by Tara Pammi
Maybe never.
“Let them be,” Leo whispered at her ear, and then buried his face in the crook of her neck. The press of his warm mouth at her pulse sent shivers spewing over her skin. “Your mum will watch them.”
“My mum’s a fragile, delicate thing and those children of yours are two monsters. Maya, somehow, you can still reason with. But Matteo... God, Leo, he’s already a little terror the way you let him do whatever he wants.”
“He’s two, cara mia. I don’t have the heart to tell him to stop digging for treasure or tell Maya she’s responsible for her brother. He’ll learn when it’s time how to behave. Let them be children. For as long as possible.”
Neha sighed and swept her arms around his neck, sank her fingers into his hair, knowing that her husband was a marshmallow when it came to their children. And a natural at it, too. “Fine. Don’t come to me when he’s a moody, spoiled teenager.”
Leo’s hands pushed up her blouse until his roughened hands reached the skin beneath. He stroked her skin, the fingertips reaching up and up until she heard her breath hitch. “Maybe what they need is company. You wouldn’t be up for another set, would you?”
“Another set of what?” Neha demanded, even as she pressed herself shamelessly into the hardness nestled between her buttocks.
“Twins, cara mia. We’ll ask Massimo and Nat to babysit, go on a proper honeymoon this time and get to working on that. Sì?”
“Sì,” Neha whispered before turning her mouth for his voracious kiss. “Sì to anything you suggest, darling,” she whispered, and he laughed, those blue eyes shining with love. And Neha knew that even thirty years later she’d still be shaking at the knees when he looked at her like that.
“Ti amo, tesoro,” he whispered before he claimed her mouth with his.
* * *
If you enjoyed A Deal to Carry the Italian’s Heir by Tara Pammi look out for the first instalment in The Scandalous Brunetti Brothers trilogy: An Innocent to Tame the Italian, available now!
And why not explore these other Tara Pammi stories?
Bought with the Italian’s Ring
Blackmailed by the Greek’s Vows
Sheikh’s Baby of Revenge
Sicilian’s Bride for a Price
Available now!
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Christmas Contract for His Cinderella
by Jane Porter
CHAPTER ONE
MONET WILDE WAS in the back room on the fifth floor of Bernard Department Store, searching for a customer’s missing gown, which she was sure had gone to alterations but apparently had never actually arrived there, when one of her salesgirls appeared, informing her that a gentleman was waiting for her, and while he was brusque, he was not as irritable as Mrs. Wilkerson, who couldn’t understand how her daughter’s bridal gown could just disappear.
Monet sighed and reached up to smooth a dark tendril that had come loose from her neat chignon, aware that she dressed more matronly than most matrons, but as the manager of the bridal department it was important to maintain a sense of decorum. “Did he say what he wants?” she asked with a glance at the clock on the stockroom wall. Fifteen minutes until closing. Fifteen minutes to find a very expensive gown for a very irate mother of the bride.
“You.” The salesgirl’s expression turned rueful. “Well, he asked for you. By name.”
Monet’s heart fell. “Tell me we haven’t misplaced another gown.”
“He didn’t say. He just asked for you.”
Monet’s frown deepened. It had been a maddeningly busy day at Bernard’s, the kind of busy that characterized Christmas shopping on a weekend in December. The customers had descended in hordes the moment the department-store doors opened this morning at nine, and the queues and demands had been endless. Apparently everyone had decided that an impromptu wedding was in order, and what could be more festive than getting married on Christmas, or a destination wedding for New Year’s? Monet had spent hours already on the phone calling designers, other stores, seamstresses, trying to find out what was available, and what could be done with gowns that might be available, and she still had a dozen things to do before closing.
“Does he have a name?” Monet asked.
“Marcus Oberto, or something like that. He’s Italian.”
Monet froze, even as she silently corrected the girl. Marcu Uberto was the name, and Marcu wasn’t Italian, but Sicilian.
“I told him you were quite busy,” the girl added. “But he said he’d wait. He said to take your time and there was no rush.”
Monet didn’t believe that for a second. Marcu was not a man to be kept waiting.
And yet what was he doing here? And why now?
Those two questions circled her brain, creating unwanted anxiety. She hadn’t seen Marcu in eight years, and the last time she’d heard from him had been almost three years ago to the day. What could he possibly want this close to Christmas?
“Shall I give him a message?” the salesgirl asked with a cheeky smile. “I don’t mind. He’s seriously sexy. But then I adore Italians, don’t you?”
Sicilian, Monet again silently corrected.
Marcu was Sicilian to the bone.
“Thank you for the offer,” Monet said, “but I’ll need to handle Signor Uberto. However, you could help me by phoning Mrs. Wilkerson and let her know we haven’t forgotten her, and we should have news about the missing bridal gown first thing in the morning.”
“Will we?” the girl replied, wrinkling her brow.
Monet couldn’t even imagine the fallout if they didn’t have good news. “We had better,” Monet said firmly, squaring her shoulders and heading from the stockroom to face Marcu.
She spotted him immediately as she emerged through the silver-and-gray curtains. He stood in the center of the marbled floor, commanding the space, which was something since the fifth floor of Bernard’s was topped by a glass dome and there was nothing but airy space on the bridal floor.
Tall, and broad through the shoulders, Marcu looked every inch the powerful wealthy aristocrat. Sophisticated and impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit and crisp white shirt—a suit and shirt she was certain from the tailoring had been made just for him. He’d paired the severe suit with a brilliant blue tie to set off his glossy black hair and piercing blue eyes. Eight years ago he’d worn his thick black hair long, but now it was cropped short and combed severely back from his brow while a hint of a shadow darkened his strong, angled jaw.
Monet’s pulse pounded, and her mouth dried as she fought back a wave of memories—memories she couldn’t bear to deal with on a night like this. Fortunately, he hadn’t yet seen her, and she was grateful for small mercies as she fought to control her breathing, and center herself. She’d worked so hard to block the past that she felt wildly unprepared for dealing with Marcu Uberto in her present.
“Courage and calm,” she whispered to herself. “You can do this.”
“Marcu,” she said politely, approaching him. “What brings you to Bernard’s? Is there a gift, or purchase I can help you with?”
* * *
Monet. A st
reak of icy hot sensation raced through him at the sudden sound of her voice, a voice he’d know anywhere. It wasn’t low or high, but there was a warmth to her tone, a sweetness, that matched her warm, sweet personality.
He turned to face her, half expecting the girl he’d last seen—petite, laughing, unassuming—but that wasn’t the woman before him. The Monet he’d known in Palermo had a quick smile and bright golden-brown eyes, but this Monet was incredibly slender with a guarded gaze and firm full lips that looked as if they rarely smiled. She certainly wasn’t smiling now, and with her hair drawn back, and dressed in a matronly lavender and gray tweed knit sheath dress with a matching knit jacket, she looked older than her twenty-six years.
“Hello, Monet,” he said, moving forward to kiss her on each cheek.
She barely tolerated his cheek grazing hers before stepping quickly away. “Marcu,” she replied quietly, unemotionally.
No, she wasn’t happy to see him in her workspace, but then he hadn’t expected her to welcome him with open arms.
“I’ve come to see you on a personal matter,” he said, matching her detached tone. “I’d hoped that by coming here near to closing time, I would be able to steal you away afterward so we could talk without distractions.”
Her already guarded expression shuttered completely, leaving her pretty features utterly blank. Once he’d known her so well that he could read all of her thoughts. He could read nothing now.
“The store might be closing soon,” she answered with a small, stiff smile, “but unfortunately I’ll be here for another hour. I still have orders to process and missing items to be found. Perhaps next time you’re in London—with advance notice—we could have that visit?”
“The last time I was in London you refused to see me.”
“Our schedules prevented it.”
“No, Monet, you prevented it.” His eyes met hers and held. “I won’t be put off this time. I’m here, and happy to wait until you’ve finished.”
“You won’t be allowed to remain in the building after we close.”
“Then I’ll wait in my car.” He glanced around the floor with its sleek silver Christmas trees and elegant decorations. “But why will it take you an hour to wrap things up? There’s no one here. Everyone but your colleague has gone.”
“I’m the manager and this is my department, so it falls to me to take care of all the pieces.” She paused, her gaze lifting to meet his. “Surely you don’t really want me to explain all the details of my job to you? I can’t imagine you’re that interested in bridal retail.”
“I’m not surprised you opened and closed.”
“It was an unusual day. We’re short-staffed.” She hesitated. “How did you know I opened?”
“I was here this morning. You were extremely busy so I left, and returned four hours ago. You were also very busy then, so here I am now.”
She’d held his gaze the entire time, and while her features remained neutral, her brown eyes burned with intensity. “Has something happened?” she asked, her husky voice dropping even lower.
“There has been no accident, no tragedy.”
“I don’t understand then why you’re here.”
“I need your help.”
“Mine?”
“Yes. You might recall that you owe me, and I’ve come to collect on that favor.”
She seemed to stop breathing then, and he watched the heat fade from her eyes until they were glacier-cool. “I have much to do tonight, Marcu. This is not a good night.”
He gestured to the pair of charcoal velvet armchairs near the platform and the tall trio of gilt-framed mirrors. “Would it be easier to just speak now?”
He saw her indecision and then she gave a curt nod. “Yes. Fine. Let’s talk now,” she said before walking to the chairs and sitting down on the edge of one, ankles crossing neatly under the chair.
* * *
Monet’s heart hammered as Marcu followed her to the chairs backed by huge framed mirrors, and then took his time sitting down. The trio of mirrors gave her views of him from all angles as he first unbuttoned his dark jacket, and then sat down, all fluid grace and strength, before adjusting the cuff of his shirt, making sure it fit just so.
This was her workplace, and her floor, and yet he managed to make her feel as if she was the outsider...the imposter. Just as she’d been as a girl, living in the Uberto palazzo, supported by his father. Monet hated remembering. She hated being dependent on anyone. And she very much resented Marcu’s appearance and reminder that she owed him.
She did owe him, too.
Years ago Marcu had come to her aid, providing an airline ticket and a loan when she needed to escape a difficult situation. He must have known there would be questions, and consequences, but he’d bought the airline ticket to London for her, anyway, and sent her with cash in her pocket, allowing her to escape Palermo, which is where the Uberto family lived, as did Monet’s mother, who was Marcu’s father’s mistress.
Marcu had warned her as he’d dropped her off at the airport in Palermo that one day he would call in the favor. Monet was so desperate to escape that she’d blindly agreed. It had been eight years since that flight out of Palermo. It had been eight years since Marcu had told her that one day he would settle the score. It seemed that day was now. He had finally called in the favor.
“I need you for the next four weeks,” he said, extending long legs. “I know you were once a nanny, and you were always good with my brother and sisters. Now I need you to take care of my three.”
She hadn’t heard from him in years. She’d avoided all mention of the aristocratic Sicilian Uberto family in years, the Uberto palazzo was one of the oldest and most luxurious in Palermo, and yet now he was here, asking her to drop everything to take care of his children. It would be laughable if it had been anyone else making such demands, but this was Marcu and that changed everything.
Monet drew a quick breath and shaped her smile, wanting to appear sympathetic. “As much as I’d like to help you, I really can’t. This is a terrible time for me to take leave from my work here, as retail depends on Christmas, and then there are my own clients. I’m quite protective of my anxious Christmas and New Year’s brides.”
“I’m more protective of my children.”
“As you should be, but you’re asking the impossible of me. I won’t be permitted to take any leave now.”
“Then give notice.”
“I can’t do that. I love my work here, and I’ve fought hard for this position.”
“I need you.”
“You don’t need me. You need a caregiver, a professional nanny. Hire a proper, skilled child-minder. There are dozens of agencies that cater to exclusive clientele—”
“I will not trust my children with just anyone. But I will trust them with you.”
She wasn’t flattered. The very last thing she wanted to do was to take care of Marcu’s children. She and Marcu had not parted on good terms. Yes, he’d helped finance her escape from Palermo, but he was the reason she’d had to leave Sicily in the first place. He’d broken her eighteen-year-old heart, and shattered her confidence. It had taken her years to build up her self-esteem again.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” she retorted calmly. “But I can’t leave Bernard’s at this time of year. I have an entire department that depends on me.”
“I’m calling in my favor.”
“Marcu.”
He simply looked at her, saying no more, but then, nothing else needed to be said on his part. They both knew she had agreed to return the favor. It was the only condition he’d made when he’d helped her leave Palermo. That one day he’d call in the favor, and when he did, she needed to help, and she’d agreed. As the years passed, Monet had come to hope—believe—that he would never need her. She’d hoped—believed—that he was so successful and comfortable that he�
��d forget the promise he’d extracted from her as he drove her to the airport. She’d grown so hopeful that he’d forgotten, that she herself had almost forgotten, that such a promise had even been made.
But clearly he hadn’t, and that’s all that mattered now. “This is not a good time to call in the favor,” she murmured huskily.
“I wouldn’t be here if it was a good time.”
She looked away, brow knitting as she looked toward the huge Palladian-style window that dominated the fifth floor, adding to the department’s restrained elegance. A few fat white flakes seemed to be floating past the glass. It wasn’t snowing, was it?
“I promise to put in a good word with Charles Bernard,” Marcu added. “I know him quite well, and I’m confident he will hold your position for you, and if not, I promise to help you find another job in January, after the wedding.”
The wedding?
That caught her attention and she turned from the window and the snow to look at Marcu. His blue gaze met hers and held.
Marcu was still Marcu—brilliant, confident, arrogant, self-contained—and for a moment she was that eighteen-year-old girl again, desperate to be in his arms, in his life, in his heart. And then she collected herself, reminding herself that she wasn’t eighteen; years had passed and thankfully they weren’t the same people. At least, she wasn’t the same girl. She wasn’t attracted to him. She felt nothing for him.
So why the sudden frisson of awareness shooting through her, warming her from the inside out?
“I’m afraid you lost me,” she said huskily. “What wedding?”
“Mine.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Perhaps you didn’t know that my wife died shortly after my youngest was born.”
Monet had known, but she’d blocked that from her mind, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said, fixing her gaze on the sharp knot of his blue tie, the silk gleaming in the soft overhead light. Of course he was exquisitely tailored. Marcu looked sleek and polished, Italian style and sophistication personified. Perhaps if she kept her attention fixed to the crisp white points of his collar, and the smooth lapels of his jacket, she could keep from seeing the face she’d once loved. It had taken her forever to get over him, and she would not allow herself to feel any attraction, or interest, or concern or affection.