Modern Romance Collection: March 2018 Books 1 - 4. Cathy Williams

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      Carrying her small suitcase, Nicole made her way across the terrace towards the house where she and Rocco had begun and ended their married life. Security lights flickered on and illuminated the imposing building in a golden halo of light. Our house, Rocco had said, but it had never really been her house, had it? And it had certainly never felt like home. It had been filled with dark antique furniture which had been in the Barberi family for many decades, and she’d found the style heavy and oppressive but had been too timid to suggest any changes. Too timid to do anything really, except feel eternally grateful that Rocco hadn’t kicked her out on the street when she’d fallen pregnant.

      Pushing open the door, she clicked on the lights and began to reacquaint herself with the place, trying to get herself into a state of calm to face whatever lay ahead. It was all exactly as she remembered. Only the room they’d designated as a nursery had altered. The crib had gone and so had that swirly animal mobile which she’d brought with her from England. Everything gone. The walls were painted a neutral colour instead of that sunny yellow, and, although it was furnished with a couple of comfortable armchairs and a sophisticated sound system, it didn’t look like a room anyone had ever used. Because Rocco didn’t live here any more, she reminded herself fiercely. And he’d never even told her why he’d left.

      She went to the bathroom, stripped off her red dress and took a long shower—the soapy water sluicing off her heated skin making her feel relatively human again. Afterwards she raided her suitcase for the T-shirt which doubled as a nightshirt and slipped it on. She found some cold water in the fridge and drank it and thought maybe she should stay awake in case Rocco came back. But she was tired. Bone-tired. So much had happened in such a short time. Perhaps she would just lie down and wait.

      Unable to face the master bedroom, she grabbed a blanket and lay on one of the sofas in the sitting room, yawning heavily and trying to keep her heavy eyelids open. But Rocco didn’t return and the minutes ticked by—and next thing she knew she could feel the warmth of the morning sun on her face. Blinking, she scrambled off the sofa. She’d left the shutters open and she gazed out at the Sicilian morning. Already, the sky was a deep and cloudless blue and in the distance she could hear the sound of church bells. The birds were singing like crazy and the sheer beauty of the morning inexplicably bolstered her spirits. She found her case and she put on jeans and a T-shirt. As she brushed her curls she thought about Turi and offered up a silent prayer that he’d made it through the night.

      It would have been easier to go into the kitchen to see if there was any coffee but Nicole knew she couldn’t keep putting off going into the room she’d never thought she would see again. Her pulse was skittering against her wrists as she walked into the bedroom she’d shared with Rocco—an elegant room dominated by a huge antique bed. She remembered how gentle he’d been with her. So protective of the new life inside her. Only now could she understand the reason for the exaggerated delicacy with which he’d handled her, when at the time she’d feared he now longer found her attractive. It was strange the perspective which distance gave you.

      Swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat, she looked around. On one of the walls was her only contribution to the décor—a black and white photograph of New York, which she’d admired on their honeymoon and which Rocco had secretly bought and had shipped here, so it was waiting for her on their return. She remembered being overwhelmed by the gesture, thinking it symbolised a romantic future which hadn’t ever materialised. And it twisted her heart with nostalgia as she stared at it. Why was it still hanging there?

      She wasn’t sure what made her open the closet but what she found inside unsettled her even more than the picture had done. Because all her clothes were there—exactly as she’d left them. Neat lines of colour-coordinated outfits which had been chosen by the expensive London stylist. Shirtdresses and neat trousers—all with toning shoes and accessories. Yet looking at them now she could see that, although they weren’t her style, they were in no way offensive. Why had she made such a fuss about them?

      She sighed. The problem hadn’t been in the choice of clothes, but in her. If you let people treat you like a doll then you couldn’t really complain when they did, could you? She wondered, if she could do it all again, whether she would have behaved differently, but really she knew the answer. Of course she would—but the outcome would probably have been the same. Because a marriage could only work if it was based on love and Rocco didn’t have the ability to love—he’d told her that himself.

      As if thinking about him had somehow conjured him up, Rocco chose that moment to walk into the bedroom and Nicole’s questions were forgotten as she searched his face, registering eyes which were shadowed from lack of sleep and a hard and unsmiling mouth.

      Her heart squeezed. ‘Turi?’ she questioned, her voice squeaky with anxiety.

      His jaw tightened but he nodded. ‘He’s hanging on in there. He’s in some kind of deep sleep. He didn’t seem to know I was there.’ He paused and a muscle began to work at his temple. ‘I don’t know if he’s well enough to see you right now and—’

      ‘Honestly, Rocco—it doesn’t matter.’ Her words tumbled over themselves. ‘He may not have been himself when he suggested seeing me—and there’s your brother and sister to consider. I don’t want him exhausted when they arrive and maybe I’d better not—’

      ‘Shh,’ he said, and his voice was unexpectedly gentle. ‘It’s okay. The doctor says that, physically, he’s as strong as an ox—and he’s been defying the odds all his life. Let’s just see how he goes. He wants to see you, Nic—and as far as I’m concerned, that’s what’s going to happen.’

      Nicole nodded, thinking that the things they were saying to each other were polite and functional but there was a whole different conversation going on underneath the surface. At least, for her there was. She looked into Rocco’s eyes and wondered what he thought when he saw them both standing here in this bedroom, like ghosts of the people they used to be. Did he find it as poignant as she did? Were the memories flying out of nowhere to remind him that it hadn’t been all bad? But these were questions she would never ask because she had no right to.

      ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he said, his hand reaching up to undo the buttons of his shirt. ‘And then we’ll go over to the main house and have some breakfast. Maria is waiting for us.’

      The sight of her husband about to start undressing was enough to have Nicole scuttling from the bedroom and thirty minutes later they were sitting in the kitchen of the main farmhouse, with Maria bustling around them. The housekeeper had been with the Barberi family since Rocco was a baby and greeted Nicole with a surprising affection, enveloping her in a fierce hug which left her breathless. Afterwards she turned and said something in rapid dialect to which Rocco made a drawling response which had Nicole looking at him questioningly.

      ‘She says that Turi’s fate is in God’s hands now,’ Rocco interpreted. ‘That he is very frail but she is certain he will recover now that I have returned. And I told her that if she was trying to make me feel guilty about moving to Monaco—then it wasn’t going to work.’ Unexpectedly, his eyes flashed with humour. ‘She also wants to know if you’d like some granita with your coffee?’

      ‘I’d love some,’ said Nicole, sitting down at the table and taking the bowl which was being pushed towards her.

      Rocco watched as Nicole began spooning up the famous Sicilian granita which Maria had made using lemons taken from the estate. His grandfather had made it through the night, his brother and sister were on their way and the coffee he was drinking was strong and dark. There were many reasons to count his blessings, but the tension in his body remained as tight as ever. Was it having Nicole here which was disturbing him so much? Sitting across the table from him with her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders and her rosy lips looking so kissable. He put his cup down with a bang, resenting the sudden shafting of his body because surely he shouldn’t be feeling desire when his grandfather lay upstairs, so sick.

      But it was desire, that was the trouble. It was there, ever-present—as much a part of him as the blood which pulsed through his veins. He watched as his wife