Italian Bachelors: Irresistible Sicilians

Her three bodyguards had been glued to her side for the whole trip until she had come to a bustling market. One stall had sold scarves. Out of the corner of her eye she had noticed a row of cheap phones behind the busy seller’s table.

Snatching the opportunity, she had grabbed a scarf, given the pram to her bodyguards and dived into the throng. When she had reached the front of the table, the crowd thick behind her, she could only hope her guards didn’t have X-ray vision. She’d quickly wrapped the phone inside the scarf and, acting as casual as a woman whose heart rate had quadrupled could, placed her purchases in Lily’s large baby bag.

She could only pray Luca never found it.

* * *

Luca knocked on the door to the blue room. He was confident that, given a little more time, he would start thinking of it as Grace’s room. He was also confident that, given a little more time, he would stop thinking of the master bedroom as their room.

He ignored the thought that he’d had well over ten months to stop thinking of it as theirs.

When there was still no response, he pushed the door open. Neither Grace nor Lily were anywhere to be found. A small suitcase lay closed on the bed, the dress he had bought her draped over it as if it had been thrown there without any thought. The fancy box it had been perfectly folded into at the boutique had been thrown in the waste bin.

She hated that dress. Really hated it. It had given him a perverse pleasure buying it for her, knowing she would have to obey his wishes and wear it. He had seen it as a fitting punishment for a woman who thrived on colour and light, one of many punishments she would have to endure.

Turning to leave, he caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror and stopped short, suddenly certain he had seen a pair of horns sprouting from his head. He blinked to clear the image.

It was just him. Luca.

Not the monster Grace was adamant he had become.

For a moment though...

What did she see when she looked at him?

Did she really see a man with horns on his head?

An image of his tiny, defenceless daughter floated into his head. Lily was an innocent, dependent on the adults who cared for her. She had no voice.

But one day she would. One day she would be old enough to form her own opinions. If she was anything like her mother, those opinions would be contrary to his. Would his daughter look at him and see a monster, an ogre...?

Another, equally powerful thought occurred to him.

What would his father say if he could see him now?

His father. The man who had gone to such great lengths to leave the old life—indeed had taken the final necessary steps mere months before his great heart had failed.

Would his father see a monster too? Would his father understand the route he, Luca, had taken? Would he understand his need to strike out on his own, to step out from under Pietro Mastrangelo’s shadow and do something for him, to form partnerships and invest in businesses that were nothing to do with family, or vineyards, or olive groves?

When his father had died, all of Luca’s dreams of founding his own business empire had died a death with him. He’d had to step into the breach. There had been no other choice, unless you considered letting the estate fall to ruins a choice.

His mother had fallen to pieces. His brother had been about to head off to university. None of the uncles or aunts in his family had been in a position to help, not for any substantial length of time.

That had left him, Luca, to bury his own grief and step into the breach. With one hand he’d learned the ropes while the other hand had been busy keeping at bay the vultures, led by Salvatore Calvetti, who would snatch the estate from them.

For thirteen years he had done nothing but push the estate onwards, investing surplus profits into new vineyards and olive groves across Southern Europe and beyond, new bottling plants, new everything, in the process making the Mastrangelos billionaires.

For thirteen years he’d done his duty.

It was only seeing the world through Grace’s enchanted eyes that had propelled him to get out of the rut he hadn’t even known he was in.

Francesco Calvetti had been as relieved at the death of his father, a man who would as soon slit your throat as give you the time of day, as Luca had been. Salvatore’s death had freed them both, and it had allowed them to rekindle their old friendship. Like Luca, Francesco was ready to take a different path and strike out on his own.

Along with a chain of international restaurants Luca had bought out in his own right, he and Francesco had invested in a couple of casinos and a handful of high-end nightclubs together. That these particular investments required a management technique that differed from his usual management style had not been something Luca had considered before laying his cash on the table.

Once he had understood it, however, he’d gone along with it with little more than a shrug. And if Francesco had embraced these techniques with an enthusiasm that proved more than a little of Salvatore lived on in him, then so be it. This was the way of the world here. It was how his own father had once been forced to conduct business. It was a method Luca understood. He was not averse to using his fists and other weapons to protect himself and his property, had employed numerous tactics throughout the years to keep Salvatore and his henchmen at bay. This situation was no different: you did what was needed to be done to protect your investments and if that meant sending a physical warning to thieves and swindlers, then so be it.

He would never pretend to like it. There were days when, if he was being honest with himself, he would admit that he despised it. He would never pretend it didn’t require a strong stomach, but Scotch was a good settler. Especially a couple of large Scotches.

His father might not be happy with his eldest son’s choice of investment and even less happy with his choice of business partner, but surely he would understand. Wouldn’t he...?

The acidic churning in his guts answered that question for him.

And what would Pietro say if he knew his firstborn son was forcing his own wife to wear a dress she hated out of a perverse sense of punishment and revenge? Would he understand that...?

‘What do you want?’

Grace stood in the doorway, Lily in her arms, glaring at him.

‘I wanted to remind you that you’ll need to be ready to leave after breakfast tomorrow.’

She rolled her eyes and walked past him, placing Lily on the centre of the bed. Immediately their daughter stuffed a foot in her mouth.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Running through some stuff with your mum about Lily’s routine.’ She sat on the bed and placed a hand on the baby’s belly.

‘Any problems?’

‘No. She’s all good to go.’

Which is more than you are, he thought. Grace looked wan. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Me?’ She smiled tightly. ‘I’m absolutely fine. On top of the world. Leaving my daughter for the first time fills me with nothing but joy.’

He raised a brow at her sarcasm.

‘What?’ she demanded. ‘That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? Take some of the guilt away.’

‘I don’t feel any guilt about leaving her with my mother.’ It was one of the only things he could think about without feeling as if a heavy weight were slowly crushing his insides.

‘Well, you should.’

If he hadn’t recognised her belligerence as a mask, he would have left her to stew. Except her hands were trembling and she was blinking too rapidly to be doing anything other than fighting tears.

As much as he hated her, witnessing her trying so hard not to cry tore something in him.

Stepping over, he sat on the bed next to her and took her hand. It was cold.

‘I don’t feel any guilt because I know my mother will take the utmost care of her. Lily will be spoiled rotten—if she wants caviar in her milk I promise my mother will provide it.’

The tiniest hint of a smile played on the corners of her lips. ‘I know. I know. It’s just...’

He waited for her to continue. ‘It’s just what?’

She pulled her hand away and gazed at Lily. It hadn’t escaped his attention that, apart from her initial glare, she refused to look at him.

‘Florence is so far away.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe it would be easier if the party was in Lebbrossi or Palermo; places we can nip back from quickly if anything were to happen...’

‘Nothing is going to happen.’

‘It might.’

‘Grace, look at me.’ When she kept her focus on Lily he repeated his command, catching her chin with a finger and forcing her attention. Her hazel eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘I’ll arrange things with the aviation authorities in Florence so that, in the case of an emergency, we can take the jet back to Palermo at any time necessary.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘But if we’re flying from the main airport, aren’t we supposed to select an advance time slot and—?’

‘I’ll fix it. It will not be a problem.’

She continued to look at him dubiously.

‘Does this solution not ease your mind?’

‘Only if you promise not to use intimidation or violence to get your own way.’

He should be affronted that she would think such a thing of him. Yet he could not blame her. Grace was the sort of person who would rather rescue a bug than kill it. Any form of violence was alien to her way of thinking—even if he went through everything about his business ventures and partnership in detail, and explained why things were the way they were, she would never understand. He’d known that from the start, within days of buying into that first casino, when the first man had been foolish enough to steal from it and Francesco’s men had been set upon him. He’d known Grace would never accept it or understand the necessity behind it.

There were times he struggled to accept and understand it himself. There had been many a time when only the stiffest of Scotches had allowed him to blur the images that played behind his retinas and dulled the nausea that lined his stomach.

Rubbing his thumb along her soft cheek, he said, ‘The only asset I will use to get my own way will be of a monetary value.’

‘You can afford it,’ she said with what could almost be called a smile.

There was nothing he could say to that. He could afford anything his heart desired. Apart from Grace’s heart, the sly voice came back at him.

In the beat of a second his head began to pound with the sound of a thousand drums.

Her eyes held his, a softness in them he hadn’t seen for so long he had forgotten how amazing it felt to be on the receiving end of it. The hazel in them melted and darkened while her lips parted. Her chest rose and fell sharply, colour heightening her complexion as she held the gaze binding them together.

Dio, but if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman on the planet. Was it any wonder he was having such trouble finding another woman to hold his interest for longer than the blink of an eye when he had married the most desirable of them all? Her small breasts jutted through the tight green cashmere sweater she wore. Unthinking, he raised the hand not stroking her cheek and cupped one, sucking in a breath as an enormous jolt surged through him.

Her eyes widened, her own shallow breaths hitching. She raised a hand in turn and brought it to his face where it hovered, not quite touching him, before a pained, almost desperate look crossed her features.

She blinked and shook her head, the softness and desire gone, replaced with the hard wariness he was becoming far too accustomed to. Her full lips, which for a few brief moments he had been about to shape his mouth against and plunder the hot sweetness within, tightened.

She turned away and got to her feet. ‘Can you leave us now? Lily needs a bath and I need to write a list for your mum.’

He stared from his wife to his daughter, his head pounding, his heart aching with as much force as the throbbing between his legs. ‘Can I bathe her?’

She twisted her head to look back at him. ‘You?’

‘I’ve missed so much of her life.’ For once there was no accusation in either his tone or his meaning. ‘I meant what I said before. I want to be a proper father to her.’

He was certain she would refuse. And when she did? Then he would accept her decision. Grace was Lily’s mother. He’d made half her DNA but he would have to earn the right to be her father.

To his surprise, she inclined her head, a wry smile forming on her lips. ‘If I were you, I would change into something more waterproof. She has a tendency to splash.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

Twenty minutes later, he regretted not taking Grace’s advice. He would never have believed someone so small could make so much mess. Lily’s plump legs had kicked most of the water out of the baby bath. The floor was soaked. He was drenched, his bespoke trousers ruined.

When Grace poked her head round the bathroom door she did nothing to hide her smirk before disappearing again.

Unlike the night before, when he’d had Lily sleep with him and a lack of proper winding on his part—or so he had learned from his mother when he confessed the incident to her earlier—had made her throw up, he had little trouble putting her nappy on and dressing her. This time it only took three attempts before he was satisfied the fiddly poppers of the romper suit were properly done up.

Only when Lily was settled in her cot, her belly full and properly winded by Grace, did he leave them.

He shut the door and expelled a long breath, taken aback at the physical wrench leaving them caused.

Putting his daughter to bed, his wife by his side...something inside him had shifted. He couldn’t pinpoint what, exactly, but he knew he needed to speak to Pepe before he and Grace flew to Florence the next day. He also knew his scheduled meeting with Francesco Calvetti before the party would have a different agenda from the one Francesco was expecting.

CHAPTER NINE

THE HOTEL THEY checked into dated back to the Renaissance and was as grand as any they had stayed in before. With its high frescoed ceilings and intricate architecture, it was the sort of place Grace loved to explore in detail.

Today, though, the last thing on her mind was exploration of any kind. Being such a distance from Lily felt as if her heart had been ripped out. For twelve long weeks it had been just the two of them, but, while the bond between them had been strong from the word go, she had always been aware of something missing, something she hadn’t dared put a name to. She still wouldn’t put a name to it, too mindful of the danger it could bring if voiced, even if only in her own head.

That missing something...it had vanished the day they had been forced to move back to Sicily and back into Luca’s world.

She tried to tell herself the nausea within her belly was due to separation anxiety and nothing else.

It had nothing to do with being alone with Luca—properly alone—for the first time in so, so long.

But something had changed. She could feel it. Loathing was no longer the chief emotion binding them together. It was more than just desire too, although yesterday, sitting on that bed with him cupping her breast, the heat from his hand permeating the fabric of her top...

They had both been fighting to contain the desire that leaped from one to the other, almost as if the charge that lived within her plugged into a charge within him.

She’d had to fight with everything in her not to press her chest into his palm. She’d had to fight not to touch his face, not to rub her cheek against his, not to simply jump onto his lap, smother him with craven kisses and...

She shuddered and closed her eyes.

If Lily hadn’t been in the room with them, she had no idea if she would have been strong enough to keep the war within herself going.

However much she wanted to deny it, anticipation brewed within her too. That treacherous charge in her stomach flamed brightly.

It was at times like this she could punch herself. She was in control of her body and its reactions. She and she alone.

To take her mind off her strangely melancholic mood and thoughts, she opened the wardrobe door and stared, not for the first time, at the hideous dress. If there were a bottle of red wine to hand she would happily tip it all over the vile creation. For good measure she would splosh the dregs all over the foul beige shoes Luca had selected for her to wear with it. Her dowdy old primary school teacher had worn similar shoes. However, looking at them cheered her up a little; right then she needed physical evidence of her husband’s bastard tendencies.

Checking her watch for the umpteenth time, she saw she still had well over an hour to kill before they were due to leave. Luca had disappeared to a meeting within minutes of their arrival saying only that he would be back in time to shower and change. She hadn’t asked who the meeting was with—who else could it be but Francesco? Still, for all she knew, he could be overseeing the beating of another hapless fool stupid enough to try to cheat Luca Mastrangelo and associates.

He hadn’t always been like this. The first year of their marriage—although restrictive in terms of freedom—had in all other respects been perfect. Luca had been perfect.

The change had been so subtle she had hardly noticed it, not at first. As his evenings away from her had increased from the odd one here and there to almost every other, she’d comforted herself knowing that more often than not he would join her in the early hours, whether in the master bedroom or the smaller bedroom in her studio. By the last few months of their marriage, those evenings when he was around, instead of the coffee they usually used as fuel, he would have a Scotch in hand. His temper had shortened too—not against her, apart from that one time in his office, but she had been acutely aware of how tense he was, the sharpness of his tone. She’d been desperate for him to confide his troubles in her. But he’d refused. He’d refused to even acknowledge there was anything wrong.

Looking back, she could see she’d never pushed him that hard for answers. Apart from the row they’d had the day before she left him, she’d never really pushed him, and even then she’d backed down.

It had been far easier to bury her head in the sand and pretend everything was all right.

And was that what Luca had been doing—was doing—too? Burying his head in the sand?

The more she thought about it, the more confused she felt. His abhorrence at being labelled a gangster was real. He genuinely didn’t see himself with those eyes.

Closing the wardrobe door, she debated calling Donatella again and checking that Lily was okay. Before she could dial the number, a message pinged into her phone. Opening it, she felt her heart lighten to see a photo of Lily lying on the sofa in her usual starfish position, beaming her new gummy smile. The picture had also been sent to Luca.

The accompanying message read:

Lily sends you both big kisses and says she wants you both to stop worrying and enjoy your night away.

Grace bit her lip and brushed away a relieved tear.

God, she was being such a sap. She wasn’t the first woman to leave her baby and she wouldn’t be the last. Lily was being cared for by someone who loved her deeply and wouldn’t harm a hair on her head.

She reread the message. The both part of it jumped out. Did that mean Luca had been calling his mum too?

Watching him bathe and dress their daughter had been so funny and so very touching. When she had got up that morning to give Lily her early bottle, he had appeared within minutes and chivvied Grace back to bed, insisting on feeding Lily himself.

Dear Lord, but he had fallen in love with Lily. She could see it in the softness of his eyes and the gentle tone of his voice, the tender way he held her. Their little daughter had crawled into his heart.

Donatella was smitten too.

If she found a way to escape, how could she, in all conscience, take Lily and disappear? It would be kinder to rip their hearts out and stamp on them.

But she could not allow herself to think of these things. She needed to concentrate on shoring up her mental defences against her husband. She had a whole evening to get through, during which she would be expected to act as Luca’s good Sicilian wife and pretend to be some obedient creature whose only objective in life was to please her husband. She would have to pretend she still loved him, pretend she enjoyed having her hand held in his.

Most of all she would have to convince herself he meant nothing to her, that her blood didn’t heat or her pulse rocket when he touched her.

Her fingers began to itch, a feeling that startled her. It wasn’t the same itch as when she’d wanted to slap him. This was an itch from old.

For the first time in almost a year she felt a desperate urge to paint, to draw, to sketch.

Before she could begin tearing the suite apart looking for some paper and a pen or pencil—when, she wondered, had she stopped carrying a sketch pad with her everywhere she went?—there was a light rap on the suite door.

She checked the spyhole, only opening the door when satisfied her visitor was a member of the hotel staff.

‘Signora Mastrangelo?’ the severe-looking woman asked, a large package in her hands.

‘Sì,’ Grace replied, showing off a little of her Italian.

‘This has just arrived for you,’ the woman said in perfect English.

‘Who’s it from?’

‘I do not know, signora. Maybe there is a note inside for you?’ she added helpfully.

‘Thank you. I mean, grazie.’

‘Prego.’

Grace closed the door and took the box to the dining table, intrigued and a little wary of what could be inside and who could have sent it.

Clenching her teeth together, she took a deep breath and ripped off the brown packaging. Inside was a long cream box with a familiar motif.

Her heart suddenly wedged in her throat, she opened the lid as if she were expecting a load of cobras and rattlesnakes to be inside.

Her hands flew to her mouth. No note accompanied it. No note needed to accompany it.

Inside was the peacock-skirted dress she had fallen in love with before Luca had forced the beige monstrosity on her.

He must have noticed her staring at it on the mannequin. Not only had he noticed but he had remembered.

If her belly wasn’t already a mass of noodles and butterflies before, it was now a riot to match the beautiful colours of her dress.

When had he bought it? And why? Why now? So many confused thoughts were flying through her head that at first she didn’t hear the new rap on the suite door.

Opening it, she found the same employee standing at the threshold, this time holding another, smaller package.

‘My apologies, signora. I had not been informed that this too was delivered by the courier.’

Less than a minute later, Grace opened the package and discovered the most amazing pair of high, strappy gold sandals.

* * *

Grace was applying her make-up when she heard Luca enter the suite. Immediately her steady hand began to shake, violently enough for her to stab herself in the eye with her mascara wand.

‘Grace?’ he called out.

‘I’m in my room,’ she replied, putting a palm to her smarting eye.

‘Are you ready?’

‘Nearly.’

‘Will you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes?’

‘Yes.’

Ready in fifteen minutes? Never mind that she needed to reapply her make-up and change from the hotel robe into the dress, she could have fifteen years and she doubted she would be ready.

‘Are you all right in there?’ He must have heard something in her voice because his tone was concerned.

‘I’m fine.’

Removing her palm, she almost laughed out loud at her reflection. One eye was still perfectly made up. The other, the one she had stabbed, had all the make-up running, the eye itself bright red and weeping.