same. She might have been a virgin and naïve in the ways of men, but she’d been unable to deny the powerful attraction which had temporarily incapacitated them both. It hadn’t seemed to matter that she’d been wearing a blue uniform which had been straining across her breasts, nor that her flyaway curls had been tugged back with a single strand of the green velvet ribbon she always wore, because it matched her eyes. Or that the man in front of her had exuded a power and status which was many lofty rungs above her own. She’d just felt as if she knew him. As if they’d met in a previous life. Or something.

When she’d analysed it afterwards, she’d realised just how dumb she’d been. All that had happened was that she’d been captivated by a man who any painter in a life class would drool over and he had obviously felt something very similar. Their connection had been purely physical. Or chemical. A freak of nature which shouldn’t have gone anywhere else, except that it had.

She’d felt apologetic the next day but she’d also felt intensely alive—as if he’d woken her from a long sleep. She’d painted him a little postcard—the first time she’d picked up a brush since Peggy’s death—and on it she’d depicted a cartoon of Rocco standing in a sea of soapy water on which floated an empty bucket and the single word, sorry, at the bottom of the card.

Maybe Rocco had been frustrated at the time and that was why he’d thrown caution to the wind and told her how much the postcard had made him laugh, before asking her out for a drink. And maybe Nicole had just wanted something joyful to happen after the two bleak years since Peggy’s death. Either way, their drinks had lain untouched, and the dazzling skyline outside the fancy rooftop bar had gone unnoticed. He’d asked her to dinner and she’d said yes, and it had been the most wonderful evening of her life. But he hadn’t touched her, even though she had desperately wanted him to.

A week later they’d had dinner again and then, over a drink following a trip to Milan, he’d asked if she’d ever been on the London Eye. She hadn’t as it happened, and as the giant wheel had circled London’s imposing monuments Nicole had realised that she was completely smitten by her billionaire boss. Smitten enough to find herself at his apartment later that day with Rocco breaking through her hymen with a groan of hunger followed by disbelief.

Apparently, it was a big thing in Sicily for a man to take a woman’s virginity and Rocco had alternately stormed at her, before hugging her tightly to his chest and then lowering his head to suck on her nipples. It had gone on like that for days. Snatched moments of bliss—even at work. That time on the desk would be scorched in her memory for ever. She’d never known that sex could be so addictive and Rocco had told her he felt exactly the same.

But then something had changed.

When Rocco had started buying her gradually more daring items of underwear and asking her to wear them Nicole had been eager to try out his sexy commands, yet on some deeper level—she’d been a bit wary, too. Had instinct warned her that the more outrageous his demands, the more he’d seemed to be distancing himself from her? Had he already decided her humble status meant he should end their liaison—and the provocative items of lingerie had been helping highlight her unsuitability? She’d been about to tell him he was making her feel like an object, when she’d missed her period, and her newly tender breasts had told her what the pregnancy test had quickly confirmed—that she was carrying Rocco Barberi’s baby.

Telling him had been nothing like the rose-tinted version she’d secretly longed for—a version as far away as possible from her own bleak beginnings on the snowy steps of a wintry hospital. She’d wanted to give him the news somewhere neutral, but he’d told her he was expecting a call and maybe they should take a rain check on the date they’d planned—and had he mentioned that he was planning a trip to the States the following week and wouldn’t be around for some time? And that was when it had all come blurting out, there in his penthouse office—with her untouched mop and bucket standing on the floor beside her feet.

‘Rocco, I’m pregnant.’

She would never forget his expression as he’d looked up from his computer. A brief shuttering followed by a shadowed caution.

‘You’re certain?’

‘Positive.’

‘And it’s...’

His words had faded but a sudden chill had washed over Nicole’s skin.

‘Yours?’ she’d questioned with a perception which had made her suddenly feel quite sick. ‘Is that what you were going to say, Rocco?’

He had shaken his head. ‘Of course not.’

She hadn’t believed him and had started to cry when he’d ‘jokingly’ suggested she might have deliberately sabotaged the condom in order to trap him. Had her woeful, red-eyed face tugged at his conscience? Was that why he’d risen from his desk and walked across the office towards her? His unkind words had been blotted out by the deep sense of gratitude she’d felt when he’d taken her in his arms and told her that of course she must marry him. He was going to stand by her and that meant a lot to someone who had been abandoned as a baby. And of course, she had thought herself in love with him. Yet all the time she had been acutely aware of the dutiful way he went about preparing for their marriage—as if he was being forced into something he’d never intended.

If she’d been an independent woman instead of a broke cleaner with hardly any qualifications, might her answer have been different? Would she have tried to go it alone to bring up her baby and told him he was very welcome to have access visits whenever he wanted? She thought not. Even if she had been inclined to embrace single parenthood, she recognised that Rocco would never have allowed that to happen. She had been carrying his child and therefore she had been his possession. That was something else she understood. It was something to do with being Sicilian and something to do with being a Barberi.

Their unlikely union had excited a flurry of interest in the European gossip but the Cinderella slant of the newspaper articles had made her feel somehow...less than—and that wasn’t a good way to start a marriage. And anyway—the whole thing had been a waste of time, hadn’t it? Rocco had only gone through with the wedding because she’d been pregnant—but her body had been unable to hold onto the baby she’d wanted so much. She had failed the baby, just as she had failed Rocco. She had let everyone down. She felt the sting of tears at the backs of her eyes and dabbed at them furiously with a curled-up fist.

She wasn’t going to think about that.

She wasn’t going to let herself go there.

But Nicole’s hands were trembling as the powerful car suddenly turned off the main drag and began to ascend a steep and curving street before eventually coming to a halt at the top, outside a deep rose-hued house with its amazing view over Monaco’s harbour. She looked up at it in surprise. Somehow she hadn’t imagined Rocco living somewhere like this—in a house on a street—not when he had grown up amid roaming acres of olive groves and vineyards in beautiful rural Sicily.

The front door was opened immediately, almost as if someone had been watching out for the car. But it wasn’t Rocco who stood on the doorstep, but a chic woman in a black and white uniform, which made Nicole realise why so many women wore French maid outfits to fancy-dress parties when they were trying to look sexy.

‘Welcome, signora,’ the woman said, with a coral-tinted smile. ‘I’m Veronique and I’m the housekeeper. Signor Barberi’s assistant, Michele, is waiting upstairs for you in his office and I will take you there.’

Slightly disorientated by the size of the entrance hall, Nicole turned to stare out of the still-open front door where the limousine was parked. ‘But my suitcase—’

‘The driver will bring it in and leave it in your room,’ said Veronique. ‘Do not concern yourself. Please. Come with me.’

Nicole followed the housekeeper along a gleaming marble corridor and into a huge room whose only concessions to being an office were a giant desk and a row of clocks on the wall depicting different time zones around the world. For the most part it just looked like an amazing room with an equally amazing view. A tall blonde was waiting for them, her high-heeled shoes matching her fitted pink dress, and Nicole wondered just how many beautiful women Rocco surrounded himself with and whether any of them provided any additional extras.

But that’s none of your business, she told herself fiercely trying to downplay the savage little kick of jealousy which flared up inside her. If he wants to sleep with the staff, that’s up to him.

The blonde stepped forward and extended her hand. ‘Hi! I’m Michele, Rocco’s assistant, and I’m delighted to be able to welcome you to Monaco, Signora Barberi.’

‘Please—call me Nicole.’

Michele smiled. ‘Nicole it is. I’m afraid he’s a bit tied up at the moment.’ She gave an apologetic shrug which suggested she was no stranger to conveying this message. ‘His last meeting went on longer than anticipated and he’s taking a conference call right now. He said to tell you he’ll be with you as soon as he can and that I should show you around.’

Unsure if Rocco’s assistant was aware of the make-believe nature of their reconciliation, Nicole forced herself to adopt an expression of lively curiosity. ‘That would be great.’

‘So why don’t we start down here?’

Nicole followed Rocco’s shapely assistant through the most luxurious house she had ever seen. High-ceilinged reception rooms were studded with modern furniture and once again, she couldn’t help comparing it to Rocco’s Sicilian home. There was no dark wood, or furniture which had been worn down by previous generations who were now unsmiling faces in framed sepia photographs. Everything looked so new and so...bright. She found herself liking it because it had no obvious history and an unexpected smile curved the edges of her mouth. A bit like her, really.

Briefly, she looked around the well-stocked library, peered into an imposing gym and gazed wistfully at the infinity pool which overlooked the Mediterranean, wishing she’d remembered to bring a swimsuit. There were six bedrooms in all, the largest of which was obviously Rocco’s, and Nicole’s heart flipped when she saw her suitcase sitting in the centre of the floor.

‘And this is the master suite,’ Michele was saying. ‘I think you’ll find everything you need, but please let me know if there’s anything else I can get you. The fundraiser doesn’t start until eight tonight so you have plenty of time to acclimatise yourself. Would you like me to leave you to unpack? I expect you want to hang up your dresses.’ Michele glanced diplomatically at Nicole’s battered little suitcase as she indicated a section of inbuilt wardrobe doors. ‘Rocco has left plenty of space for your belongings. Or perhaps you would rather have something to drink first?’

Nicole wasn’t planning on putting her belongings anywhere near Rocco’s, but she didn’t want to embarrass his assistant by telling her that. And there was no way she could ever sleep in here—it was too unsettling on too many levels. She could sense Rocco’s presence everywhere. That tantalising scent which was all his—a subtle mix of sandalwood and bergamot. The well-thumbed crime novel which lay open on the bedside table which was probably on exactly the same page as it had been since his last holiday. She could see a pair of gold and lapis lazuli cufflinks lying on the dressing table—and the intimacy of being inside his bedroom again was causing her heart to contract with a flurry of emotions which was making her feel dizzy.

‘Actually, I’d love something to drink,’ she said weakly.

‘In that case, come and I’ll have someone bring it up to the terrace, which I think you might like.’ Michele’s smile widened. ‘You see, I saved the best for last.’

As soon as Nicole stepped out onto the terrace she realised Michele hadn’t been exaggerating. Pursing her lips into a silent whistle of appreciation, she looked out over the balcony. This was the kind of view which only wads of money could buy and Nicole’s first thought was how much she would like to recreate these colours on clay. The deep azure of the sea lay before her in an endless dazzle and above it was the paler hue of the sky. How incredible it would be to make a collection in all these different shades of blue and maybe to hint at the greens and greys of the distant mountains. It was opulent and stunning and it felt unreal. In fact, she felt unreal. But hadn’t she always felt out of place in this wealthy world she’d left behind?

‘Would you like water, or tea?’ Michele was asking. ‘Or we have champagne, if you prefer.’

Nicole shook her head. ‘No, honestly. Water would be perfect. Thanks.’

After Michele had gone, Nicole leaned over the railings and gazed ahead but this time she wasn’t really focussing on the view. She thought about the child she’d once been—the insecure little outcast who had been pushed from pillar to post until Peggy Watson had taken her in. Could that orphaned little girl ever have imagined standing somewhere like this, about to draw a line under her marriage? And despite everything, she felt a pang of pain that she hadn’t been able to make it work. It made her start wondering if there had been anything she could have done to have saved it. If her own grief had made her keep Rocco at arm’s length. Perhaps it had. Perhaps she might handle it very differently now.

But you can’t keep going back over the past. It’s too late to do anything about it now. It’s over.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ A rich voice washed over her skin like dark silk and Nicole turned round, her heart clenching. Because Rocco was walking towards her, a glass in his hand-the darkness of his hair almost blue-black in the bright sunshine.

‘Very beautiful,’ she said breathlessly.

‘That’s Cap Ferrat directly opposite—and the land you can see over there is Italy.’ He moved directly in front of her and held out the glass. ‘I believe you told Michele you wanted something to drink.’

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