by Tara Pammi
“Any problems closing?” he asked a moment later, his tone one of excessive politeness.
She nearly rolled her eyes. Surely they were beyond such superficial pleasantries. “No.”
“Were you working at Bernard’s when I reached out to you a few years ago?”
“I was. I’ve been there for four years now.”
“Why wouldn’t you see me when I reached out to you?” he asked.
Her shoulders lifted, and fell. “There was no point.” She turned her head, her gaze resting on his hard masculine profile illuminated by the streetlights. He had a perfect face—broad brow, straight, strong nose, wide firm lips, angled jaw, square chin. And yet it wasn’t the individual features that made him attractive, it was the way they came together—the quirk of his lips, the creases at the corner of his eyes, the blue gleam in his eyes. She steeled herself against the curve of his lips and the piercing blue of his eyes now. “Was there?”
“I don’t understand,” he answered simply.
“You were a married man. I was a single woman. I didn’t see what good could come of us meeting.”
“I wasn’t coming to you for sex.”
“How was I to know? Your father did.”
“What?”
She shrugged again, exhausted by the day, and his appearance. Her exhaustion made her careless. Why keep all these secrets? Why not tell the truth? “Your father approached me a year before you did. He came bearing gifts.”
“Your mother had just passed away. He was just being kind.”
“Then perhaps a casserole would have been proper. But roses? A pink satin robe? It was wildly inappropriate.”
“He gave my sisters a similar robe each for Christmas one year—pink, even. Why must you make his gift sound scandalous?”
Because he didn’t like me, Monet thought, turning her head to stare out the window, regretting her words. Why share such a thing with Marcu? Of course he wouldn’t believe her. He’d always worshipped his father. Matteo Uberto could do no wrong.
Silence stretched. They sat forever at the next stop light. The snow was heavier, wetter, and it stuck to the glass in thick clumps.
“I wasn’t interested in making you my mistress,” Marcu said roughly, breaking the tense silence. “I came to see you as my wife had just died and I needed advice. I thought you could help me. I was wrong.”
His words created a lance of pain. Her stomach knotted and her chest grew tight. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“But you did know I’d married?”
She nodded. He’d married just six months after she left Palermo. She hadn’t wanted to know but it was splashed across the tabloids as well as the internet as the Uberto family was wealthy, glamorous, aristocratic, and very much darlings of the media.
Marcu’s wedding was held at the cathedral in Palermo, a place she knew well as that was where the Uberto family attended church services every Sunday. Marcu had married an Italian countess from northern Italy, although her maternal grandmother was Sicilian. Galeta Corrado was an only child and stood to inherit all the ancestral homes and estates of her family, a family that could be traced back hundreds of years. Marcu’s family was considerably older, his ancestors Sicilian royalty dating back five hundred years, a fact the tabloids mentioned ad nauseam in their coverage of the Uberto-Corrado wedding, sharing that Marcu’s great-grandfather had been a Sicilian prince, and Marcu could probably claim the title, but he was far too egalitarian.
He wasn’t.
Monet could scarcely stomach that one.
Marcu and Galeta’s wedding had been lavish, with Galeta’s bridal gown costing close to forty thousand euros. The silk train stretched for yards, with the hand-crocheted lace veil equally long, the delicate lace anchored to a priceless two-hundred-year-old pink diamond-and-pearl tiara. The bride had been a stunning vision in white, her slender form showcased by the luminous silk. The first baby came not quite nine months later. There was gossip that Galeta was pregnant at the time she married, and it was then Monet had refused to read the tabloids ever again. She was done. Spent. Flattened.
She didn’t want to know anything else. She didn’t want to live on the fringes of Marcu’s life. She didn’t want to know about his wife or children. She refused to look back, refused to remember, unwilling to feel the pain that washed through her every time his name was mentioned.
The pain baffled her, too, because when she left Palermo, she’d convinced herself that she hadn’t loved him, she’d merely been infatuated. She’d told herself she felt curiosity and desire, but not true love. So why did his name hurt? Why did his marriage wound? It wasn’t until he’d married Galeta and they’d had that first baby together, that Monet realized her feelings for him were stronger and deeper than she’d previously allowed herself to acknowledge. She couldn’t possibly hurt so much if she’d merely been infatuated. She wouldn’t miss him so much if she’d just been curious. No, she hurt because she loved him, and he was only the second person in her whole life she’d ever loved.
Monet turned back to Marcu again, still not quite able to believe he was here, beside her. She felt so many different things, and her chaotic emotions weren’t improved by his close proximity. Marcu had been handsome at twenty, and twenty-five, but now, at thirty-three, his face was even more arresting. He’d matured, the bones in his jaw and cheekbones more defined, the hollows beneath his cheekbones more pronounced, his skin lightly tanned, glowing with health and vitality.
“How did she die?” Monet asked, trying to organize her thoughts, never mind her impossible emotions.
“She had a stroke after childbirth.” He drew a breath. “I’d never heard of such a thing but our doctor said that while it’s uncommon, strokes cause ten percent of all pregnancy-related deaths.” He was silent another moment. “I wasn’t even there when it happened. I’d just flown to New York, thinking she was in good hands at the palazzo with the nanny and night nurse.”
“You don’t blame yourself, do you?”
“I don’t blame myself for the stroke, but I can’t forget that she died while I was on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean. It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t have been that way. If I’d been there, maybe I could have gotten her help sooner. Maybe the doctors could have saved her.”
Monet didn’t know how to respond and so she sat there with the distressing words resonating around her, listening to the soft rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers moving back and forth, clearing the glass, even as her heart did a painful beat in her chest.
Of course Marcu would feel badly. How could he not feel partially responsible? But at the same time, that didn’t make his situation her problem. He needed help, yes, but why from her?
“Does your late wife have no family who could help with the children?” she asked as the traffic thinned. They were approaching London’s commercial financial hub, and during the week the streets bustled with activity but now the area was quiet and dark. “What of Galeta’s parents? No grandparents to lend a supportive hand?”
“Galeta was an only child, and her parents are both gone. My father is gone. I have my brother and sisters, but they all are busy with their own lives.”
“Just as I am busy with my own life,” she retorted lightly, unwilling to escalate things in the close confines of his car.
“I’m asking for a few weeks, not years.”
She glanced out the window and watched the grand Bank of England pass by. Lovingly referred to as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street by some, Monet was always awed and reassured by its history and size. “It’s simply not a good time,” she answered, glancing from the bank to Marcu.
“Would any time be a good time?” he countered.
The car turned at the corner, passing more historic buildings that formed the heart of the city of London, making Monet wonder where they were going to eat in this particular neighborhood befor
e her attention returned to Marcu.
“No,” she answered with a sigh, even as she reached up to tuck a long tendril behind her ear. She was tired and uncomfortable and she wanted out of her slim dress and heels. She wanted the delicate underwire bra off and the smoothing undergarments off so that she could climb into pajamas and eat warm comfort food and sip a big glass of red wine. Merlot. Burgundy. Shiraz. “I have no desire to work for you, ever.”
“I know,” he answered even as the driver pulled over in front of one of the big dark buildings, parked, and exited the driver’s side, again wielding the umbrella. He opened the back door and Marcu stepped out and then reached in to assist her. She avoided his hand, neatly stepping away to make sure there was no contact between them.
He shot her a sardonic glance but said nothing as the driver walked them to a plain wooden door. Marcu reached out and touched one gray stone. There was a long pause and then the door silently opened. They stepped inside a dimly lit, severe-looking entrance hall. The door closed behind them and Monet gazed around, curious but also confused by the stillness and emptiness of the impersonal cream-and-gray space. There were stairs at the back of the hallway and a service elevator to their right but that was all.
“I normally prefer the stairs,” Marcu said, “but you’ve been on your feet all day, so I suggest we take the elevator.”
They did, traveling down, but it was impossible to say how far down they went, before the doors silently opened, revealing a black-and-white marble parquet floor, massive columns, and what looked like the entrance to a huge bank vault. Walls glimmered gold and silver on the other side of the vault entrance. She glanced at Marcu, an eyebrow lifting in silent enquiry.
He gestured for her to proceed through the open vault door, where they were greeted by a gentleman in a dark suit and black shirt. “Mr. Uberto,” the man said. “It’s good to have you back.”
They were ushered past an elegant bar of stainless steel and thick glass where a bartender was mixing drinks, then through another archway to a dining room dotted with chandeliers. The chandeliers were an eclectic mix of styles and time periods, and hung from a silver ceiling casting soft pools of light on pale lavender velvet chairs and upholstered booths. There weren’t more than a dozen tables in the room. There were men at some tables, and couples at others. Monet and Marcu were taken to yet another room, this one small and private, with just one table. The chandelier was all pink glass, and the upholstery on the high back chairs was gray.
Monet sank into her well-upholstered chair with an appreciative sigh. It felt even more welcoming than it looked. “This is quite a place,” she said, as waiters appeared in quick succession with bottles of chilled mineral water, olives, and pâté with slivers of toasted baguette.
“It was once part of the Bank of Sicily. It’s now a private members’ club.”
“I suspected as much.” She reached for an olive and popped it in her mouth, suddenly ravenous. “Let me guess, your father used to have a membership here, and they extended an invitation to you?”
“My grandfather used to own the bank, my father closed it, and when he couldn’t find someone to buy the building for its proper value, I took it on and turned the Vault into a private club five years ago.”
“What happened to the rest of the building?”
“It’s now a members-only hotel and spa.”
“Do you use the same door to access the hotel and spa?”
“No, there is a different entrance.”
“Why?”
“Because membership to the hotel doesn’t give one automatic membership to the Vault.”
“Is this where you stay when you’re in London?”
“The top floor is my apartment, yes.”
“It’s quite spacious.”
“You don’t make that sound like a question,” he replied, leaning back in his chair.
“It’s not,” she answered, before thanking the waiter who presented her with a silver menu. She glanced down at it, scanning the delectable offerings. She could have been perfectly happy with just pâté and toast but once she spotted the flat-iron steak she knew what she wanted.
After ordering, Marcu got straight to the point. “I do need you, urgently. I would have liked to leave tonight, but obviously it’s too late now. So I’ll organize travel for the morning—”
“Marcu, I haven’t said yes.”
“But you will.”
She rolled her eyes, frustrated, and yet part of her frustration was based on the truth in his words. She did owe him. “January would be so much better for me.”
“I’ve already told you, I have a conference in the Far East in January, and I would like to have things sorted by then.”
“Sorted as in...?”
“Married, with Vittoria at home with the children. I worry more about the children when I am far away. This way they’d have their nanny, Miss Sheldon, who’s on leave at the moment, and a mother—”
“But they don’t have a close relationship with this new mother, do they?”
“They’ve been introduced.”
She felt a bubble of incredulous laughter. “I don’t know who to feel more sorry for, your future wife, or your children. Where is your sensitivity—?”
“Oh, that’s long gone. I’m as hard as they come now.”
“Your poor future wife.”
“I’m not romantic. I never have been.”
“So says the man who loved opera? Who’d listen to Puccini for hours?”
“You loved opera. I simply supported your passion.”
She eyed him, trying to come to terms with this new version of Marcu. He was so hard to stomach. “You do know you’d be better off hiring a new nanny, or even two, to job-share than trying to fix things by acquiring a wife. Wives do come with feelings—”
“Not all women require extravagant gestures. Vittoria is quite practical. And I’m hoping you can be practical, too. I’ll pay you one hundred thousand euros for the next five weeks,” he added. “Hopefully that will adequately cover any lost wages from Bernard’s.”
“And if they don’t take me back afterward?”
“You will continue to earn twenty thousand euros a week until I find you a new position.”
She was intrigued and appalled. “That’s a lot of money.”
“My children are worth it.”
“So you are still consumed with guilt over your wife’s death.”
“I’m not consumed with guilt, just determined to make amends. They are very good children, but they are also in need of a mother. I do not, and cannot, meet all their needs, which is why I’m determined to marry again. A mother will be better equipped to handle their ups and downs and various emotions.”
“This mother you speak of will be practically a stranger to them.”
“But they will form a relationship. I don’t expect it to happen overnight, but I do believe it will happen eventually, and I imagine when a new baby arrives, the children will be excited to have a new brother or sister.”
Monet studied him for a long moment. Did he really think his children, who had already been deprived of a mother, would welcome the competition of a new baby for their father’s attention? “I remember you studied finance at university. It’s a shame you didn’t study more psychology. Creating a new family isn’t an easy thing, and children who have been through loss and heartbreak don’t always welcome more change.”
“I don’t expect them to understand immediately. They are still very young but their innocence is also to their advantage. They will be grateful for a permanent mother figure. As it is they are very attached to their current nanny, and I fear the day Miss Sheldon leaves us for good.”
“I thought your nanny was only on temporary leave?”
“So she is, but I see the writing on the wall. It’s only a matter of time.” He he
sitated. “Miss Sheldon has fallen in love with my pilot. They’ve been secretly dating for the past year. They don’t think I know, but neither of them are as discreet as they imagine.”
“Your nanny couldn’t marry and continue working for you?”
“They will want to start a family of their own. She’s in her thirties. I know how these things go. She’s not our first nanny, nor will she be the last.”
“But she hasn’t left yet—”
“I don’t care to discuss Miss Sheldon with you. I’m simply informing you that you will not lose any wages while you work for me.”
His brusque tone put her teeth on edge. His arrogance was beyond off-putting. The very idea of working for him made her nauseous. She’d had so many feelings for him, but none of them involved being his employee. She didn’t want him as her superior. The idea of having to answer to him made her want to stand up and storm out. She’d thought she’d loved him once—desperately, passionately—but he’d deemed her unsuitable. Unworthy.
Suddenly she flashed back to another conversation, one between Marcu and his father as they’d discussed how inappropriate Monet was for someone of Marcu’s stature. That Monet might be sweet and charming but she was the kind of woman you took as your mistress, not as your wife.
To hear this at eighteen. To be so painfully and thoroughly dismissed, reduced—marginalized—at only eighteen. It had changed her forever.
“I can’t work for you,” she said in a low voice. “I can’t be at your beck and call.”
“I won’t be around after the first few days. I’ll only be there to get you settled and then I’m taking Vittoria to Altapura for Christmas. She loves to ski. She’s a very good skier, too, so unless something unexpected happens, we’ll return just after New Year.”
“You won’t be spending the holidays with your children?” she asked, confused.
“No. That’s the whole point of me seeking you out. I won’t be with them this year, but you will be.”