Bound To The Sicilian's Bed: Bound to the Sicilian's Bed

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Contracted for the Petrakis Heir (#litres_trial_promo)

Back Cover Text (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Bound to the Sicilian’s Bed (#u07d525c5-4f9b-5944-9875-4e6b2973d1d6)

Sharon Kendrick

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!

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.

CHAPTER ONE (#u07d525c5-4f9b-5944-9875-4e6b2973d1d6)

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?