Читать книгу Christmas Contract For His Cinderella - Jane Porter - Страница 10

AN HOUR LATER Monet was outside, and the black car was where Marcu said it would be, parked in front of Bernard’s front doors. The driver appeared the moment she stepped outside, and he opened a large black umbrella to protect her from the flurries of snow. She murmured her thanks as she stepped into the car.

She glimpsed Marcu and held her breath, careful to keep a distance between them.

“So what exactly do you do here?” he asked, as the car pulled away from the curb, sliding into the stream of traffic.

She placed her purse on her lap, and rested her hands on the purse clasp. “Manage the department. Assist brides finding their dream gown. Keep mothers from overwhelming their emotional daughters.”

“An interesting choice for you, given your background.”

Her chin notched up. “Because my mother never married?” she asked, a dark elegant winged eyebrow arching higher.

Of course he’d find it ironic that she’d work as a bridal-gown consultant, but most people didn’t know her background. In fact, the only ones who knew her background were the father who’d never been part of her life and the Uberto family.

“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 before 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 hesitated. “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.”

Monet felt another welling of pity for his children. It was also difficult to believe that Marcu had become such a cold, pragmatic man. He’d been so warm and kind when he was younger. He’d been a very loving, and much-adored, big brother. “Do they know this?”

“They know that it’s going to be a different kind of holiday this year. I haven’t told them more than that. I didn’t think it appropriate until Vittoria accepts my proposal.”

“You worry me, Marcu, and you make me worry for the children, too.”

Marcu’s eyes met hers and held, the light blue gaze heavily hooded, and assessing. “They are not mistreated in any way.”

“They’ll miss you.”

“They won’t. They might even be relieved to have me gone.” He hesitated. “I know they have more fun with Miss Sheldon when I’m away.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“I never asked to be both mother and father.”

“But leaving them altogether seems exceptionally unfair—”

“It seems you want to fight with me. Does it give you pleasure? I’ve already told you I’m not good at this parenting thing. I have not been a rousing success. What more do you want from me?”

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.

“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.”