Italian Bachelors: Irresistible Sicilians. Michelle Smart

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