Italian Bachelors: Irresistible Sicilians. Michelle Smart

Taming the Notorious Sicilian

       Dedication

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       EPILOGUE

       Copyright

       What a Sicilian Husband Wants

      Michelle Smart

       ‘I want to dance with the sexiest woman here and show them she’s mine.’

      ‘I’m not yours. Only in name.’

      Even as Grace spoke the words she knew them to be a lie. Luca had imprinted himself indelibly onto every one of her senses.

      He leaned into her and spoke into her neck. ‘You will always be mine.’

      He felt so warm, his touch penetrating her skin and dancing into the very fabric of her being. The stars that resided in the midnight of his eyes gleamed, holding her gaze, trapping her in their depths.

      He brushed his lips against her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. ‘Dance with me.’

      Luca was like a drug to her. She could survive without him, but it was like breathing air with only a fraction of the usual oxygen.

      She hated him.

      She loved him.

      The two sides were interchangeable.

      The only constant she felt was desire. And she was sick of fighting it and pushing it away. There could only ever be one outcome.

      ‘Yes,’ she breathed, ‘I’ll dance with you.’

       For Luke with all my love.

       CHAPTER ONE

      GRACE REACHED THE bottom of the stairs and padded barefoot to the alarm on the wall. Working on autopilot, she punched in the code and disabled it along with the sensors running throughout the ground floor. Only once had she forgotten to deactivate it. She had still been half asleep, little more than a zombie. By the time she had walked into the kitchen, the house was making more noise than a dozen hen parties trapped in a large room consuming vast quantities of Jaeger Bombs.

      She switched the kettle on and yawned loudly.

      Coffee. That was what she needed—a strong dose of caffeine and a good blast of sugar.

      While waiting for the kettle to boil, she pulled back the insulating curtains covering the back door and peeked through the pane of glass. Bright early-morning sunlight temporarily blinded her. Squinting, she was greeted with the sight of a thick layer of frost covering the garden. It made her skin feel cold just looking at it. She dropped the curtain sharpish.

      Still shivering, she turned to the kitchen table and switched the laptop on. Leaving it to boot up, she made her coffee, adding a huge dollop of milk to cool it down quicker. She brought the mug to her lips and was about to take her first sip when the doorbell rang.

      A chill that had nothing to do with the cold outside swept through her, seeping into her bones.

      Every hair on her body stood to attention.

      Her heart crashed against her ribs, the motion strong enough to unbalance her and slosh hot coffee over her hand and fingers.

      She winced and muttered an oath, but the slight scald did her good. It snapped her to attention.

      Shoving the mug on the counter, spilling more coffee in the process, she wiped her smarting hand on her dressing gown and strode to the tall cupboard in the corner. She pulled out a wicker basket, burrowed a hand under the pile of tea towels and reached for the small, cold handgun.

      The doorbell rang out a second time.

      The laptop now booted and ready to use, she clicked on the icon that connected to the live feed from the four surveillance cameras covering the perimeter of her house. The screen split into quarters. Only the top right-hand frame showed anything out of the ordinary.

      She didn’t recognise the small figure wrapped in the thick parka, woolly hat and matching scarf. The woman’s knees were springing slightly and she clutched a large bag to her belly, no doubt trying to keep warm in the icy conditions.

      Torn between a hard-wired wariness towards strangers and feeling sorry for the freezing woman, Grace walked cautiously down the narrow hallway and drew back the heavy curtain covering the front door. The muffled shape was opaque through the frosted glass panel. Holding the gun securely behind her back with her right hand, she fumbled open the three sliding locks, unlocked the deadbolt and loosened the safety chain. Only then did she turn the lock and pull the door one and a half inches, the exact amount of slack given by the chain.

      ‘Sorry to bother you,’ the woman said, her teeth chattering. She raised her phone. ‘My car has broken down. Can I borrow your phone to call my husband, please? I can’t get a signal on my mobile.’

      Not surprising, Grace thought. Most of the mobile networks struggled for a signal in this small Cornish village. Luckily, her landline worked fine.

      She perused the stranger for longer than was polite. The woman was a good four inches shorter than Grace and, beneath the thick clothing, only a slight thing. What she could see of her face was red from the cold.

      Rationally she knew this stranger could not pose a threat. Even so...

      Even so, her mind raced as she thought of a whole posse of reasons as to why it was impossible to let her in to make her call and then offer the hospitality of warmth from the ever-constant cast-iron cooker in the kitchen.

      Much as she knew she should slam the door in the stranger’s