Michelle Smart - Italian Bachelors - Irresistible Sicilians

‘Yes. I received them. Thank you.’ And shortly she would have to put on the dress and shoes. Call her contrary but part of her would prefer to wear the hideous beige creation. At least then she would be able to seethe at him all night, would be in no danger of further softening.

When he left, she went straight to the bathroom and washed her face. She was patting it dry when Luca came back into her room.

‘Here, take this,’ he said, handing her a small tube. ‘Put a couple of drops in your eye and it should get rid of the redness.’

Don’t be touched at his thoughtfulness, she warned herself. Keep your guard up.

He stood, watching her, waiting for her to say something.

‘Thanks.’

He nodded. ‘No problem. I’ve told the driver we’ll be a few minutes late, so don’t rush.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m sure the last thing you want is for your perfect wife to look as if she was thrown together.’

His mouth tightened. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I was thinking of you. If you want to twist it then that’s your problem.’

Grace stared at his retreating figure wishing she could take it back.

But take what back? Luca had been very clear in his expectation that she be a good Sicilian wife and nothing had been said to alter that.

They couldn’t live in a permanent state of angst. It was natural some of the good feeling from their previous marital incarnation should seep into the fabric of this new form. She just had to be alert and ready for it.

She could not afford to drop her guard. Not for a second.

* * *

When Luca left his room twenty minutes later, he found Grace sitting on the sofa with her back to him, a glass of red wine on the table in front of her.

‘You were quick,’ he commented, helping himself to the glass and opened bottle she had left out for him.

She got to her feet and reached for her wine. Taking a sip of it, she turned to face him.

He took her in slowly, studying every inch.

That his wife had never been one for spending hours on her appearance was somewhat of an understatement. Considering she spent—or had spent—most of her natural state splattered with paint, she always used to joke it was pointless. However, she had adored dressing up for nights out, could transform her fresh-faced beauty into gorgeous, quirky sophistication with nothing more than a tiny make-up bag of tricks.

Tonight, in fifteen short minutes, she had outdone herself.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off her. The sunny colours were perfect on her, the buttercup bodice enhancing her small cleavage and the litheness of her stature. The front of the dress rested above her knees, displaying her long, slender legs to perfection, the back of it mere inches from the floor. Her hair, which had grown into a very short bob, had been spiked in all directions, her make-up bold, her eyes painted a smoky brown that darkened the hazel of her eyes. A splash of orange lipstick, that on any other woman would look crass, completed the look to perfection.

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