by Kate Hewitt
Standing by the window as dread seeped into her stomach when she saw her father’s car drive up the winding lane. Fear clenching her stomach hard as she heard his thunderous voice. Cringing as she heard her mother’s placating or pleading response. No, she definitely didn’t have good memories of here.
But she wouldn’t stay long now. She’d see her mother’s grave, pay her respects and then return to Palermo, where she’d booked into a budget hotel. By this time tomorrow she’d be back in London, and she’d never come to Sicily again.
Quickly, Sierra walked along the high stone wall that surrounded the estate. She knew the property like her own hand; she and her mother had always stayed here until Arturo called them into service, to play-act at being the perfect family for various engagements or openings of the Rocci hotels that now graced much of the globe. Her mother had lived for her husband’s summons; Sierra had dreaded them.
Away from the road she knew the wall had crumbled in places, creating a gap low enough for her to climb over. She doubted her father had seen to repairs in the last seven years; she wondered if he’d come to the villa at all. He’d preferred to live his own life in Palermo except when he needed his wife and daughter to play at happy families for the media.
She stepped into the shelter of a dense thicket of pine trees, the world falling to darkness as the trees overhead shut out any remnant of sunlight. Thunder rumbled again, and the branches snagged on her silk blouse and narrow skirt, neither a good choice for walking through woods or climbing walls.
After a few moments of walking she came to a crumbled section of wall and with effort, thanks to her pencil skirt, she managed to clamber over it. Sierra let out a breath of relief and started towards the far corner of the estate, where the family cemetery was located.
She skirted the villa, not wanting to attract attention to herself; she had no idea if anyone was in residence. Arturo had installed a housekeeper when she’d lived here with her mother, a beady-eyed old woman who had been her father’s henchman and spy. If she was still here, Sierra had no wish to attract her attention.
In the distance the ghostly white marble headstones of the Rocci family plot appeared through the stormy gloom like silent, still ghosts, and Sierra’s breath caught in her throat as she approached. She knew where her mother’s marker lay, in the far corner; it was the only one that hadn’t been there when she’d left.
Violet Rocci, Beloved Wife
She stared at the four words written starkly on the tombstone until they blurred and she blinked back tears. Beloved mother, yes, but wife? Had her father loved her mother at all? Sierra knew Violet believed so, but Sierra wanted to believe love was better and bigger than that. Love didn’t hurt, didn’t punish or belittle. She wanted to believe that, but she didn’t know if she could. She certainly had no intention of taking the risk of finding out for herself.
‘Ti amo, Mamma,’ she whispered, and rested her hand on top of the cool marble. She’d missed her mother so much over these past seven years. Although she’d written Violet a few letters over the years, her mother had discouraged contact, fearing for Sierra’s safety. The few letters she’d had were precious and all too rare, and had stopped completely well before Violet’s illness.
She drew a deep breath and willed the tears away. She wouldn’t cry now. There had been enough sadness already. Another deep breath and her composure was restored, as she needed it to be. Cloak herself in coolness, keep the feelings at bay. She turned away from the little cemetery plot and started walking back towards her car. She hoped Violet Rocci was at peace now, safe from her husband’s cruelty. It was the smallest comfort, but the only one she could cling to now.
Thunder rumbled and forked lightning split the sky as the first heavy raindrops fell. Sierra ducked her head and started hurrying back to the section of wall she’d climbed over. She didn’t want to be caught in a downpour, and neither did she relish the drive back down the steep mountain roads in this weather.
She climbed over the wall and hurried through the stand of pines, the branches snagging on her blouse and hair as the rain fell steadily, soaking her. Within seconds her pink silk blouse was plastered to her skin and her hair fell out of its chignon in wet rat’s tails.
She cursed under her breath, thankful to emerge from the trees, only to have her insides freeze as she caught sight of a second car, a dark SUV, parked behind her own. As she came onto the road the door to the car opened, and an all too familiar figure emerged.
Marco Ferranti strode towards her, his white dress shirt soon soaked under the downpour so every well-defined muscle was outlined in glorious detail. Sierra flicked her gaze upwards, but the anger she saw snapping in his eyes, the hard set of his mouth and jaw, made her insides quell and she looked away. The rain was sheeting down now and she stopped a few feet from him, sluicing rainwater from her face.
‘So.’ Marco’s voice was hard, without a shred of warmth. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing here?’
CHAPTER THREE
SIERRA DREW A deep breath and pushed the sodden mass of her hair away from her face. ‘I was paying my respects.’ She tried to move past him to her car but he blocked her way. ‘What are you doing here?’ she challenged, even though inside she felt weak and shaky with fear. Here was the real man Marco had hidden from her before, the angry, menacing man who loomed above her like a dark shadow, fierce and threatening. But, just as with her father, she wouldn’t show her fear to this man.
‘It’s my home,’ Marco informed her. ‘As of today.’
She recoiled at that, at the triumph she heard in his tone. He was glad he’d got it all, and that she’d got almost nothing. Of course he was. ‘I hope you enjoy it then,’ she bit out, and his mouth curved in an unpleasant smile.
‘I’m sure I will. But you were trespassing on private property, you do realise?’
She shook her head, stunned by the depth of his anger and cruelty. So this was the true face of the man she’d once thought of marrying. ‘I’m leaving anyway.’
‘Not so fast.’ He grabbed her arm, his powerful fingers encircling her wrist, making her go utterly still. The commanding touch was so familiar and instinctively she braced herself for a blow. But it didn’t come; Marco simply stared at her, and it took Sierra a moment to realise the fingers around her wrist were actually exerting only a gentle pressure.
‘I want to know why you were here.’
‘I told you,’ she bit out. ‘To pay my respects.’
‘Did you go inside the villa?’
She stared at him, nonplussed. ‘No.’
‘How do I know that? You might have stolen something.’
She let out an incredulous laugh. If she’d had any doubts about whether jilting Marco Ferranti had been the right thing to do, he was dispelling them with dizzying speed.
‘What on earth do you think I stole?’ She shook his hand off her wrist and spread her arms wide. ‘Where would I hide it?’ She saw Marco’s gaze flick down to her breasts and too late she realised the white lace bra she wore was visible through the soaked, near-transparent silk. Sierra kept her head held high with effort.
‘I can’t be sure of anything when it comes to you, except that you can’t be trusted.’
‘Did you follow me all the way from Palermo?’
His jaw tightened. ‘I wanted to know where you were going.’
‘Well, now you know. And now I’m going back to Palermo.’ She started to move away but Marco stilled her with one outflung hand. He nodded towards the steep, curving road that led down the mountain.
‘The road will be impassable now with flash flooding. You might as well come into the villa until it is over.’
‘And you’ll frisk me for any possible stolen goods?’ Sierra finished. ‘I’ll take my chances with the flooding.’
‘Don’t be stupid.
’ Marco’s voice was harsh, dismissive, reminding her so much of her father. Clearly, he’d decided to emulate his mentor.
‘I’m not being stupid,’ she snapped. ‘I mean every word I say.’
‘You’d rather risk serious injury or even death than come into a dry house with me?’ Marco’s mouth twisted. ‘What did I ever do to deserve such disgust?’
‘You just accused me of stealing.’
‘I simply wanted to know why you were here.’
Above them an ear-splitting crack of thunder sounded, making Sierra jump. She was completely soaked and unfortunately she knew Marco spoke the truth. The roads would be truly impassable, most likely for some time.
‘Fine,’ she said ungraciously and got into her car.
Marco unlocked the gates with the remote control in his car, and they swung silently back, revealing the villa’s long, curving drive.
Taking a deep breath, Sierra drove up with Marco following like her jailer. As soon as his car had passed, the gates swung closed again, locking her inside.
She parked in front of the villa and turned off the engine, reluctant to get out and face Marco again. And to face all the unwelcome memories that crowded her brain and heart. Coming back to Sicily had been a very bad idea.
Her door jerked open and Marco stood there, glowering at her. ‘Are you going to get out of your car?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She climbed out, conscious of his nearness, of the animosity rolling off him even though he’d sounded cold and controlled. After seven years, did he still hate her for what she’d done? It seemed so.
‘Is anyone living in the villa?’ she asked as he pressed the security code into the keypad by the front door.
‘No. I’ve left it empty for the time being, while I’ve been in Palermo.’ He glanced back at her, his expression opaque. ‘While your father was in hospital.’
Sierra made no reply. The lawyer, di Santis, had told her that her father had died of pancreatic cancer. He’d had it for several years but had kept it secret; when the end came it had been swift. After the call she’d tried to dredge up some grief for the man who had sired her; she’d felt nothing but a weary relief that he was finally gone.
Marco opened the front door and ushered her into the huge marble foyer. The air was chilly and stale, the furniture shrouded in dust cloths. Sierra shivered.
‘I’ll turn the hot water on,’ Marco said. ‘I believe there are clothes upstairs.’
‘My clothes...?’
‘No, those were removed some time ago.’ His voice was clipped, giving nothing away. ‘But some of my clothes are in one of the guest bedrooms. You can borrow something to wear while your own clothes dry.’
She remained shivering in the foyer, dripping rainwater onto the black and white marble tiles, while Marco set about turning on lights and removing dust covers. It felt surreal to be back in this villa, and she couldn’t escape the clawing feeling of being trapped, not just by the locked gates and the memories that mocked her, but by the man inhabiting this space, seeming to take up all the air. She felt desperate to leave.
‘I’ll light a fire in the sitting room,’ Marco said. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much food.’
‘I don’t need to eat. I’m going to leave as soon as possible.’
Marco’s mouth twisted mockingly as he glanced back at her. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. The roads will be flooded for a while. I don’t think you’ll be leaving before tomorrow morning.’ His eyes glinted with challenge or perhaps derision as he folded his powerful arms across his chest. Even angry and hostile, he was a beautiful man, every taut muscle radiating strength and power. But she didn’t like brute strength. She hated the abuse of power. She looked away from him.
‘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, lux
uriously 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.