Marco's Pride

by Jane Porter

  Her heart turned over as he lowered his head and kissed her gently. “Marry me, Payton.”

  “Marco—”

  “I don’t want to hear no. I don’t want a maybe. Say yes, Marco, I’ll marry you. Say yes, Marco, I’ll marry you this weekend.”

  And God help her, the word no wasn’t in her vocabulary, at least when it came to Marco d’Angelo. Wrapping her arms around his neck Payton’s lips softened beneath his, and she gave him her heart as she kissed him. “Yes, Marco. I’ll marry you this weekend.”

  They couldn’t do another big wedding, nor did they want another big wedding. Marco suggested they have a very small private ceremony in the chapel of the beautiful Santa Maria del Carmine, a seven-hundred-year-old church not far from Marco’s showroom. The ceremony was so private, in fact, that Marco invited no one outside the immediate family. Gia and Livia would be the only witnesses and Payton was pleased. She wanted the emphasis on the vows, not on frills and fuss.

  The morning of the ceremony Marco knocked on Payton’s bedroom door—he’d insisted on keeping her own room at the villa until they were legally married—and Payton answered dressed in only a white silk robe.

  “I have something for you,” Marco said, leaning against the door.

  Payton looked at his black tuxedo and white tie. “You’re wearing black tie! I thought we were going informal.”

  “No.”

  “But it’s just a private ceremony. I thought it was just us.”

  “Yes, but it’s still special.” His dark eyes met hers. “Especially for me. I’m so glad we have a chance to do this over again. I’m so glad we have a chance to get this right.”

  A lump filled her throat. “Me, too.” She blinked, refusing to get weepy today, even if it was her wedding day. “I just wish I had something more appropriate to wear. You look gorgeous, Marco. You look like a model.”

  “I’m sure you have something elegant in your closet. You’re a fashion maven, Payton.” He leaned forward, kissed her, caressing the length of her neck. “Remember, you’re Calvanti’s future.”

  He was teasing her and she laughed. The warmth in his voice more than made up for her disappointment in not having anything spectacular to wear to the church today. “You said you had something for me?”

  “How does a prenuptial sound?”

  Her heart did a nosedive and she stared at him. “Horrible,” she said flatly. “Especially last minute.”

  He laughed at her irate expression. “Good, because I don’t have one. But there is something in your closet, at the back. In the zipper hanging bag.”

  Payton rummaged through the closed and found the large garment bag. It was the kind of bag which designers used for couture gowns. “What is this?”

  “What do you think?

  “A dress.”

  “Good girl. You’ve always been very clever.”

  Her eyes burned and she furiously blinked, wondering how on earth he could make her cry by giving her a dress. She made dresses for a living. It’s what she did full-time. Yet to have a dress from Marco felt intimate—special. He’d never designed anything for her before.

  She lay the garment bag on her bed and with shaking hands undid the zipper.

  The gown’s bodice was a snug white boned corset beaded with countless pearls. The skirt was white and full, a frothy silk organza and as she slid the dress from the bag, the white frothy silk gave way to a pumpkin and flame underskirt.

  “You look beautiful in white, but fire suits you.”

  Marco’s quiet voice was too much on top of everything and hugging the dress, Payton started to cry. “No one’s made me a dress since I was a little girl.” She couldn’t stop the tears and she couldn’t let them fall on the dress. “This is exquisite. This is absolutely lovely.”

  He approached her, wiped the tears from beneath her eyes. “I designed it in Capri. I’ve had seamstresses working on it night and day for nearly a week.”

  “But I only said yes yesterday!”

  “I wasn’t going to give up,” he answered. “I was going to keep asking until you said yes.”

  In the soft glow of candlelight Marco and Payton said their vows and exchanged rings in Santa Maria’s domed chapel with the soft wash of color from the old frescoes overhead. Late-afternoon sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows, painting the walls like living jewels and illuminating the girls white pinafores and ruby colored sashes.

  The girls were beautiful but no one glowed brighter than Payton, Marco thought, as the late-afternoon sun haloed her head, and shimmered off her gown. The snug boned corset revealed her elegant shoulders and creamy skin and her long red hair was softly looped back in loose ringlets. The white organza over flame silk was the perfect foil for Payton’s personality. Sweetness and spice. Delicate and fierce.

  His chest ached and he felt a rush of emotion so strong that it took him by surprise. To think he’d allowed his pride to keep them apart! It was unfathomable.

  The brief ceremony over, they headed out for a private party, one nearly as intimate as the wedding. Marco had reserved a table at an exclusive restaurant in the city center and by the time they arrived, their dozen guests were waiting.

  The guests were all friends and colleagues of Marco’s—mainly designers, photographers, artists—and they welcomed Marco and Payton’s appearance with shouts of approval.

  The twins were only scheduled to stay for the first hour of dinner before Pietra would take them back to the villa. In the meantime they enjoyed the attention as Marco carried them and everyone offered congratulations and kisses for Payton and the girls.

  The celebratory toasts started almost right away, with glasses of champagne lifted not just once, but dozens of times, and each toast became a little longer, a little more ebullient.

  Marco caught her eyes as another toast ended and he smiled at her. His high Latin cheekbones glowed in the golden candlelight and Payton thought he looked supremely satisfied. It didn’t hurt that his tuxedo—which was also his design—fit him like a glove. Some men wore tuxedos as if they were uncomfortable suits of armor, but Marco’s black jacket clung to his broad shoulders and outlined the hard planes of his chest.

  As the evening grew late, Marco returned yet again to Payton’s side. His dark gaze studied her intently. “Regrets?”

  She laughed and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “Not one.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WITH Pietra staying at the villa with the girls, Marco and Payton spent their wedding night at the Four Seasons, Milan’s most exclusive hotel. A former monastery before being transformed into a hotel, the luxurious Four Seasons was situated in the heart of the fashion district just a stone’s throw from Marco’s headquarters.

  Marco could hardly wait to get Payton inside their room before stripping off her gown and carrying her to bed in nothing but her lace garter belt and silk stockings.

  Their lovemaking was hot and torrid and they’d barely caught their breath when a knock sounded at their door. “Housekeeping,” a voice called through the door.

  Still floating in that lovely afterglow, Payton turned to look at Marco. “I thought you put a do not disturb sign on the door.”

  “I did.” He sat up, leaning on one elbow. “We’re fine,” he shouted toward the door. “We don’t need anything.”

  There was a moment of silence and then paper rustled. A large manila envelope appeared beneath the door. Marco swore, exasperated. “Incredible! Does no one listen around here?”

  “Don’t worry. Stay there. I’ll get it.” Wearing nothing but the white lace garter belt Payton left the bed.

  “It’s for you,” she said, returning to the middle of the rumpled bed.

  She handed Marco the envelope and sat down next to him, her dark red hair tumbling across her pale, damp skin.

  But Marco wasn’t interested in mail. A naked Payton with flushed cheeks, swollen lips and a white lace garter belt were too tempting to ignore.

  Dropping the enve
lope on the ground, he wrapped an arm around Payton, his fingers sliding beneath the lace garter belt to play her skin. She gasped as he bent his head and covered one rosy-tipped nipple with his warm wet mouth.

  She gasped again at the flick of his tongue. He sucked her nipple, rubbing the tight bud between his teeth. Payton felt a surge of hunger and her hips rocked, helplessly rotating.

  Whimpering, she clasped his head with her hands and held him firmly to her breast. Her body felt so hot she thought she’d pop out of her skin.

  He was turning her on again, making her want more, and she shifted, wiggling closer to him needing to feel the hard contours of his body against her.

  They made love yet again, even more slowly than before, prolonging the pleasure of release until neither could stand it a moment longer.

  Afterwards they slept, and Payton stirred, dreamily wakened by a hand—and mouth—doing the most amazing things to her. When she realized that the pleasure was no dream, rather it was Marco and he was already quite hungry for so early in the morning she tried to slip away.

  “You can’t do that,” she protested, a little shocked even as she was very aroused.

  “Watch me,” he answered as he pulled the covers back over his head and proceeded to ravish her with very expert hands and a talented tongue.

  It seemed like hours later when Payton stepped into the shower and let the hot water stream down. Before reaching for a bottle of shampoo, she tipped her head back, feeling the water pulse on her scalp, drenching her hair.

  Her body hummed and throbbed.

  Marco had loved her quite thoroughly. She still felt his size and length, felt the imprint of his hands everywhere. After hours of uninhibited lovemaking, she was definitely satiated, and a little bit sore.

  She’d never imagined enjoying doing the things she did with Marco, and yet with him, everything felt right. Everything felt natural.

  Payton was just stepping from the glass shower, securing an enormous towel around her middle, when Marco called her name. It was hard to hear him over the fan in the bathroom and she wrapped her wet hair in a second towel before opening the door. “Yes?”

  She’d thought perhaps room service had arrived with coffee and hot rolls but there was no tray, or trolley. Instead Marco stood there staring at the sheet of paper in his hand.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

  She adjusted the turbanlike towel on her head and switched off the fan. “What did you say?”

  Marco lifted his head, gazed at Payton who looked as if she’d been swallowed alive by two feuding bath towels and felt as if he’d throw up.

  It couldn’t be.

  She wouldn’t hide something this important from him. She wouldn’t keep something like this a secret.

  He nearly gagged, his mouth tasted bitter, a little cold and metallic. The past returned to him in a sharp flash, his brain suddenly clear—too clear—and he saw it all again: the shock of her pregnancy, the announcement to his Marilena, the sudden, swift change in focus and direction.

  He’d never forget the moment he realized his life wasn’t his life anymore. He’d never forget that she’d forced his hand.

  His choices had been limited. There were fewer options.

  She’d tricked then. She’d tricked him again.

  “Marco, you look ill.”

  She was moving toward him, bare feet padding across the floor, her expression so damn innocent it made his chest burn. “I feel ill,” he said.

  “Is it your stomach? Did you eat something?”

  “No.”

  “Take something?”

  He suddenly pictured her as she’d been late last night, straddling his hips. Her long red hair streaming like fire past smooth shoulders and milky white skin.

  He remembered how he tugged at the lace garter around her slim waist, dragging it down across her smooth flat belly and rounded hips.

  He remembered the way she smelled when she leaned forward to kiss him, her curls brushing his chest, sliding across his nipple. She’d smelled of love and sex and spice. She’d been wearing his new perfume, the one she’d helped with the ad, and the fragrance on her flushed skin, the scent of her body, the sway of her breasts as her lips covered his—

  Seductress. Temptress. Con artist.

  “Marco. Say something. What’s wrong?”

  He felt like someone had died. He felt like he’d been given tragic news. This couldn’t be…this couldn’t be happening again.

  “Marco.”

  “There were no malignant cells.”

  “What?”

  The goddamn innocence. It was an act, all an act. Again.

  He ground his jaw tight, ground his teeth on a bitterness that he could taste. “The biopsy is clean. The results are negative. Both results are negative. You’re fine.”

  She moved toward him, hands out as if to embrace him. “My God, Marco, that’s wonderful! Can it possibly be true?”

  “You tell me, Payton. You’re the actress.” Marco’s cold voice practically sliced through her.

  Payton had stopped walking. Her body went numb. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you’ve known about this all along, that you got the news just before we went to Capri and you kept it from me.”

  “No.”

  “You knew before we got married you were healthy. Admit it.”

  “I can’t admit something I didn’t do!” Payton’s heart raced and yet her limbs felt icy. She didn’t understand this, didn’t understand any of this. Her brain raced but her thoughts were going in circles. She couldn’t seem to see her way clear to the truth. “What was in the envelope?”

  “Your lab reports.”

  “May I please see them?”

  He laughed bitterly. “Why? You already know what they say. Laboratory error, human mistake.” His short brutal words danced along her head. “It wasn’t even your film the lab was reading.”

  Payton’s legs nearly gave way. “It was all a fluke?”

  “Yes, cara. All one big miserable mistake.” He turned around and walked out of the bathroom. He was reaching for his clothes, pulling on boxers and slacks, before doing the zipper.

  Payton was dressing just as fast. “Where are you going, Marco?”

  “I don’t know. I just have to get out of here.”

  “Marco, you have to believe that I had no idea. I never was told—”

  “Bullshit.” He turned around and grabbed the paperwork off the bed. “Look at this. Read it. Phone call made to Payton Smith d’Angelo, May 31. Second phone call made, June 1 patient requests hard copy of paperwork—”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Third notation,” he continued, ignoring her protest. “Documentation express mailed to Milan and signed for.” He looked up at her, his dark eyes burning. “What is it you want from me, Payton? Why do you have to play these games?”

  She couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He didn’t believe her, wasn’t even listening to her. How could he love her if there was no trust?

  She watched as he pulled his knit shirt over his head and slipped his feet into shoes.

  If he left now she knew it would never be the same. He’d shatter her heart all over again. “Please, Marco, stay. Please don’t leave me, not like this.”

  He heard the sob in his voice but it didn’t move him, didn’t touch him. At the moment he was numb. He could fee nothing.

  “Don’t let her do this,” Payton begged, chasing him to the door.

  Marco froze, his hand glued to the door knob. “Her?”

  “Her, him, whoever it was,” she answered emotionally, close to losing control. “Who would do this anyway? Who would do this on our wedding night? Think about it, Marco, someone doesn’t want us together and this person is determined to hurt you. Hurt us.”

  He knew in the back of his mind she had a point. He knew that someone had collected this information and put it inside an envelope and addressed it to
him, here, at their bridal suite at the hotel but the act didn’t change the facts. Payton had never been honest with him, never forthright.

  He felt sick at heart, incredibly confused. Last night had been the happiest of his life. But this…? What in hell was going on?

  Payton was either cruel or crazy, and she obviously needed help. How could she do this to him? To the girls? To all of them? Cancer wasn’t a joke. He remembered all their discussions, the conversation about chemo, the appointment to cut her hair…he shuddered, appalled and sickened all over again.

  What sane woman would put her family through this? What sane woman would drag her children—and her husband—to hell and back?

  “Please, Marco.” Payton’s voice shook. She was still struggling to get her shoes on. “Let me come with you. We can talk. We can work this out—”

  “I don’t want to work things out.” All he knew was that he had to get away from her. He couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her, couldn’t bear to look at her, listen to her.

  Payton watched Marco leave and she stopped dressing, her hand going to her stomach. Her black satin blouse puckered beneath her hand and she felt skin. What had just happened?

  How had the most perfect day of her life turn into the worst nightmare?

  Payton didn’t know what to do. They’d planned to spend the weekend at the hotel. It was a short honeymoon but after their week in Capri Payton knew Marco needed to get back to work, and she had been eager to meet with a specialist here in Milan.

  Payton picked up the official looking letter lying on the bed. The letterhead was dark blue, raised ink and from the medical director at the oncology lab in San Francisco.

  She read through the letter and there was lots of mumbo jumbo in it, and lots of excuses but the important thing to know was that she wasn’t ill, her biopsy had come back clean. Unfortunately a lab assistant had inadvertently switched her film with someone else’s.

  Payton looked up, the letter settling into her lap. So someone else had cancer. Just not her.

  This should have been wonderful news. This should have been cause for celebrating.

  But there was no celebrating. Marco had gone and their wedding night had been poisoned.