Christmas Contract for His Cinderella

by Jane Porter

  The raw pain in his voice silenced her. She sat still for a moment, feeling his deep anguish echo in her ears. She waited another moment until she was sure she could speak calmly. “I don’t want to fight with you, but I’m not comfortable with the way things ended between us. And while I’m sympathetic to your children’s situation—they’ve experienced loss and grief and they need stability—I also recognize that I’m not the right person to fill in for your nanny.”

  “Why not? You’re very good with children.”

  “I only did child care temporarily, until I found permanent work. Further, I can’t leave Bernard’s on such short notice. I was down two saleswomen in my department today. It’s impossible for my department to run without anybody there tomorrow. I must speak with management. I must clear things—”

  “I already have,” he interrupted flatly. “I had a brief conversation this morning with Charles.”

  “Bernard?”

  Marcu’s dark head inclined impatiently. “He was sorry to hear of my emergency, and agreed that you would be the best help for me—”

  “Emergency? What emergency?” She exhaled hard, battling to keep her temper in check. “You’ve decided to go skiing with your girlfriend during the same time period your nanny needs a break. That’s not an emergency.”

  “I have no dedicated help for them.”

  “Then do what others in your situation do—hire a replacement through a professional service. You refuse to, but that doesn’t constitute an emergency.”

  He shrugged. “You’re wrong. Charles agreed that young children cannot be left with a stranger. Once he understood your connection with my family, he thought you were the best answer.”

  Such a power play. What arrogance! Monet was shocked at how manipulative Marcu had been. “I can’t believe you went to my boss and told him some ridiculous sob story. I’m sorry that your nanny needed a break just now, and I’m sorry you had plans to ski—”

  “It’s not about the skiing. I’m going to propose—”

  “Regardless, that’s not my problem, and I’m livid that you’ve spoken to anyone about me, much less the CEO of Bernard’s.”

  “I didn’t think it’d hurt you in any way for Charles to know that we have a close family connection. If anything, it will help your standing on your return. I’m quite certain you will see more promotions, and more salary increases.”

  “Did you happen to tell Charles just what our close family connection was? Did you explain to him that my mother was your father’s mistress? Charles is quite conservative—”

  “He knows our connection, just as he knows you are Edward Wilde’s daughter. Your father is on the board at Bernard’s. I suspect your rapid promotions have had something to do with that.”

  Her mouth opened, closed. She had no idea that her father was on the board. She hadn’t spoken to him in years...not since he’d provided references, helping her get her first nanny job. “I earned my promotions through hard work, not through family connections.”

  “Your father is quite respected in the banking world.”

  “That has nothing to do with me. I’ve seen him less than a half dozen times in my life. He had no interest in me, and only gave me those references I needed because I went to him, and told him I needed his assistance. He balked, at first, but came around when I threatened to introduce myself to his wife and children.”

  Marcu lifted a black brow. “You don’t think they already knew about you?”

  “I’m sure they didn’t, and that’s fine. Everyone makes mistakes and my mother was Edward’s mistake.”

  “You call him Edward?”

  “I certainly don’t call him Father.”

  “You’re more defensive than ever.”

  “I’m not defensive. He didn’t want me, and he paid my mother to get rid of me. Instead she took the money and went to the States and then Morocco and you know the rest. Edward tolerates my existence because he has no other choice. Just as your father tolerated me because he had no other choice. As a young girl I had to accept that I was barely tolerated, but I don’t anymore.” She drew a quick breath. “This is why I can’t do this favor for you. I won’t be treated as a second-class citizen any longer. It’s not acceptable. Not from you, not from anyone.”

  “I never treated you as a second-class citizen.”

  “You did at the end, you know you did.”

  “What are you talking about? Does this have something to do with the kiss?”

  Heat flashed through her, making her shake. “It was more than a kiss.”

  “You welcomed my attention. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

  “You did not force yourself on me, no. But what I thought was happening was quite different from reality.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She drew a breath and then another, battling to hang on to the last thread of her composure. Crying would be a disaster. Losing control would be the final humiliation. She refused to endure any more shame. “We were not equals. You let me imagine we were. But we weren’t.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s no longer relevant. But what is relevant is my answer today. It’s a no. If I had wanted to be part of your life I would have stayed in Palermo, but I left for a reason and I have no desire to spend time with you. Ever. Which is why I’m demanding you forgive the debt, forget the favor, and let me let leave now with us both closing the door on the past, once and forever.”

  * * *

  Marcu froze, her words catching him off guard because yes, they probably both needed to close the door on the past and yet, it was the last thing he wanted.

  And in that moment he realized something else.

  Marcu hadn’t been honest when he told himself Monet wasn’t his first choice for a backup nanny. That was a lie. He’d interviewed plenty of candidates, but none of them had been right for the job, because none of them had been Monet. He’d been dismissive of the other women, finding fault with each, precisely so he could come to Monet today and say, I need you.

  Because he did.

  He needed her to come help him stabilize things at home while he figured out how to give his children a better life.

  His children needed more than him. He wasn’t patient and tender, or particularly affectionate. He loved his children but he didn’t know how to meet all their needs, which is why he needed a partner...a better half. He needed a wife, someone maternal, someone to create stability in their home. He traveled too much. He worked too long. He was constantly at war with himself, juggling his business commitments while trying to be present with the children—not easy when his main office was in New York and his children were being raised in Sicily. He’d fly to New York for three days, but inevitably he’d have to extend his trip by a day, and then another, and another. Sometimes his brief trips became a week long and then two weeks, and he not only worried about the kids, but he’d also be filled with guilt and self-loathing.

  Guilt that Galeta had died.

  Self-loathing because he didn’t want to remarry and it’s why he hadn’t proposed to someone sooner.

  Galeta had been a kind, loyal wife, and while they didn’t have a passionate marriage, they became friends and partners, with Galeta creating a warm loving home for him and their children in the main apartment at the palazzo. Her death had been a shock, and it had taken him years to wrap his head around the tragedy. Why hadn’t he known that a woman was still so vulnerable after delivery? Why had he thought that once she was home from the hospital everything was fine?

  The guilt. The agony. She had deserved better, and so did their children. He wasn’t the father he’d thought he would be. He wasn’t good enough at all. And so while he didn’t want another wife, he would remarry, and he’d make sure that his new wife understood that her first responsibility was to the children.r />
  “I can’t forgive the favor because I need you,” he replied now, his rough tone betraying his impatience. “You needed help from me eight years ago, and I helped you, and now I’m asking for you to return the favor. You understand this, I know you do. You lived with us long enough to understand our Sicilian view of these things.”

  Monet gave her dark head a faint shake. Two bright spots of color stained her cheekbones, while her large golden-brown eyes glowed, burning with emotion.

  “I also know that you could choose to be magnanimous and forgive the debt.”

  “If my children weren’t involved, then yes, perhaps I could. But this is about my children, and they need you, which is why I need you.”

  She slowly sat back in her chair, her slim frame practically vibrating with fury. She was both beautiful and fierce, and it struck him that he’d never seen this side of her before. In Palermo she’d been quiet and sweet with a deliciously dry sense of humor. She rarely spoke when his father was present, but when she was with Marcu and his brother and sisters, she had plenty to say, and inevitably she made everyone laugh. He should have known that underneath her sweet persona she had backbone. He was pleased to see it, finding it something of a relief. His world was filled with people who acquiesced to his every desire simply because he was wealthy and powerful. But it was hard to trust people who claimed they always agreed with you and only wanted to please you. Those people were dangerous. They could be bought.

  “I don’t like you,” she said quietly, carefully, the lushness of her lower lip quivering before she pressed her mouth into a firm line.

  Her words hung there between them, coloring the private dining room. He let them hover, too, even though his first instinct was to remind her that once she’d followed him everywhere, had been absolutely devoted to him, and was always the first to defend him even though he’d never needed her defense. No, he’d never needed it but her loyalty had always touched him, and in return he’d kept an eye out for her, been protective of her even when he’d been away at university. He’d paid one of the palazzo staff to report to him because he worried about her in his absence. Her mother was oblivious to her existence and while his father would never hurt her, he only tolerated the girl for Candie’s sake.

  It was never good to merely be tolerated. Monet was too smart, too sensitive not to have been aware of her position in the Uberto household.

  “Now,” he said, breaking the silence. “You don’t like me now. We both know that wasn’t always the case.”

  “But that dislike should be enough for you to not want me to be with your children. That dislike should make you reject me as a suitable caregiver.”

  “Your dislike is at least honest. I respect such honesty, and I also know that you are far too fair to allow your personal feelings for me to prejudice you against my children.”

  “But you don’t know me. I’m not the girl who left Palermo eight years ago with nothing but a knapsack on her back—”

  “And five thousand of my euros in your pocket.”

  “Don’t you understand?” she blurted, rising swiftly to her feet. “I didn’t want your money then, and I don’t want it now.”

  She would have fled if he’d allowed it. He wasn’t going to let her go, though. His hand snaked out and wrapped around her wrist, preventing her from leaving.

  “Sit down,” he said quietly. “Have a conversation with me.”

  “There is no point,” she said hotly. “You don’t listen. You’re not hearing what I’m saying.” She tugged to free herself. He didn’t let go. “Why can’t you offer a compromise? Why can’t you meet me partway? I can’t leave my job now. I would be willing to do it in January—”

  “I don’t need you in January,” he interrupted, releasing her, hoping she would sit. She didn’t. She continued to stand there at the table, furious and indignant. “Miss Sheldon will be back then,” he added. “Once she’s back, I won’t need you.”

  “I can’t leave my work for up to five weeks. It’s mid-December now. That means I’d still be gone in the middle of January.”

  “Four weeks then.” He suppressed a sigh. “Will you sit, please?”

  “That’s still the middle of January.”

  He was silent a long moment before countering. “Three weeks from tomorrow, but only if you sit down. This is uncomfortable, and we’re drawing attention.”

  “There is no one else in this dining room. It’s exceptionally private.”

  “I’m in this dining room and you’re making me uncomfortable.”

  “Heavens, we can’t have that, can we?” she retorted mockingly, before slowly sitting back down. “Two weeks.”

  “Three.”

  She reached for her wineglass and took a sip, hoping he wouldn’t see how her hand trembled. “I wouldn’t want to remain after you and Vittoria return after New Year’s.”

  “You wouldn’t have to.”

  “I’ll be on a flight home that first weekend of January.”

  “I’ll send you home on my plane. I promise.”

  Her gaze met his. “Or sooner if you and Vittoria return sooner. I’ve no interest in being present while you integrate Vittoria into your household.”

  “Understood.”

  “And one more stipulation,” she said after a long pause. “I need to go to work in the morning. I must find a missing wedding gown—”

  “We need to return to Italy.”

  “You need to return to Italy. I don’t.” Her eyebrows lifted as her brown eyes flashed indignant fire. “I need to find Mrs. Wilkerson’s daughter’s missing gown, and then I can go with you. Give me until noon. I’ve made Mrs. Wilkerson a promise and a promise is a promise.”

  He digested her words for a moment before brusquely nodding. “Fine. My car will be at Bernard’s at noon. We will leave straight for the airport.”

  The corner of her mouth curled up. “You’re not worried that I’ll try to run away and escape you?”

  His body went hard at that saucy curl of her lips. Thank God he wasn’t going to be spending much time with Monet. Thank God he was taking her to the castello and leaving promptly. Monet had always tested his control. She still tested his control.

  “No,” he answered roughly. “Because a promise is a promise.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MONET KEPT HER eyes closed during the flight over the jagged peaks of southeastern France lit by the setting sun. She wasn’t afraid of flying, but this afternoon her stomach thumped, queasy with anxiety and dread.

  She couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

  Christmas in the Italian Alps. Christmas with Marcu—correction, Christmas with Marcu’s children, as Marcu would be elsewhere, wooing his future wife.

  As a girl she’d dreaded the Christmas holidays. There had been years where she and her mother didn’t celebrate Christmas at all, and then there were years where they celebrated someone else’s holiday traditions, and when she was little Monet had found it confusing. So many people seemed to love Christmas but for her it was often incredibly painful.

  She didn’t really experience a proper Christmas until she and her mother moved to Palermo. Her best Christmas memories had been with the Uberto family at their palazzo. The Ubertos celebrated Christmas in a grand way, their December filled with music and food, gifts and sweets. But even in Palermo, Christmas had been about the Uberto children and their father and their aristocratic Sicilian heritage. Monet had merely been that odd French-English girl who kept to the background to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to herself. It was better for her, and better for her mother, who didn’t really want to be a mother but loved Monet just enough to keep her daughter with her, but not enough to do what was right for her.

  Uneasy with the memories, Monet stirred and opened her eyes to glance out the window. As she looked up her gaze briefly met Marcu’s. He was s
till at his table, working on some pile of paperwork. Obviously he wasn’t so engrossed in his work that he was oblivious to her, and Monet wasn’t sure how that made her feel.

  “This is a terrible idea,” she said huskily. “We will both regret this.”

  “I won’t regret it. I need help, and I know my children will be in good hands with you.”

  Monet regarded him from beneath her lashes. He was so arrogant and self-assured. As well as shockingly handsome. He had been incredibly good-looking as a young adult, but now as a mature man, his face was all strong angles and planes, slashing cheekbones, broad, strong brow, firm mouth, firmer chin. His thick black hair was swept back from his face, framing piercing blue eyes, and a counterbalance to straight white teeth. His face alone would turn heads, but paired with his tall, lithe, muscular frame, he was beautiful indeed.

  It would be easier, sitting here, if she didn’t find him physically appealing. It would be easier if her heart didn’t jump every time he glanced her way.

  She’d forgotten that she could even feel this kind of fear and anxiety flooding her. It was the fear she’d felt as a girl, the fear that made it hard to breathe properly and therefore her head would spin, feeling light and dizzy.

  She felt dizzy now.

  She felt angry, too, that he’d forced her into this job. She wasn’t a nanny anymore. She had a career. She had responsibility and work she enjoyed and yet he’d insisted she drop everything for this stupid “favor.”

  She closed her hands, fingers curling into her palms, nails digging in sharply to try to contain her crippling anxiety. The tension was almost unbearable. This was such a terrible mistake and there was nothing she could do it about it.

  “Did you find your customer’s missing wedding gown?” Marcu asked suddenly, his voice surprisingly close.

  She opened her eyes and shuddered to see that he’d left his desk and was seated opposite her now in the pale cream leather chair that matched hers. He was by no means sprawled in his seat and yet his long legs seemed to fill up the space, and his imposing shoulders drew her attention up to his face, and those cool blue watchful eyes. He felt far too relaxed for her peace of mind. She hadn’t heard him approach or sit down. She should have. Her skin prickled with unease. She wasn’t afraid of him, but rather, was afraid of all he made her feel—the anger, the shame, the heartbreak. “I did, yes,” she answered. “It was in alterations, but had been mislabeled. Crisis averted.”