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  ‘Okay,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘How about I meet you for a coffee when I’ve finished work? There’s a café at the far end of the harbour which will still be open. It’s got a red and white awning at the front—you can’t miss it. I’ll see you in there.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head and his mouth hardened. ‘I’m not meeting you in public in some damned café. I want to visit your apartment, Nicole. To see for myself the place you have chosen above your Sicilian home.’

  It was on the tip of Nicole’s tongue to tell him that the lavish Barberi complex had felt more like a prison than a home, but what was the point of upping the ante? Mightn’t it drive home how serious she was about this divorce if she showed |Rocco where she lived? Mightn’t he get it into his stubborn head that wealth and privilege meant nothing, not when you measured those things against peace of mind?

  ‘Very well, I live in the flat above the tea shop on Greystone Road. Number thirty-seven,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But don’t come before seven.’

  ‘Capisce.’ He nodded his dark head.

  He was just on his way to the door when he paused in front of a small display of pottery, picking up one of the pieces to study it. It was a glowing terracotta jug with a handle fashioned to look like the twisted leaves on a lemon branch. Raised yellow fruits dotted the surface and in the background was the flash of blue—an artistic representation of the distant sea. Slowly he turned it around in his olive fingers to study it, before glancing up to meet her eyes.

  ‘This is good,’ he said slowly. ‘It reminds me of Sicily.’

  She nodded, the sudden clench of her heart making her wish he hadn’t made the connection. ‘That’s what inspired me.’

  ‘Perhaps I should buy it,’ he reflected. ‘You certainly look as if you could do with a few more customers.’

  ‘Particularly when you drive away the ones I do have,’ she observed acidly. ‘Anyway, it’s not for sale.’

  She pointed to a bright red sticker, though in reality nobody had bought it, because it had never actually been for sale. It was the last remaining piece of the collection she’d made when she’d returned from Sicily, feeling heartbroken and empty. Her bestselling collection, as it happened, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Just as she wouldn’t tell him about the tiny, hand-embroidered romper suit she’d bought soon after she’d had her first pregnancy scan, which was lying shrouded in tissue paper in one of her bedroom drawers. She was planning to sell the jug just as soon as the ink was dry on her divorce papers. The romper suit she suspected she would never be able to part with.

  He replaced the piece and all Nicole was aware of were those amazing sapphire eyes searing into her. He was always the most beautiful man she had ever seen and nothing about that had changed. He could still make her heart beat fast. Still make her shiver and her breasts swell into vibrant life against her lacy bra. Just as he reminded her of the darkest time in her life and her fear that she would never be able to recover. But she had recovered. And she’d done it without him—because they were no good for each other. She had accepted that. It was time that Rocco did, too.

  And suddenly she wanted him out of the shop, before she gave into the pain which was welling up inside her and threatening to spill over. Before it dissolved into bitter tears, which would remind her of everything she had lost.

  Copyright © 2018 by Sharon Kendrick

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  ISBN-13: 9781488098161

  FORGOTTEN PASSION

  First published in 1983

  This edition published in 2018

  Copyright © 1983 by Penny Jordan.

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