‘We’re adults. We’re both getting what we want from this arrangement. Except each other. But I’m willing to forget the past if you are.’
Forget the past.
For a second she couldn’t trust herself to speak. ‘Excuse me.’ She stepped past him.
He frowned. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To get some bedding. I’m going to sleep on the sofa.’
For a moment he clearly thought she was joking, and then he swore softly. ‘Fine. I’ll sleep down here.’
She stumbled slightly, caught off guard by his sudden acquiescence.
‘Fine. And, just so you know, from now until we leave, there won’t be any more public appearances for the two of us. Show’s over, Vicè.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROLLING ONTO HIS BACK, Vicè savagely punched the pillow behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling.
Newsflash: this sofa might look great, and lounging on it with a Negroni was fine, but it was definitely not designed for sleep.
Not that he was going to sleep any time soon, he thought. Even if his neck hadn’t been in agony, his body was wound so tightly he doubted he would ever sleep again. In fact, it had been on high alert ever since Imma had sashayed downstairs earlier and he’d forgotten to breathe.
Gone had been the absurdly staid mother-of-the-bride navy dress and in its place had been a silk number the colour of absinthe that had clung to her body without a ripple, exposing her slim curves and shimmering biscotti-coloured skin.
And then there had been those shoes...
A muscle pulsed in his jaw. It was a toss-up as to whether that dress or her parting shot had rendered him more speechless.
Remembering Imma’s words, he felt his muscles tighten.
Show’s over.
Wrong, he thought. It wasn’t over. This was just an intermission.
Scowling, he shifted onto his side. Just an intermission that was longer than necessary and extremely uncomfortable.
He scowled. How had he ended up here? Spending a night on the sofa while his new wife slept alone in his bed?
He couldn’t work out what had happened. So he might not be a business tycoon like Ciro, or even his father, but if there was one thing he understood above all others it was women.
He gritted his teeth. Make that all women except Imma.
Take tonight: she had been spitting fire over their sleeping arrangements, storming off into the bathroom when he’d told her about their dinner reservation. But then she’d seemed to calm down and relax over dinner, eating and enjoying her meal even though she’d claimed earlier she had no appetite.
Her mood had shifted a little when they’d walked out of the hotel. She had been jittery—understandably. Like oysters, the paparazzi were an acquired taste. And, unlike him, Imma had very little experience of facing a phalanx of photographers. But he’d warned her that they would have to perform for the cameras and she’d seemed to be up for it.
His pulse began to beat thickly in his blood.
Had he meant to kiss her like that? As if a clock had been counting down to the end of the world and only by kissing her could he stop time and stay alive?
No, he hadn’t—and he hadn’t expected her to respond like that either.
He’d thought she would play coy, do her ‘duty’...
But then she’d leaned into him, her lips parting. And, lost in the sweetness of her mouth and the pliant heat of her body, he had kissed her back.
His groin tightened at the memory.