Page 9 of The Sicilian’s Deal For 'I Do'

She took the steps with haste, reached the doorbell and hesitated for the briefest of moments before pressing it, keeping her head bent, lest someone walk past and spot her.

Heart rushing, blood pounding, she stood waiting, nervous, hungry, but not for food: anxiety and tension of the best possible kind were making her body hum and zip.

She pressed the doorbell again, jabbing her finger against it, other emotions beginning to rush through her now, like panic and doubt—but those emotions belonged to the old Mia, to the version of herself she’d been before Luca had, inadvertently, forced her to wake up and start taking control of her life. Before she could act on those unwanted feelings, the big old timber door creaked a little, moved, opened, and Luca was standing on the other side.

He wore suit trousers and a collared shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his tanned forearms. He looked as though he was still working, perhaps. Or maybe entertaining? The thought hadn’t even occurred to Mia, but Luca had invited her for the previous night. Perhaps he was busy this evening? Mia considered all of these options in the space of a couple of very fraught seconds, and then the static noise in her brain became overwhelming as her eyes lifted to Luca’s and pleasure made every part of her, even her toes, tingle.

‘I shouldn’t have come,’ she murmured, without attempting to leave.

He stared at her for a beat. ‘Do you want to go?’

She pressed her teeth into her lower lip, eyes huge in her face, and slowly shook her head.

For a moment, relief flashed in his eyes, then he reached out, a simple gesture, one that Mia had always thought embodied trust, because he was asking her to put her hand in his, to walk with him. It was somehow both simple and far too intimate and yet she needed to get off the street, so she lifted her hand and brushed her fingers against his, trembling at the moment of connection, eyes jerking to his with surprise. How could a simple glance of flesh be so incendiary? Then again, hadn’t it been like this before? Wasn’t that part of why she’d been so overwhelmed by the idea of marrying him?

She exhaled a breath of relief when the door closed, glad that she’d crossed the first hurdle, glad that at least she was away from the risk of discovery by someone her parents might know.

She paled at the enormity of this, but then Luca pulled her, through the enormous entrance foyer towards a glass-fronted living room with elegant leather sofas, glass and steel coffee tables and bronze lamps, so the impression was immediately both comfortable and architectural. There was a half-finished glass of something on the coffee table. Whisky? Despite the fact Mia never drank, she disentangled her fingers from his, walked to the glass and took a sip, closing her eyes as the liquid fired courage into her veins.

When she opened her eyes, it was to find Luca staring at her, appraising her, as if weighing her up somehow, working out just what to do with her.

But the whisky had worked, and Mia’s courage was returning in spades. This was about her—what she wanted and needed. For far too long she’d been pushed around and manoeuvred to suit other people. She’d been sent away from Sicilia, from the home she loved, from the light she loved, to a cold, dark boarding school in England because it was her mother’s wish. She’d come home after making friends and a life in England, because it was her parents’ wish. She’d stayed living at home even when she’d found an apartment she could rent, because it was her parents’ wish. She’d turned down job offers because her father had insisted she work in the family business—that was her destiny. She’d agreed to marry Luca Cavallaro before she’d even met him, because her parents had convinced her that it was wise and necessary. Her entire life had been a procession of ‘yes, yes, yes’, from Mia and, just this once, she wanted to take something all for herself, to hell with the consequences.

Besides, there would be no consequences.

Luca Cavallaro wasn’t in her life, by his own choosing. He was nothing to her and she was nothing to him, except, perhaps, unfinished business. And if she could exploit that connection, so what?

‘Take me to bed, Luca. I don’t have all night.’

His eyes sparked with something like surprise, briefly, but then he covered it, his features neutral and impassive, his handsome, symmetrical face captivating and compelling—she couldn’t look away.

‘What about your fiancé?’ he growled, and with good reason: Mia had held Lorenzo up like a shield the last time they’d spoken.

Her eyes met Luca’s head-on and she forced herself to be brutally honest, because it was important to her honour that Luca should know she wasn’t someone who would ever cheat. ‘He’s a free agent until we’re married, and so am I.’

His eyes narrowed with a speculative power that made her knees knock and he prowled towards her, stopping just short of touching. ‘Are you sure?’

‘What, have you suddenly developed a conscience, Luca?’ she scoffed. ‘You’re the one who propositioned me.’

He lifted her chin, tilting her face to his. ‘I am simply interested.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted after a beat, the air rushing out of her lungs in a single whoosh. ‘I’m sure. We discussed our expectations. We’re not a couple and there’s no point pretending. As long as we’re both discreet, we can do what we want until the wedding.’

It was evidently enough for Luca. He paused only to lift the whisky and take a drink, his eyes holding hers, and she trembled at the intimacy of that too, of sharing a glass with him. His Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed and then he held out the glass to her lips. ‘Open.’

Wordlessly, she did exactly that.

He tipped a little more of the alcohol in and then placed the glass on the table, watching as she drank, as a tiny drop of the amber-coloured liquid escaped from the corner of her mouth. An invitation, evidently, because he leaned down and chased it with his tongue, and then captured her lips, tilting her head back with the force of his kiss, his fingers weaving into her pale hair, holding her steady when she might otherwise have slumped to the ground, rendered quite weak by the rush of pleasure.

All doubts fled.

She was doing this.

It was right.

It felt right. And when he lifted her and carried her against his chest, kissing her as he strode through the beautiful apartment, it was just perfect.

She was slimmer than a year ago, those curves that had had the frustrating habit of appearing in his mind at the least convenient times were smaller, but she was still stunning and voluptuous, and so natural. A testament to womanly beauty, from her generous breasts to her tapered-in waist and wide hips, rounded bottom, he wanted to lose himself exploring her valleys and peaks—and he would.

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