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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 mou
th 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.’
