by Tara Pammi
“Papà says life isn’t mean to be fun,” Matteo interrupted. “Life is serious, which is why we must be serious, too.”
Monet had to hold her breath to keep her frustration in, and it crossed her mind as they reached the nursery door that maybe she really was needed here for Christmas, and the reason had nothing to do with Marcu needing a wife, but everything to do with Marcu embracing his children.
Although they were all to have dinner together that night, Marcu couldn’t join them at the last minute and Monet had dinner with the children in the dining room. They’d finished the meal and were now enjoying their dessert, a delicious budino with salted caramel, and the children were happily dipping their spoons into the custard layer topped with a salty-sweet caramel sauce.
“I did some reading while you were reading this afternoon and I discovered that during the Middle Ages, this valley was one of the main passages through the Alps, and you couldn’t pass through without paying a toll, which gave those who lived here power and money,” Monet said, reaching for her coffee. “Castles like this one were built overlooking the valley so the nobleman could see who was approaching, and then he could stop the traveler and demand a toll. Savvy nobles could earn a lot of money monitoring traffic in and out of the valley.”
“Our castello is really old,” Antonio said, licking his spoon. “So old.”
“It was built around the original square tower,” Matteo said. “You can see the tower if you look carefully. Rooms were added to the tower to create more living space.”
Suddenly Marcu was there in the dining room with them, drawing his chair out at the end of the table and taking a seat. “Not just living space,” he said, “but public space for conducting government business. The ballroom you visited today was originally a public meeting room, where the locals could come petition the nobleman for help.”
Surprised, but also pleased by Marcu’s appearance, Monet bit her lip and let him take over the conversation.
“Where can you see the original tower?” Marcu asked his children.
“The kitchen,” Matteo said promptly, “because it’s all stone, everywhere, and the walls are very thick.”
“The main entrance,” Rocca said, smiling shyly at her father.
“Your study,” Matteo added, “your bedroom and then the signorina’s bedroom. They all have the same beamed ceilings, fireplaces, and windows, too.”
“That’s right,” Marcu said, before thanking the steward who’d appeared almost immediately with a coffee and dessert for him. “You can tell the original tower from the newer additions by the change in building material, as well as the thickness of the walls and how the windows are placed within the wall.” He paused and glanced at his children, and then at Monet. “Did you have a good day today?”
The children nodded.
“What did you do?”
Monet noticed the children weren’t in a hurry to answer so she gave a quick recap of their day. “We walked a lot, and went to the village to look at the Roman theater, and then we came back for lunch, and read, and played games.” She lifted her coffee cup and gazed at Marcu over the rim, finding it impossible to look at anyone but him. Marcu had always been fit, but he was downright virile now. She wished he wasn’t so appealing. She wished she could sit here and feel nothing. Instead she sat here and felt everything.
Thank God she’d grown up these past eight years. She might still be physically attracted to him, and she might still be awash in emotions, but at least the past eight years had taught her self-control, and discipline. She would never let him know how she felt, unwilling to let her emotions or her inexperience make a difficult situation impossible. “What about you?” she said with a faint smile. “How was your day, Signor Uberto?”
“A busy day,” he answered in Italian. “I had a very full schedule of calls and meetings.”
“The world markets never sleep, do they?”
“No. And the New York Stock Exchange is proving to be very volatile this week, requiring extra calls and consultations.” His gaze swept the children, who were beginning to droop, and he switched to English. “They’re looking tired.”
“I think it’s your mention of the stock market. It’s enough to put anyone to sleep.”
“Unless you’re a financier or economist.”
She glanced at the children. The custard desserts were gone, or nearly gone, but they’d stopped eating. Antonio’s shoulders slumped and he was yawning broadly. “They do look sleepy,” she said, “but I hate taking them away now. You’ve only just arrived.”
“They’re used to it.”
“That’s not a good thing, Marcu—” She broke off, flustered to have slipped and used his first name in front of the children. “I’m sorry. I meant, Signor—”
“You can call me Marcu. It’s uncomfortable hearing you call me ‘mister’ and ‘sir.’”
“But Miss Sheldon...?”
“She’s my employee. You’re...” His voice faded. He frowned and gave his head a sharp shake. “I don’t know what you are.”
Monet flushed, growing warm all over. Her cheeks suddenly felt too hot, and her skin too sensitive. “A friend of the family?”
“Yes,” he said gruffly. “That would work.” And yet there was an indecipherable emotion in his eyes that made her feel as if he was saying something altogether different.
“It’s late,” he said abruptly, rising and abandoning his coffee and dessert. “You should take the children up before they fall asleep in their custard cups.”
“Of course.” Monet rose from the table. “Come, my lovelies,” she said to the children. “Let me walk you up and we’ll get ready for bed.”
The children kissed their father good-night and then Marcu added as she reached the doorway, “When you’ve finished putting them to bed, please come join me back downstairs in the smaller of the drawing rooms. I’d like to discuss my travel plans with you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
MONET HATED THAT her pulse quickened as she headed down the stairs to meet Marcu in the drawing room. She hated that butterflies filled her middle even as she fought down a sense of excitement and expectancy. She shouldn’t be feeling excited, or expectant. What did she think would happen? What was she hoping would happen? Ridiculous. This whole thing was beyond ridiculous. She was beyond ridiculous.
One of the housemaids had told her where to find the drawing room that Marcu favored for the evenings and she quietly opened the door and spotted him sitting in a chair near the fire reading from his stack of papers.
He looked up as she entered the room. “They are in bed?” he asked.
She nodded. “All sleeping soundly.”
“Was it difficult?” he asked, folding the newspaper and adding it to the pile at his elbow. “It was your first time putting them to bed.”
“They were talkative at first, so I let them talk and then I told them a story, and then we said prayers, and they fell asleep.”
“They are in two separate bedrooms—did you tell two separate stories?”
“I brought them together for the stories and then we said the prayers together before I tucked each into his or her own bed.”
“There wasn’t a lot of resistance?”
“Is there usually?”
He hesitated. “When I put them to bed, yes.”
Monet clasped her hands in front of her, feeling rather like a governess in a historical novel being called to explain her actions to her employer. She didn’t like the feeling. She didn’t like having to answer to Marcu. “May I sit?” she asked, “Or does Miss Sheldon not sit when asked to present herself to you?”
Marcu stared at her a long moment before the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, wry smile. “You are not Miss Sheldon.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Please sit. Anywhere you like.”
She glanced at her choices and saw that there were overstuffed armchairs near his, next to the fire, and then another seating area at the opposite end of the room. She obviously couldn’t go sit at the far end of the room so she took one of the upholstered chairs by the fire. The fabric was soft, the cushions comfortable. She immediately felt better. “I could tell you why I think the children don’t want to go to sleep when you put them to bed, but maybe you don’t want to hear my opinions.”
“You’ve only been here one day,” he said mildly.
“I know, but I’ve had a lot of time today to think about what I’ve seen and heard, and I think the reason they are resistant to being put to bed when you do it is that they want more time with you, and they’re not ready to let you go.”
He was silent a moment before he shrugged his broad shoulders. “I love them and yet I can’t give them everything they need. It feels like a losing battle. No matter what I do, it will never be enough.”
“They don’t require your soul. They do want your time, they want consistency, and they want love.”
“You can say that because you have no children of your own.”
“True. I don’t have any of the guilt or anxiety you have. I have a job to do, and I know what I need to do. If I am doing my job to the best of my ability then I don’t rake myself over the coals. There would be no point in that.”
He got to his feet and glanced at the fire, and then her. “Would you like a drink? Sherry or maybe a glass of port?”
She started to shake her head, and then thought yes, she really would love something to drink. She could use a drink tonight. The children had not been difficult for her and yet it was still a long day, a tiring day, and she could feel the ache of tension in her back. “That would be lovely.”
She watched as he crossed the room, going to a table against the wall with crystal decanters and bottles with pretty labels. He was still wearing his black wool trousers and the cashmere sweater that lovingly wrapped his muscular chest and biceps. His skin was burnished and his black hair looked glossy in the overhead light and she was fascinated by each of his movements as he reached for one of the liqueur bottles, then a small glass, which he filled for her.
“I think you will like this,” he said, before filling a glass for himself and carrying their drinks back to where she sat by the fire.
His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the small glass. She felt a leap of warmth at the simple touch, and something electric jolted through her, making her heart do a painful double beat. Panicked that she was too open and transparent, Monet dropped her head and inhaled the port’s sweet rich fragrance. Cherries and chocolate and sunbaked fruit.
One sip of the rich spicy sweet port and she flashed back to early years in Morocco, and then with another sip, she flashed back to a summer spent outside Taormina with Marcu and his family. His father had rented an enormous marble villa just above the water. The house had an even bigger pool. She’d spent every day, all day, in the pool, or on a chaise-longue chair, soaking up the sun. It had been a blissful summer for a thirteen-year-old girl, especially as Marcu had joined them for three weeks and he’d been like a god to her—bronzed, muscular, handsome, charming. She couldn’t look at him without feeling love and longing. He spoke carelessly of the girls he dated, girls he took on motorbikes for rides, girls he took out to special romantic dinners. She’d wanted to be one of those beautiful girls he took out at night on his motorbike. She’d wanted to be his girl and there was a time she would have given anything to make that dream come true.
The heat from the port mingled with the bruised sensation in her chest. There was nothing good about remembering the past. Nothing good would come from looking back. She couldn’t do this...not to him, or herself.
“So Vittoria,” Monet said, forcing her mind to the present. “How did you meet? What are the juicy details?” she asked, deliberately keeping her tone light and teasing.
He arched a black brow as he dropped back into his chair by the fire. “There are no juicy details. It’s a rather businesslike proposition. I’m marrying for the children’s sake, and so it’s a practical arrangement rather than a romantic one.”
Her brow creased. She hesitated. “So you don’t...love her?”
“We both have a strong feeling of regard for each other.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means there is affection, and attraction, as well as respect for each other’s families.”
“That sounds dreadful. I pity her, and I pity you. To go from loving Galeta to a marriage of, well, convenience, it’s horrible. You’re shortchanging Vittoria and yourself.”
“It was no different with Galeta. It was the same sort of marriage, except that time there was the understanding that children were important and her number-one responsibility was to provide children. Which she did,” he added flatly.
“So Vittoria’s number-one responsibility is to take care of the children Galeta gave you.”
He gazed at her steadily. “Is there a question in there?”
She felt a pang for him, and the man she remembered, because Marcu had been lovely...warm, kind, smart, witty. She missed him, because that was the man his children needed for a father, not the man he’d become.
“I wish I could say that I was amazed that women sign up for this life,” she said carefully, “but we both know women do. My mother would have loved to have married a wealthy man. Instead she spent her life as the side piece, and perhaps she thought she had power that way, or some form of independence, but we both know she didn’t. She was utterly dependent on the men that sought her out. Her acting jobs disappeared as she grew older and eventually she had no income other than what men like your father provided.”
“My father took care of her until the day she died.”
“She only lived another year after they broke up.” Monet exhaled hard, and closed her eyes, aware of the rapid staccato of her heart. She hated that he could arouse her emotions so easily. She hated that they were connected through their parents’ relationship. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that, and you didn’t invite me here to discuss your relationship with Vittoria, or our parents. I’m here to be instructed in my duties, and your travel plans.”
He grimaced. “You’re suddenly more formal than my very formal Miss Sheldon.”
“As I should be. I’m here to help you manage things, not complicate matters. So tell me, what is your travel schedule? When will you leave? What should I know?”
“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow for a meeting in Palermo, followed by an overnight in Rome and then I should be back Thursday.”
“That’s a great deal of driving, or will you be flying?”
“My helicopter will arrive in Aosta helipad tomorrow afternoon, and once the sun is up, we’ll be gone early Wednesday morning. If the weather holds, I’ll be back late afternoon Thursday by helicopter. If the weather turns, I’ll drive up from Milan. But I’ll use my helicopter rather than my jet for this trip as I can land right at the palazzo and also on top of the Uberto Financial office tower in Rome. Saves a great deal of time not needing a runway.”
“So we should plan for your return on Thursday.”
“Yes. I’d like to have a day here with the children before I travel back to Rome Friday afternoon to pick up Vittoria for our holiday.”
Monet held her breath, wanting to tell him that he wasn’t even giving his children twenty-four hours before leaving again. Instead she inclined her head to show she understood. She had to be careful not to overstep, much less challenge him on every aspect of his parenting. These were not her children. This was but a temporary job for her.
And yet despite her best effort to bite her tongue she must have revealed something of her thoughts because Marcu’s brow creased and he sat forward in his chair. “What have I said now?”
“It doesn�
��t matter.”
“But it does. I’d like to understand. I need to understand. Once I understood you.”
That made her flinch, and she stiffened. “No,” she said, quietly contradicting him. “You didn’t understand me. You just thought you did.”
His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “I knew you better than anyone in my family.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything. Because if you’d truly known me, you wouldn’t have—” She broke off and pressed her lips together, fighting all the recriminations that were bubbling up. Being near him had thrown the door open on the past and she was finding it impossible to live in the past and the present at the same time. It didn’t work. She couldn’t bear all the anger and pain. Anger was toxic. Pain created fresh pain. These emotions made her feel once again like the odd little girl with the odd mother with no home of their own.
“I wouldn’t have what?” he finished for her.
She shook her head, determined to say no more. Determined to move forward. Determined to get through the next few weeks so she could be done with Marcu Uberto forever. “It’s been a long day,” she said, folding her hands together. “I’d like to get some sleep so I’ll be rested for my day with the children tomorrow.”
“Of course.” He rose.
She rose, too. “Will we see you in the morning?”
“Probably not, but we’ll have dinner together.”
“I won’t say anything about dinner with you to the children, so they won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t happen. It’s better to not get their hopes up.”
Heat flared in his eyes. “Is that a reprimand?”
“No, it’s a statement of fact. Why make them promises that won’t be kept? I think it’s better to keep expectations low at this point.”
“I have done my best.”
“In this instance your best isn’t good enough.”
He closed the distance between them. “You don’t know what it was like, losing Galeta, being left with a newborn and two young children. It changed everything. It changed me.”