She took a quick breath. ‘If we marry, then obviously I’ll be your wife legally. But in reality you’ll just be there. In the background.’
In the background.
He wasn’t sure if it was her disparaging description of his upcoming r
ole or her haughty manner, but he felt a pulse of anger beat across his skin.
‘Sounds relaxing. Will I need to get dressed?’
That got to her. She wanted him still. He could see it in the flush of her cheeks and the restless pulse in her throat. Watching her pupils flare, he felt his own anger shift into desire.
Ignoring his question, she said coolly, ‘Before we go any further, you should know that I have a condition.’
A condition?
‘Is that so?’ Taking a step towards her, he held her gaze.
She nodded. ‘The marriage will last a year. That’s long enough for it to look real. If we manage our diaries, then we shouldn’t have to intrude into one another’s lives beyond what’s necessary.’
He stared at her in silence. All his life women had fawned over him, flattered and chased him. But now Imma was basically treating him like a footstool.
‘I have a condition too,’ he said silkily.
Seeing her swallow, he felt a flicker of satisfaction.
‘I will stay married to you for a year. But I want it in writing now that you will sign the Trapani Olive Oil Company over to me at the end of that year.’
She searched his face. Probably she thought he was joking. When she realised he was being serious, she started shaking her head. ‘You can’t expect me to—’ she began.
He cut her off. ‘Oh, but I do. I find managing my diary very dull, so I’ll need some incentive.’
He enjoyed the flash of outrage in her eyes almost as much as the way she bit down on her lip—presumably to stop herself from saying something she’d regret.
‘Is that going to be a problem? Maybe you’d rather go back to bed and thrash all this out there instead.’
Silence followed his deliberately provocative remark, and he waited to see how she would respond, his body tensing painfully in anticipation of her accepting his challenge.
Two spots of colour flared on her cheeks and he saw her hands curl into fists. She wanted to thump him. Or kiss him. Or maybe both.
And, actually, either would be preferable to this tight-lipped disdain.
But after a moment she said stiffly, ‘No, I would not.’
‘Shame,’ he drawled. ‘Still, there’s always the wedding night to look forward to.’
‘Yes, there is.’ She lifted her chin. ‘But we’ll be enjoying it in separate rooms. Just to be clear, this marriage is purely for show, Vicè. You won’t be sharing my bed. Or having sex with me.’
Vicè felt his smile harden.
He’d already had to be celibate in the run-up to his brother’s wedding. Not out of choice, but Ciro had insisted, and in the end he’d grudgingly accepted that any hint of scandal would ruin his chances of seducing Imma before he had even got to meet her.
Those nine weeks had left his body aching with sexual frustration. And now she was suggesting that that sentence should be extended to a year.
‘Obviously you won’t be having sex with anyone else either,’ she added coldly. ‘I won’t have my family’s name dragged through the mud by your libido.’
Their eyes met. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that, cara. Your father wallows in something far nastier than mud.’
His words drained the colour from her cheeks, but he told himself that a woman who was prepared to enter willingly into this kind of marriage deserved no compassion on his part.