by Kate Hewitt
‘I don’t want to need you, God knows.’ There was a note in his voice that she hadn’t heard before, a weary defeat that touched her even though she knew it shouldn’t. ‘I don’t want to be at your mercy. I was once before and it didn’t feel all that great.’
She turned around slowly, shocked when she saw him standing there, his expression unguarded and open in a way she’d never seen before.
‘When were you at my mercy?’
‘When I stood at the front of the church and waited for you to show up at our wedding.’ He took a step towards her. People had been streaming past them but now a few slowed, curious about the drama that was being enacted on a London street. ‘Why would you help me?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t feel I could simply ask. I didn’t want to simply ask, because I didn’t want to be refused. Rejected.’ His mouth twisted in a grimace and Sierra realised how hard this was for him. This—here, now—was real honesty. ‘Again.’
‘Marco...’
‘I poured my life into Rocci Enterprises,’ he said, his voice low and intense. ‘Everything I had. I’ve worked for the company since I was sixteen. I started as a bellboy, which is something you probably didn’t know.’
‘A bellboy...’ Sierra shook her head. She’d assumed Marco had come in on the executive level. She’d never asked, and he’d never spoken about his history, his background or his family. A painful reminder of how little she knew about him.
‘Your father saw my potential and promoted me. He treated me like a son from the beginning. And I gave everything in return. Everything.’
‘I know you did.’ And Marco’s unwavering loyalty was, Sierra surmised, why her father had chosen him in the first place, both as business associate and prospective son-in-law. Because her father had wanted someone who would forever be in his debt.
Marco closed his eyes briefly. ‘The company is my family, my life. Losing it...’ His voice choked and he ran a hand through his hair. ‘I can’t bear the thought of it. So I am sorry I tried to manipulate you. I apologise for not being honest. But you have my life in your hands, Sierra, whether you want to or not. I know you bear no love or even affection for me, and I accept that my behaviour recently hasn’t deserved it. But all I have left, all I can do now, is to throw myself on your mercy.’ His gaze met hers, bleak, even hopeless. ‘Not a position I ever wanted to be in, and yet here I am.’
* * *
He hadn’t meant to say all of that. He’d come into this meeting wanting to keep his pride intact, and instead he’d had everything stripped away. Revealed. He might as well be standing by the damned altar, waiting for his bride. If she refused him now...
He couldn’t tell what she was thinking or feeling. She’d cloaked herself in that cool composure he’d once admired. He waited, breath held, having no idea what he could say or do if she told him no. If she walked away. Then she spoke.
‘I’ll go to New York,’ she said. ‘And I’ll open the hotel.’
Relief poured through him, made him nearly sag with the force of it. ‘Thank you.’
She nodded stiffly. ‘When is it?’
‘In two weeks.’
‘You can forward me the details,’ she said, and for a second her expression wobbled, almost as if she was going to cry. Then she nodded her farewell and turned and walked down the street, away from him.
* * *
Sierra peeked out of the window of her ground floor flat at the sleek black limo that had just pulled up to the kerb. Marco had said he would send a car, and she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that it was a limo.
But she was surprised when he stepped out, looking as devastatingly sexy as ever in a crisply tailored navy blue suit. She’d assumed she would meet him at the airport. Apparently Marco had other ideas.
Nervously, she straightened the pale grey sheath dress she’d chosen for travel. She didn’t have too many fancy clothes and after she’d agreed to Marco’s suggestion, out on the street, she’d realised she didn’t have anything to wear to the ball on the night of the hotel’s opening. She’d used some of her paltry savings to buy a second-hand dress at a charity shop and hoped that in the dim lighting no one would notice the fraying along the hem.
Marco rapped on the front door and, taking a deep breath, Sierra willed her shoulders back and went to answer it.
‘Hello, Sierra.’ His voice felt like a fist plunging inside her soul. Ever since she’d seen him out on that street, admitting everything, being honest and open, she’d been plagued by doubts, filled with hope. Here finally was the man she could trust and like. The man she’d glimpsed seven years ago. And she didn’t know whether to be glad or fearful of the fact. In some ways it had been easier, simpler, to hate Marco Ferranti.
‘You’re ready?’ His gaze swept over her in one swift assessment as she nodded.
‘Yes, I’ll just fetch my case.’
‘I’ll get it.’ He shouldered past her so she could breathe in the scent of his aftershave and hefted her single suitcase easily. ‘This is all you’re bringing?’
‘I don’t need much.’
He frowned, his straight eyebrows drawing together as his gaze moved around the tiny sitting room with its shabby sofa and rickety chairs. She’d tried to make it homely with some throws and framed posters, but it was a far cry from the luxury Marco was used to. ‘What about a hanging case, for your evening clothes?’
She thought of the second-hand dress folded in her suitcase. ‘It’s fine.’
Marco didn’t answer; he just took her suitcase and walked out of the flat. Sierra expelled a shaky breath and then followed him, locking the door behind her.
In the two weeks since she’d agreed to accompany Marco to New York, she’d questioned her decision many times. Wondered why on earth she was entangling herself with Marco again, when things between them were complicated enough. Surely it would be better, or at least easier, to walk away for good. Draw a final line across the past.
But there on the street she’d seen Marco as she’d never seen him before. She’d seen him being open and honest, vulnerable, and she’d believed him. For once suspicion hadn’t hardened her heart or doubt clouded her mind. She’d known Marco was speaking the truth even when he didn’t want to, when it made him feel weak.
And so she’d said yes.
And not just because he’d been so honest, Sierra knew. It was more complicated than that. Because she felt she owed him something, after the way she’d walked away seven years ago. And, if she was as honest as he had been, because she wanted to see him again. And that was very dangerous thinking.
The driver of the limo took her suitcase from Marco and stowed it in the back as Marco opened the door and ushered her inside the car.
Sierra slid inside the limo, one hand smoothing across one of the sumptuous leather seats that faced each other. She scooted to the far side as Marco climbed inside, and suddenly the huge limo with its leather sofa-like seats and coffee table seemed very small.
It was going to be a long three days. An exciting three days. Maybe that was another reason she’d agreed; as much as she liked her life in London, it was quiet and unassuming. The thought of spending three days in luxury in New York, three days with Marco, was a heady one. Even if it shouldn’t be.
The door closed and Marco settled in the seat across from her, stretching his legs out so his knee nudged hers. Sierra didn’t move, not wanting to be obvious about how much he affected her. Just that little nudge sent her pulse skyrocketing, although maybe it was everything all at once that was affecting her: the limo, the scent of his aftershave, the real and magnetic presence of the man opposite her, and the fact that she’d be spending the next three days with him.
She looked out of the window, afraid all her apprehension and excitement would be visible on her face.
‘Are you all right?’
She turned back, startled and a little embarrassed. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Have some water.’ He handed her a bottle of water and after a moment Sierra uncapped it and took a drink, conscious of Marco’s eyes on her as she swallowed. ‘I do appreciate you agreeing to do this,’ he said quietly.
She lowered the bottle to look at him; his expression was shuttered, neutral, all the openness and honesty he’d shown two weeks ago tucked safely away. ‘It’s no hardship, spending a few days in New York,’ she said.
‘You seemed quite opposed to the idea initially.’
She sighed and screwed the cap back on the bottle of water. ‘Revisiting everything in the past has been hard. I want to move on with my life.’
‘After this you can, I promise. I won’t bother you again, Sierra.’
Which should make her feel relieved rather than disappointed. Not trusting herself to speak, Sierra just nodded.
They kept the conversation light after that, speaking only of innocuous subjects: travel and food and films. By the time they reached the airport Sierra was starting to feel more relaxed, although her nerves jumped to alert when Marco took her arm as they left the limo.
He led her through the crowds, bypassing the queue at check-in for private VIP service.
‘This is the life,’ Sierra teased as they settled in the private lounge and a waiter brought a bottle of champagne and two flutes. ‘Are we celebrating?’
‘The opening of The Rocci New York,’ Marco answered easily. ‘Surely you’ve travelled VIP before?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve hardly travelled at all. Going to London was the first time I’d left the mainland of Europe.’
‘Was it?’ Marco frowned, clearly surprised by this information, and Sierra wondered just how rosy a view he had of her family life. Had he not realised how her father had tucked his family away, bringing them out only when necessary? But she didn’t want to dwell on the past and neither, it seemed, did Marco, for after the waiter had popped the cork on the champagne and poured them both glasses, he asked, ‘So how did you get into teaching in London?’
‘I volunteered at first, and took some lessons myself. It started small—I took a slot at an after-school club and then word spread and more schools asked.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not grooming too many world-class musicians, but I enjoy it and I think the children do, as well.’
‘And you like London?’
‘Yes. It’s different, of course, and I could do without the rain, but...’ She shrugged and took a sip of champagne, enjoying the way the bubbles zinged through her. ‘It’s become home.’
‘You’ve made friends?’ The innocuous lilt to his voice belied the sudden intensity she saw spark in his eyes. What was he really asking?
‘I’ve made a few. Some teachers, a few neighbours.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m used to being solitary.’
‘Are you? Why?’
‘I spent most of my childhood in the mountains or at convent school. Company was scarce.’
‘I suppose your father was strict and old-fashioned about that kind of thing.’
Her stomach tightened, memory clenching inside her. ‘You could say that.’
‘But he had a good heart. He always wanted the best for you.’
Sierra didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Marco sounded so sincere, so sure. How could she refute what he said? Now seemed neither the time nor the place. ‘And for you,’ she said after a moment, when she trusted her voice to sound measured and mild. ‘He loved you like a son. More than I ever even realised.’
Marco nodded, his expression sombre, the corners of his mouth pulled down. ‘He was like a father to me. Better than my own father.’
Curiosity sharpened inside her. ‘Why? What was your own father like?’
He hesitated, his glass halfway to his lips, his mouth now a hard line. ‘I don’t really know. He was out of my life by the time I was seven years old.’
‘He was? I’m sorry.’ She paused, feeling her way through the sudden minefield of their conversation. It was obvious from his narrowed eyes and his tense shoulders, that Marco didn’t like talking about his past. And yet Sierra wanted to know. ‘I’ve realised how little I knew about you. Your childhood, your family.’
‘That’s because they’re not worth knowing.’
‘What happened to your father when you were seven?’
He was silent for a moment, marshalling his thoughts, and Sierra waited. ‘I’m illegitimate,’ he finally stated flatly. ‘My mother was a chambermaid at one of the hotels in Palermo—not The Rocci,’ he clarified with a small, hard smile. ‘My father was an executive at the hotel. Married, of course. They had an affair, and my mother became pregnant. That old story.’ He shrugged dismissively, as if he wasn’t going to say anything more.
‘And then what happened?’ Sierra asked after a moment.
‘My mother had me, and my father set her up in a dingy flat in one of Palermo’s slums. Gave her enough to live on—just. He’d visit us on occasion, a few times a year, perhaps. He’d bring some cheap trinkets, things guests left behind.’ He shook his head, remembrance twisting his features. ‘I don’t think he was a truly bad man. But he was weak. He didn’t like being with us. I could see that, even as a small child. He always looked guilty, miserable. He kept checking his watch, the whole time he was there.’ Marco sighed and drained his flute of champagne. ‘The visits became less frequent, as did the times he sent money. Eventually he stopped coming altogether.’
Sierra’s mouth was dry, her heart pounding strangely. Marco had never told her any of this before. She’d had no idea he’d had such a childhood; he’d suffered loss and sorrow, just as she had, albeit in a different way. ‘He never said goodbye?’
Marco shook his head. ‘No, he just stopped coming. My mother struggled on as best as she could.’ He shrugged. ‘Sicily, especially back in those days, wasn’t an easy place to be a single mother. But she did her best.’ His mouth firmed as his gaze became distant. ‘She did her best,’ he repeated, and he almost sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sierra said quietly. ‘That must have been incredibly difficult.’
He shrugged and shook his head. ‘It was a long time ago. I left that life behind when I was sixteen and I never looked back.’
Just like she had, except he would never understand her reasons for leaving, for needing to escape. Not unless she told him.
Considering all he’d just told her, Sierra felt, for the first time, that she could tell Marco the truth of her childhood. She wanted to. She opened her mouth to begin, searching for the right words, but he spoke first.
‘That’s why I’m so grateful to your father for giving me a chance all those years ago. For believing in me when no one else did. For treating me more like a son than my own father did.’ He shook his head, his expression shadowed with grief. ‘I miss him,’ he said quietly, his tone utterly heartfelt.
Bile churned in her stomach and she nodded mechanically. The memories Marco spoke of were so far from her own reality of a man who had only shown her kindness in public. He’d chuck her under the chin, heft her onto his shoulders, tell the world she was his little bellissima. And everyone had believed it. Marco had believed it. Why shouldn’t he?
And in that moment she knew she could never tell him the truth. Not when his own family life had been so sadly lacking, not when her father had provided the love and support he’d needed. She’d had her own illusions ripped away once. She wouldn’t do the same to him, to anyone, and for what purpose? In three days she’d be back in London, and she and Marco need never see each other again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BY THE TIME they were settled in the first-class compartment on the flight to New York, Sierra had restored her equilibrium. Mostly. She felt as if she were discovering a wh
ole new side to Marco, deeper and intriguing layers, now that they’d laid aside the resentment and hostility about the past.
She was remembering how kind and thoughtful he could be, how he saw to her small comforts discreetly, how he cocked his head, his mouth quirking in a smile as he listened to her, making her feel as if he really cared what she said.
She didn’t think it was an act this time. She hoped it wasn’t. The truth was she still didn’t trust herself. Didn’t trust anyone. But the more time she spent with Marco, the more her guard began to lower.
And she was enjoying simply chatting to him over an amazingly decadent three-course meal, complete with fine crystal and china and a bottle of very good wine. She liked feeling important and interesting to him, and she was curious about his life and ambitions and interests. More curious than she’d been seven years ago, when she’d seen him as little more than a means to an end—to escape. Now she saw him as a man.
‘It was your idea to bring Rocci Hotels to North America?’ she asked as she spooned the last of the dark chocolate mousse they’d been served for dessert.
He hadn’t said as much, but she’d guessed it from the way he’d been describing the New York project. He’d clearly been leading the charge.
‘The board wasn’t interested in expansion,’ Marco answered with a shrug. ‘They’ve never liked risk.’
‘So it’s even more important that this succeeds.’
‘It will. Especially since you’ve agreed.’ His warm gaze rested on her, and Sierra felt her insides tingle in response. It would be so easy to fall under Marco’s charm again, especially since this time it felt real. But where would any of it lead? They had no future. She knew that. But she still enjoyed talking to him, being with him. She even enjoyed that tingle, dangerous as it was.
The steward dimmed the lights in the first-class cabin and Marco leaned over her seat to let it recline. Sierra sucked in a hard breath at the nearness of his body, the intoxicating heat of him. His head was close to hers as he murmured, ‘You should get rest while you can. Tomorrow will be a big day.’