to be a cleaner. She’d been about to take up a scholarship at one of London’s most prestigious art schools when her adoptive mother had been struck down by a virulent form of cancer. Fired by fear and devotion, Nicole had nursed the kindly woman who had taken in the abandoned little girl. The lonely child who had passed through streams of foster parents before Peggy Watson had appeared in her life as a saviour. Nicole hadn’t been able to imagine a life without her but, despite her frightened prayers, Peggy had died a painful death. And something in Nicole had died along with her.
Grief had left her barely able to lift a paintbrush, let alone have any ideas worth putting down on paper. Ignoring the pleadings of her teachers, she had deferred her place at art school. Suddenly, she’d felt old—as if she’d had nothing in common with the whacky art students and their garish clothes. How could she possibly behave in a carefree way when inside she’d felt so numb? All she’d wanted was a well-paid job she didn’t have to think about—and cleaning the Barberi offices had provided the ideal solution. She’d told herself it was just a case of recovering her confidence and clawing together some savings until she felt ready to continue with her art. And that had been her intended path, until the night she’d bumped into the Sicilian billionaire who, against all the odds, had been destined to become her husband.
She’d known who he was because he’d had a reputation for staying late and burning the midnight oil. And like all her co-workers, she’d agreed that the workaholic billionaire was the hunkiest man she’d ever seen. But Nicole had regarded Rocco Barberi in the same way you might regard the leading man in your favourite TV box-set—easy to fantasise about, but totally out of reach. Until the evening they had collided—literally. When Nicole had been carrying her mop and bucket along the corridor and seen the Sicilian heading towards her and they’d been so busy staring at each other that their paths had crossed. The metal bucket had caught the edge of the tycoon’s ankle and Nicole had looked down in horror to see soapy water sloshing all over his pristine suit trousers and handmade shoes.
‘Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry,’ she’d stumbled, looking up to find herself transfixed by the bluest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. ‘I... I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘And neither was I. Non importa.’ He had made a careless movement with his hand. ‘They will clean.’
He’d still been staring at her, staring at her as if he’d known her, or as if he hadn’t been able to quite believe what he’d been seeing. And Nicole had felt exactly the same. She might have been a virgin and naïve in the ways of men, but she’d been unable to deny the powerful attraction which had temporarily incapacitated them both. It hadn’t seemed to matter that she’d been wearing a blue uniform which had been straining across her breasts, nor that her flyaway curls had been tugged back with a single strand of the green velvet ribbon she always wore, because it matched her eyes. Or that the man in front of her had exuded a power and status which was many lofty rungs above her own. She’d just felt as if she knew him. As if they’d met in a previous life. Or something.
When she’d analysed it afterwards, she’d realised just how dumb she’d been. All that had happened was that she’d been captivated by a man who any painter in a life class would drool over and he had obviously felt something very similar. Their connection had been purely physical. Or chemical. A freak of nature which shouldn’t have gone anywhere else, except that it had.
She’d felt apologetic the next day but she’d also felt intensely alive—as if he’d woken her from a long sleep. She’d painted him a little postcard—the first time she’d picked up a brush since Peggy’s death—and on it she’d depicted a cartoon of Rocco standing in a sea of soapy water on which floated an empty bucket and the single word, sorry, at the bottom of the card.
Maybe Rocco had been frustrated at the time and that was why he’d thrown caution to the wind and told her how much the postcard had made him laugh, before asking her out for a drink. And maybe Nicole had just wanted something joyful to happen after the two bleak years since Peggy’s death. Either way, their drinks had lain untouched, and the dazzling skyline outside the fancy rooftop bar had gone unnoticed. He’d asked her to dinner and she’d said yes, and it had been the most wonderful evening of her life. But he hadn’t touched her, even though she had desperately wanted him to.
A week later they’d had dinner again and then, over a drink following a trip to Milan, he’d asked if she’d ever been on the London Eye. She hadn’t as it happened, and as the giant wheel had circled London’s imposing monuments Nicole had realised that she was completely smitten by her billionaire boss. Smitten enough to find herself at his apartment later that day with Rocco breaking through her hymen with a groan of hunger followed by disbelief.
Apparently, it was a big thing in Sicily for a man to take a woman’s virginity and Rocco had alternately stormed at her, before hugging her tightly to his chest and then lowering his head to suck on her nipples. It had gone on like that for days. Snatched moments of bliss—even at work. That time on the desk would be scorched in her memory for ever. She’d never known that sex could be so addictive and Rocco had told her he felt exactly the same.
But then something had changed.
When Rocco had started buying her gradually more daring items of underwear and asking her to wear them Nicole had been eager to try out his sexy commands, yet on some deeper level—she’d been a bit wary, too. Had instinct warned her that the more outrageous his demands, the more he’d seemed to be distancing himself from her? Had he already decided her humble status meant he should end their liaison—and the provocative items of lingerie had been helping highlight her unsuitability? She’d been about to tell him he was making her feel like an object, when she’d missed her period, and her newly tender breasts had told her what the pregnancy test had quickly confirmed—that she was carrying Rocco Barberi’s baby.
Telling him had been nothing like the rose-tinted version she’d secretly longed for—a version as far away as possible from her own bleak beginnings on the snowy steps of a wintry hospital. She’d wanted to give him the news somewhere neutral, but he’d told her he was expecting a call and maybe they should take a rain check on the date they’d planned—and had he mentioned that he was planning a trip to the States the following week and wouldn’t be around for some time? And that was when it had all come blurting out, there in his penthouse office—with her untouched mop and bucket standing on the floor beside her feet.
‘Rocco, I’m pregnant.’
She would never forget his expression as he’d looked up from his computer. A brief shuttering followed by a shadowed caution.
‘You’re certain?’
‘Positive.’
‘And it’s...’
His words had faded but a sudden chill had washed over Nicole’s skin.
‘Yours?’ she’d questioned with a perception which had made her suddenly feel quite sick. ‘Is that what you were going to say, Rocco?’
He had shaken his head. ‘Of course not.’
She hadn’t believed him and had started to cry when he’d ‘jokingly’ suggested she might have deliberately sabotaged the condom in order to trap him. Had her woeful, red-eyed face tugged at his conscience? Was that why he’d risen from his desk and walked across the office towards her? His unkind words had been blotted out by the deep sense of gratitude she’d felt when he’d taken her in his arms and told her that of course she must marry him. He was going to stand by her and that meant a lot to someone who had been abandoned as a baby. And of course, she had thought herself in love with him. Yet all the time she had been acutely aware of the dutiful way he went about preparing for
