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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 (#u07d525c5-4f9b-5944-9875-4e6b2973d1d6)
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.’
