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‘Why don’t you take a bath and change?’
Sierra’s stomach clenched at the prospect of spending a night under the same roof as Marco Ferranti. Of taking a bath, changing clothes...everything making her feel vulnerable. He must have seen something in her face for he added silkily, ‘Surely you’re not worried for your virtue? Trust me, cara, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot bargepole.’
She flinched at both the deliberate use of the endearment and the contempt she saw in his face. The casual cruelty had been second nature to her father, but it stung coming from Marco Ferranti. He’d been kind to her once.
‘Good,’ she answered when she trusted her voice. ‘Because that’s the last thing I’d want.’
His gaze darkened and he took a step towards her. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Sierra held her ground. She knew her body had once responded to Marco’s, and even with him emanating raw, unadulterated anger she had a terrible feeling it would again. A single caress or kiss and she might start to melt, much to her shame. ‘Very sure,’ she answered in a clipped voice, and then she turned towards the stairs without another word.
She found Marco’s things in one of the guest bedrooms; he hadn’t taken the master bedroom for himself and she wondered why. It was all his now, every bit of it. The villa, the palazzo in Palermo, the Rocci business empire of hotels and real estate holdings. Her father had given everything to the man he’d seen as a son, and left his daughter with nothing.
Or almost nothing. Carefully she took the velvet pouch out from the pocket of her skirt. The pearl necklace and sapphire brooch that had been her mother’s before she married were hers now. She had no idea why her father had allowed her to have them; had it been a moment of kindness on his deathbed, or had he simply been saving face, trying to seem like the kind, grieving father he’d never been?
It didn’t matter. She had a keepsake to remind her of her mother, and that was all she’d wanted.
Quickly, Sierra slipped out of her wet clothes and took a short, scaldingly hot shower. She dressed in a soft grey T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms of Marco’s; it felt bizarrely intimate to wear his clothes, and they swam on her. She used one of his belts to keep the bottoms from sliding right off her hips, and combed her hair with her fingers, leaving it hanging damply down her back.
Then, hesitantly, she went downstairs. She would have rather hidden upstairs away from Marco until the storm passed but, knowing him, he’d most likely come and find her. Perhaps it would be better to deal with the past, get that initial awful conversation out of the way, and then they could declare a silent truce and ignore each other until she was able to leave.
She found him in the sitting room, crouched in front of the fire he was fanning into crackling flame. He’d changed into jeans and a black T-shirt and the clothes fitted him snugly, emphasising his powerful chest and long legs, every inch of him radiating sexual power and virility.
Sierra stood in the doorway, conscious of a thousand things: how Marco’s damp hair had started to curl at the nape of his neck, how the soft cotton of the T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt—rubbed against her bare breasts. She felt a tingling flare of what could only be desire and tried to squelch it. He hated her now, and in any case she knew what kind of man he was. How could she possibly desire him?
He glanced back at her as she came into the room, and with a shivery thrill she saw an answering flare of awareness in his own eyes. He straightened, the denim of his jeans stretching across his powerful thighs, and Sierra’s gaze was drawn to the movement, to the long, fluid length of his legs, the powerful breadth of his shoulders. Once he would have been hers, a thought that had filled her with apprehension and even fear. Now she felt a flicker of curiosity and even loss for what might have been, and she quickly brushed it aside.
The man was handsome. Sexy. She’d always known that. It didn’t change who he was, or why she’d had to leave.
‘Come and get warm.’ Marco’s voice was low, husky. He gestured her forward and Sierra came slowly, reluctant to get any closer to him. Shadows danced across the stone hearth and her bare feet sank into the thick, luxuriously piled carpet.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured without looking at him. The tension in the room was thick and palpable, a thousand unspoken words and thoughts between them. Sierra stared at the dancing flames, having no idea how to break the silence, or whether she wanted to. Perhaps it would be better to act as if the past had never happened.
‘When do you return to London?’ Marco asked. His voice was cool, polite, the question that of an acquaintance or stranger.
Sierra released the breath she’d bottled in her lungs without realising. Maybe he would make this easy for her. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Did you not think you’d have affairs to manage here?’
She glanced at him, startled, saw how his silvery eyes had narrowed to iron slits, his mouth twisted mockingly. His questions sounded innocuous, but she could see and feel the latent anger underneath the thin veneer of politeness.
‘No. I didn’t expect my father to leave me anything in his will.’
‘You didn’t?’ Now he sounded nonplussed, and Sierra shrugged.
‘Why would he? We’ve neither spoken nor seen each other in seven years.’
‘That was your choice.’
‘Yes.’
They were both silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire, the settling of logs in the grate. Sierra had wondered how much Marco guessed of her father’s abuse and cruelty. How much he would have sanctioned. The odd slap? The heaping of insults and emotional abuse? Did it even matter?
She’d realised, that night she’d left, that she could not risk it. She’d been foolish to think she could, that she could entrust herself to any man. Leaving Marco had been as much about her as about him.
‘Why did you come back here, to this villa?’ Marco asked abruptly, and Sierra looked up from her contemplation of the fire.
‘I told you—’
‘To pay your respects. To what? To whom?’
‘To my mother. Her grave is in the family plot on the estate.’
He cocked his head, his silvery gaze sweeping coldly over her. ‘And yet you didn’t return when your mother was ill. You didn’t even send a letter.’
Because she hadn’t known. But would she have come back, even if she had known? Could she have risked her father’s wrath, being under his hand once more? Sierra swallowed and looked away.
‘No answer?’ Marco jibed softly.
‘You know the answer. And anyway, it wasn’t a question.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘You are certainly living up—or should I say down—to my expectations.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘For seven years I’ve wondered just how cold a bitch I almost married. Now I know.’
The words felt like a slap, sending her reeling. She blinked past the pain, told herself it didn’t matter. ‘You can think what you like.’
‘Of course I can. It’s not as if you’ve ever given me any answers, have you? Any possible justification for what you did, not just in leaving me, but in deserting your family?’
She didn’t reply. She didn’t want to argue with Marco, and in any case he hadn’t really been asking her a question. He’d been stating a fact, making a judgement. He’d made his mind up about her years ago, and nothing she could say would change it now, not even the truth. Besides, he’d been her father’s right-hand man for over a decade. Either he knew how her father had treated his family, or he’d chosen not to know.
‘You have nothing to say, Sierra?’
It was the first time he’d called her by her first name and it sent a shiver of apprehensive awareness rippling through her. He sounded so cold. For one brief blazing second she remembered the feel of his lips on hers when he’d kissed her in the garden. His hands on her body, sliding so knowingly up to cup her breasts; the electric tingle of excitement low in her belly, kindling a spark she hadn’t even known existed, because no man had ever touched her that way. No man had ever made her feel so desired.
Mentally, Sierra shrugged away the memory. So the man could kiss. Marco Ferranti no doubt had unimaginable sexual prowess. He’d probably been with dozens—hundreds—of women. It didn’t change facts.
‘No,’ she told him flatly. ‘I have nothing to say.’
* * *
Marco stared at Sierra, at the cool hauteur on her lovely face, and felt another blaze of anger go off like a firework in his gut. How could she be so cold?
‘You know, I admired how cool you were, all those years ago,’ he told her. Thankfully, his voice sounded as flat as hers, almost disinterested. He’d given away too much already, too much anger, too much emotion. He’d had seven years to get over Sierra. In any case, it wasn’t as if he’d ever loved her.
‘Cool?’ Sierra repeated. She looked startled, wary.
‘Yes, you were so self-possessed, so calm. I liked that about you.’ She didn’t reply, just watched him guardedly. ‘I didn’t realise,’ Marco continued, his tone clipped as he bit off each word precisely, ‘that it was because you had no heart. You were all ice underneath.’ Except she hadn’t been ice in his arms.
Still she said nothing, and Marco could feel the anger boiling inside him, threatening to spill out. ‘Damn it, Sierra, didn’t you ever think that I deserved an explanation?’
Her gaze flicked away from his and her tongue darted out to touch her lips. Just that tiny gesture set lust ricocheting through him. He felt dizzy from the excess of emotion, anger and desire twined together. He didn’t want to feel so much. After seven years of cutting himself off from such feelings, the force of their return was overwhelming and unwelcome.
‘Well?’ Marco demanded. Now that he’d asked the question, he realised he wanted an answer.
‘I thought it was explanation enough that I left,’ Sierra said coolly.
Marco stared at her, his jaw dropping before he had the presence of mind to snap it shut, the bones aching. ‘How on earth could you think that?’
Her gaze moved to his and then away again. ‘Because it was obvious I’d changed my mind.’
‘Yes, I do realise. But I’ve never understood why, and your father didn’t, either. He was devastated when you left, you know. Utterly bereft.’ He still remembered how Arturo had wept and embraced him when he’d told him, outside the church, that Sierra was gone. Marco had been numb, disbelieving; he’d wanted to send search parties until the truth of what Arturo was saying slammed home. She wasn’t missing. She’d left. She’d left him, and for a second he wasn’t even surprised. His marriage to Sierra, his acceptance into the Rocci family, it had all been too good—too wonderful—to be true.
Now Sierra’s mouth firmed and she folded her arms, her blue-grey eyes turning as cold as the Atlantic on a winter’s day. ‘Why did you want to marry me, Marco, if we’re going to rake through the past? I never quite understood that.’ She paused, her cool gaze trained on him now, unflinching and direct, offering an unspoken challenge. ‘It’s not because you loved me.’
‘No.’ He could admit that much. He hadn’t known her well enough to love her, and in any case he’d never been interested in love. Love meant opening yourself up to emotional risk, spreading your arms wide and inviting someone to take a shot. In his mother’s case, she’d sustained a direct hit. Not something he’d ever be so foolish or desperate to do.
‘So?’ Sierra arched an eyebrow, and it disconcerted him how quickly and neatly she’d flipped the conversation. He was no longer the one on the attack. How dare she put him on the defensive—she, who’d walked away without a word?
‘I could ask the same of you,’ he said. ‘Why did you agree to marry me?’ And then change your mind?
Sierra’s mouth firmed. ‘I’d convinced myself I could be happy with you. I was wrong.’
‘And what made you decide that?’ Marco demanded.
She sighed, shrugging her slim shoulders. ‘Do we really want to go through all this?’ she asked. ‘Do you think it will help? So much has happened. Seven years, Marco. Maybe we should just agree to—’
‘Disagree? We’re not talking about a little spat we had, Sierra. Some petty argument.’ His voice came out harshly—too harsh, ragged and revealing with the force of his emotion. Even so, he couldn’t keep himself from continuing. ‘We’re talking about marriage. We were a few hours away from pledging our lives to one another.’
‘I know.’ Her lips formed the words but he could barely hear her whisper. Her face had gone pale, her eyes huge and dark. Still she stood tall, chin held high. She had strength—more strength than he’d ever realised—but right now it only made him angry.
‘Then why...?’
‘You still didn’t answer my question, Marco.’ Her chin tilted up another notch. ‘Why did you want to marry me?’
He stared at her for a moment, furious that he felt cornered. ‘I need a drink,’ he said abruptly, and stalked into the kitchen. She didn’t follow him.
He yanked a bottle of whisky from the cupboard and poured a healthy measure that he downed in one swallow. Then he poured another.
Damn it, how dare she ask him, accuse him, when she was the one who should be called to account? What did it matter why he’d wanted to marry her, when she’d agreed?
He drained his second glass and then went back to the sitting room. Sierra had moved closer to the fire and the flames cast dancing shadows across her face. Her hair was starting to dry, the ends curling. She looked utterly delectable wearing his too-big clothes. The T-shirt had slipped off one shoulder, so he could see how golden and smooth her skin was. The belt she’d cinched at her waist showed off its narrowness and the high, proud curve of her breasts. He remembered the feel of them in his hands, when he’d given his desire free rein for a few intensely exquisite moments. He’d felt her arch into him, heard her breathy gasp of pleasure.
The memory now had the power to stir the embers of his desire and he turned away from her, willing the memories, the emotion, back. He didn’t want to feel anything, not even simple lust, for Sierra Rocci now.
‘Damn it, Sierra, you have some nerve asking me why I behaved the way I did. You’re the one who chose to leave without so much as a note.’
‘I know.’
‘And you still haven’t given me a reason why. You changed your mind. Fine. I accept that. It was patently obvious at the time.’ His voice came out sharp with bitterness and he strove to moderate it. ‘But you still haven’t said why. Don’t you think I deserve an explanation? Your parents are no longer alive to hear why you abandoned them, but I am.’ His voice hardened, rose. ‘So why don’t you just tell me the truth?’
CHAPTER FOUR
A LOG SETTLED in the grate and popped, sparks scattering across the hearth before turning to cold ash. The silence stretched on and Sierra let it. What could she say? What would Marco believe or be willing to hear?
It was obvious he’d manufactured his own version of events, no doubt been fed lies by her father, who would have pretended to grieve for her. Marco wouldn’t believe the truth now, even if she fed it to him with a spoon.
‘Well?’ His voice rang out, harsh and demanding. ‘No reply?’
She shrugged, not meeting his gaze. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I told you—the truth. Why did you leave, Sierra? The night before our wedding?’
Sierra took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his hard gaze; looking into his eyes felt like slamming into a wall. ‘Fine. The truth is I had second thoughts. Cold feet. I realised I was putting my life in the hands of a virtual stranger, and that it was a mistake. I couldn’t do it.’
He stared at her, his gaze like concrete, a muscle flickering in his jaw. ‘You realised all this the night before our wedding? It didn’t occur to you at any point during the month of our engagement?’
‘I’d thought I was making the right decision. That night I realised I wasn’t.’
He shook his head derisively. ‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘In some ways it was, Marco.’ Another deep breath. ‘We didn’t love or even know each other, not really. We’d had a handful of dates, everything stage-managed by my father. Our marriage would have been a disaster.’
‘You can be so sure?’
‘Yes.’ She looked away, wanting to hide the truth she feared would be reflected in her eyes. She wasn’t sure. Not completely. Maybe their marriage would have worked. Maybe Marco really was a good and gentle man. Although the fact that he’d remained at her father’s right hand since then made her wonder. Doubt. How much of her father’s shallow charm and ruthless ways had rubbed off on her ex-fiancé? Judging from the cold anger she’d seen from him today, she feared far too much. No, she’d made the right choice. She had to believe that.
‘Fine.’ Marco exhaled in one long, low rush of breath. ‘You changed your mind. Why didn’t you tell me, then? Talk to me and tell me what you were thinking? Did I not deserve that much courtesy? A note, at the very least? Maybe I could have convinced you...’
‘Exactly. You would have convinced me.’ He stared at her, nonplussed, and she continued, ‘I was nineteen, Marco. You were a man of nearly thirty, sophisticated and worldly, especially compared to me. I had no life experience at all, and I was afraid to stand up to you, afraid that you’d sweep my arguments aside and then I’d marry you out of fear.’
‘Did I ever give you any reason to be afraid of me?’ he demanded. ‘What a thing to accuse me of, Sierra, and with no proof.’ His voice vibrated with anger and she fought not to flinch.
Now was the time to say it. To admit what she’d overheard, how it had made her feel. Why shouldn’t she? What did she have to lose? She’d lost it all already. She’d gained a new life—a small, quiet life that was safe and was hers. She had nothing she either needed or wanted from this man. ‘I heard you,’ she said quietly.
His gaze widened and his mouth parted soundlessly before he finally spoke. ‘You heard me? Am I supposed to know what that means?’
‘The night before our wedding, I heard you talking to my father.’
He shook his head slowly, not understanding. Not wanting to understand. ‘I’m still in the dark, Sierra.’
A deep breath, and she let it buoy her lungs, her courage. ‘You said, “I know how to handle her”, Marco.’ Even after all the years the memory burned. ‘When my father told you how women get notions. You spoke about me as if I were a dog, a beast to be bridled. Someone to be managed rather than respected.’
A full minute passed where Marco simply stared at her. Sierra held his gaze even though she ached to look away. To hide. The fire crackled and a spark popped, the loud sound breaking the stillness and finally allowing her to look somewhere else.
‘And for this, this one statement I can’t even remember,’ Marco said in a low voice, ‘you condemned me? Damned me?’
‘It was enough.’
He swore, a hiss under his breath. Sierra flinched, tried not to cringe. A man’s anger still had the power to strike fear into her soul. Make her body tense as she waited to ward off the blow.
‘How could you—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I don’t even want to know. I’m not interested in your excuses.’ He stalked into the kitchen. After a moment Sierra followed him. She’d rather creep back upstairs but she felt the conversation needed to be finished. Maybe then the past would be laid to rest, or at least as much as it could be.
She stood in the doorway while he opened various cupboards, every movement taut with suppressed fury.
He took out a packet of dried pasta and tossed it onto the granite island. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Don’t be perverse. You probably haven’t eaten anything all day. You should keep up your strength.’
The fact that he was right made Sierra stay silent. She was being perverse because she didn’t want to spend any more time with him than necessary. Her stomach growled loudly and Marco gave her a mocking look.
Sierra forced a smile. ‘Very well, then. Let me help.’ He shrugged his indifferent assent and Sierra moved awkwardly through the kitchen, conscious how this cosy domestic scene was at odds with the tension and animosity that still tautened the air.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, concentrating on mundane things; Sierra found a large pot and filled it with water, plonking it on the huge state-of-the-art range as Marco retrieved a tin of crushed tomatoes and various herbs from the cupboards.
This was his home now, and yet it once had been hers. She glanced round the huge kitchen, the oak table in the dining nook where she’d eaten breakfast while her mother moped and drank espresso. Sierra had enjoyed a cautious happiness at the villa, but Violet had always been miserable away from Arturo.
Sierra shook her head at the memory, at the regret she still felt for her mother’s life, her mother’s choices.
Marco noticed the movement and stilled. ‘What is it?’
She turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re shaking your head. What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something, Sierra.’
‘I was just thinking about my mother. How I missed her.’
His eyebrows rose in obvious disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you ever come back, then?’
The question hung in the air, taunting her. She could tell him the truth, but she resisted instinctively. Sierra didn’t know if it was because she didn’t want to be pitied, or because she suspected he wouldn’t believe her. Or, worse, an innate loyalty to her father, a man who had shown her so much contempt and disgust.
She drew a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘My father would not want me back, after...everything.’
‘You’re wrong.’ She recoiled at the flatly spoken statement. He could be so sure? ‘You judge people so quickly, Sierra. Me and your father both. He would have welcomed you back with open arms, I know it. He told me as much, many times.’
She leaned against the counter, absorbing his statement. So her father had been feeding him lies all along, just as she’d suspected. She could tell Marco believed what he said, deeply and utterly. And he would never believe her.
‘I suppose I wasn’t prepared to risk it.’
‘You broke his heart,’ Marco told her flatly. ‘And your mother’s. Neither of them were ever the same.’
Guilt curdled her stomach like sour milk. She’d always known, even if she hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, that her leaving would cost her mother. It hurt to hear it now. ‘How do you know? Did you see my mother very much?’
‘Often enough. Arturo invited me to dinner many times. Your mother became reclusive—’
‘She was always reclusive,’ Sierra cut in sharply. She could not let every statement pass as gospel. ‘We lived here, at the villa, except when my father called us into action.’
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