It was unlike Rocco to search for the unspoken but he did so now. He saw the expression of resignation which had flattened her green eyes—as if sex was all he was capable of offering her. And even though up until a few minutes ago he might have echoed those very sentiments, now his ego rebelled against such an assumption. He would not tolerate being regarded as a stud, but it was more than that. Their conversation had left him feeling disquieted. He could see how vulnerable it had left his estranged wife, no matter how hard she tried to disguise it. And vulnerability was always a danger where women were concerned. It made them capable of misinterpreting an act of physical intimacy and loading it with imaginary significance. If they had sex right now, wouldn’t it be asking for trouble?
He let his gaze drift over the simple white sundress which flattered her curvy body. She looked as sweet as on that first evening he’d met her, when she’d stood in front of him in her cleaner’s uniform, looking guilty for having splashed him with soapy water. The fabric of his trousers had been warm and wet against his ankle but all he could remember was the emerald blaze of her eyes—and Rocco was unprepared for the sudden jolt of nostalgia he experienced.
His jaw clenched.
No. Sex would be a bad idea. He needed to get them as far away from the vicinity of a bedroom as possible and, for once, the idea of leaving her to sun herself by the pool while he buried himself in work was leaving him cold. ‘Why don’t I take you walking?’ he said.
‘Walking?’ she echoed.
‘I meant around the Rock.’
‘The Rock?’
‘That’s what everyone calls Monaco. Because it’s built on a rock,’ he added.
‘I’d kind of worked that one out for myself, Rocco.’
He gave a reluctant laugh as his gaze travelled to her feet—currently encased in a pair of high, strappy wedges which defined her shapely ankles and briefly made him regret his impetuous decision. ‘Do you have anything more suitable you could wear?’
‘Like trainers?’
‘Trainers would be fine,’ he said evenly. ‘Why don’t you go and put them on?’
Glad to escape the disturbing scrutiny of his gaze, Nicole sped upstairs, her heart pounding as she pushed open her bedroom door. She’d straightened the rumpled bedding before going down to breakfast but someone had obviously been in and changed the linen because now the bed looked so pristine that last night might never have happened. But it had. She could feel her cheeks heating as she located her sneakers, trying to forget their explosive passion and to remember instead what he’d just told her.
He had only married her because of the baby.
She remembered the doctor telling her that early miscarriage was very common. That she should go home to her husband and get pregnant again as soon as possible. But how could that be possible when Rocco had resolutely stayed away from her after she’d lost the baby? When he’d seemed almost relieved to have a legitimate reason not to resume marital relations. Was that how he’d felt only been afraid to admit it? Had some part of him recognised that the terrible thing which had happened was probably best in the long run, if it freed him from a marriage he had never intended?
But she had never asked him, had she? Had never sat him down or confronted him and not just because she was feeling out of her depth as the billionaire’s new bride. She hadn’t talked about stuff because, in a way, she hadn’t known how. Those years in foster homes hadn’t exactly been warm and although Peggy Watson had loved her like a mother, she had come from a fierce generation of practical Irishwomen who got on with things, rather than discussing how they made them feel.
Wasn’t she as much to blame as Rocco for the lack of communication between them at the time—which had speeded up the end of their forced marriage?
Tying her shoelaces, she grabbed a canvas tote bag and went back to the terrace to find him waiting, blue eyes gleaming as he quickly appraised her change of footwear.
‘Much better,’ he murmured.
Nicole’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Strange coming from the man who once insisted I parade about his office in a pair of sky-high stilettos. What happened, Rocco? Did your tastes undergo a dramatic change?’
His face was impassive. ‘You are no longer my mistress, Nicole—that’s what happened.’
But she’d felt like his mistress last night. He had treated her with that same raw hunger he’d displayed at the beginning of their relationship, before they were married. And that was something else which had always puzzled her, something else she had felt unable to ask him in the past. But now she had nothing left to lose and she looked unflinchingly into his bright eyes. ‘Those things you used to get me to dress up in. The packages you used to buy from that shop in Soho—’
‘You’re going to tell me now that you didn’t like them?’ he questioned roughly.
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m not going to say that. I wore them because you did like them. But the more outrageous the outfits, the more...disapproving you seemed to be, even though they clearly turned you on. It was as if you were trying to turn me into someone you could ultimately despise. Is that what you were doing, Rocco?’
Rocco felt his mouth dry. She was far more perceptive than he’d given her credit for, or maybe he’d just never stopped to notice it before. He’d been horrified to discover that the beautiful cleaner had been a virgin, because he hadn’t wanted an innocent, he had wanted a mistress. Turning her onto the more colourful sexual practices enjoyed by his previous lovers had been an attempt to place her firmly into the latter category. Because the alternative was admitting he was captivated by having straightforward vanilla sex with his eager young lover. And that admission had made him uneasy because what then would she want from him—and could he ever be that man?
His mouth tightened. And then she’d fallen pregnant and once again he had been cast into the role which had haunted him all his life.
Responsible adult.
Ask Rocco.
See how Rocco does it.
Well, not any more.
He was free now and that was the way he liked it.
‘Maybe I was trying to get you to despise me,’ he admitted eventually.
Confusion fired in the leafy depths of her eyes. ‘But why would you do that?’
He saw the colour which had risen to her cheeks and somehow he knew he couldn’t duck out of this. ‘Because I knew I was the type of man who could hurt you,’ he said, in as candid an admission as he’d ever made. ‘And I didn’t want to do that. Not when I discovered just how sweet and innocent you really were.’
‘Could you...elaborate, please?’
Rocco scowled, wondering why she was being so persistent when this was only going to hurt her. ‘I thought that if I tried to objectify you, it would drive a wedge between us.’
‘And it did,’ she said dully.
‘It did,’ he agreed.
Her teeth
