Читать книгу Italian Maverick's Collection - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 23
ОглавлениеA LOG SETTLED in the grate and popped, sparks scattering across the hearth before turning to cold ash. The silence stretched on and Sierra let it. What could she say? What would Marco believe or be willing to hear?
It was obvious he’d manufactured his own version of events, no doubt been fed lies by her father, who would have pretended to grieve for her. Marco wouldn’t believe the truth now, even if she fed it to him with a spoon.
‘Well?’ His voice rang out, harsh and demanding. ‘No reply?’
She shrugged, not meeting his gaze. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I told you—the truth. Why did you leave, Sierra? The night before our wedding?’
Sierra took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his hard gaze; looking into his eyes felt like slamming into a wall. ‘Fine. The truth is I had second thoughts. Cold feet. I realised I was putting my life in the hands of a virtual stranger, and that it was a mistake. I couldn’t do it.’
He stared at her, his gaze like concrete, a muscle flickering in his jaw. ‘You realised all this the night before our wedding? It didn’t occur to you at any point during the month of our engagement?’
‘I’d thought I was making the right decision. That night I realised I wasn’t.’
He shook his head derisively. ‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘In some ways it was, Marco.’ Another deep breath. ‘We didn’t love or even know each other, not really. We’d had a handful of dates, everything stage-managed by my father. Our marriage would have been a disaster.’
‘You can be so sure?’
‘Yes.’ She looked away, wanting to hide the truth she feared would be reflected in her eyes. She wasn’t sure. Not completely. Maybe their marriage would have worked. Maybe Marco really was a good and gentle man. Although the fact that he’d remained at her father’s right hand since then made her wonder. Doubt. How much of her father’s shallow charm and ruthless ways had rubbed off on her ex-fiancé? Judging from the cold anger she’d seen from him today, she feared far too much. No, she’d made the right choice. She had to believe that.
‘Fine.’ Marco exhaled in one long, low rush of breath. ‘You changed your mind. Why didn’t you tell me, then? Talk to me and tell me what you were thinking? Did I not deserve that much courtesy? A note, at the very least? Maybe I could have convinced you...’
‘Exactly. You would have convinced me.’ He stared at her, nonplussed, and she continued, ‘I was nineteen, Marco. You were a man of nearly thirty, sophisticated and worldly, especially compared to me. I had no life experience at all, and I was afraid to stand up to you, afraid that you’d sweep my arguments aside and then I’d marry you out of fear.’
‘Did I ever give you any reason to be afraid of me?’ he demanded. ‘What a thing to accuse me of, Sierra, and with no proof.’ His voice vibrated with anger and she fought not to flinch.
Now was the time to say it. To admit what she’d overheard, how it had made her feel. Why shouldn’t she? What did she have to lose? She’d lost it all already. She’d gained a new life—a small, quiet life that was safe and was hers. She had nothing she either needed or wanted from this man. ‘I heard you,’ she said quietly.
His gaze widened and his mouth parted soundlessly before he finally spoke. ‘You heard me? Am I supposed to know what that means?’
‘The night before our wedding, I heard you talking to my father.’
He shook his head slowly, not understanding. Not wanting to understand. ‘I’m still in the dark, Sierra.’
A deep breath, and she let it buoy her lungs, her courage. ‘You said, “I know how to handle her”, Marco.’ Even after all the years the memory burned. ‘When my father told you how women get notions. You spoke about me as if I were a dog, a beast to be bridled. Someone to be managed rather than respected.’
A full minute passed where Marco simply stared at her. Sierra held his gaze even though she ached to look away. To hide. The fire crackled and a spark popped, the loud sound breaking the stillness and finally allowing her to look somewhere else.
‘And for this, this one statement I can’t even remember,’ Marco said in a low voice, ‘you condemned me? Damned me?’
‘It was enough.’
He swore, a hiss under his breath. Sierra flinched, tried not to cringe. A man’s anger still had the power to strike fear into her soul. Make her body tense as she waited to ward off the blow.
‘How could you—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I don’t even want to know. I’m not interested in your excuses.’ He stalked into the kitchen. After a moment Sierra followed him. She’d rather creep back upstairs but she felt the conversation needed to be finished. Maybe then the past would be laid to rest, or at least as much as it could be.
She stood in the doorway while he opened various cupboards, every movement taut with suppressed fury.
He took out a packet of dried pasta and tossed it onto the granite island. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Don’t be perverse. You probably haven’t eaten anything all day. You should keep up your strength.’
The fact that he was right made Sierra stay silent. She was being perverse because she didn’t want to spend any more time with him than necessary. Her stomach growled loudly and Marco gave her a mocking look.
Sierra forced a smile. ‘Very well, then. Let me help.’ He shrugged his indifferent assent and Sierra moved awkwardly through the kitchen, conscious how this cosy domestic scene was at odds with the tension and animosity that still tautened the air.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, concentrating on mundane things; Sierra found a large pot and filled it with water, plonking it on the huge state-of-the-art range as Marco retrieved a tin of crushed tomatoes and various herbs from the cupboards.
This was his home now, and yet it once had been hers. She glanced round the huge kitchen, the oak table in the dining nook where she’d eaten breakfast while her mother moped and drank espresso. Sierra had enjoyed a cautious happiness at the villa, but Violet had always been miserable away from Arturo.
Sierra shook her head at the memory, at the regret she still felt for her mother’s life, her mother’s choices.
Marco noticed the movement and stilled. ‘What is it?’
She turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re shaking your head. What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something, Sierra.’
‘I was just thinking about my mother. How I missed her.’
His eyebrows rose in obvious disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you ever come back, then?’
The question hung in the air, taunting her. She could tell him the truth, but she resisted instinctively. Sierra didn’t know if it was because she didn’t want to be pitied, or because she suspected he wouldn’t believe her. Or, worse, an innate loyalty to her father, a man who had shown her so much contempt and disgust.
She drew a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘My father would not want me back, after...everything.’
‘You’re wrong.’ She recoiled at the flatly spoken statement. He could be so sure? ‘You judge people so quickly, Sierra. Me and your father both. He would have welcomed you back with open arms, I know it. He told me as much, many times.’
She leaned against the counter, absorbing his statement. So her father had been feeding him lies all along, just as she’d suspected. She could tell Marco believed what he said, deeply and utterly. And he would never believe her.
‘I suppose I wasn’t prepared to risk it.’
‘You broke his heart,’ Marco told her flatly. ‘And your mother’s. Neither of them were ever the same.’
Guilt curdled her stomach like sour milk. She’d always known, even if she hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, that her leaving would cost her mother. It hurt to hear it now. ‘How do you know? Did you see my mother very much?’
‘Often enough. Arturo invited me to dinner many times. Your mother became reclusive—’
‘She was always reclusive,’ Sierra cut in sharply. She could not let every statement pass as gospel. ‘We lived here, at the villa, except when my father called us into action.’
‘A country life is better for children.’ He glanced round the huge kitchen, spreading one arm wide to encompass the luxurious villa and its endless gardens. ‘This would be a wonderful place to raise children.’ His voice had thickened, and with a jolt Sierra wondered if he was thinking about their children. The thought made her feel a strangely piquant sense of loss that she could not bear to consider too closely.
‘So how was she more reclusive?’
‘She didn’t always join us for meals. She didn’t come to as many social events. Her health began to fail...’
Tears stung Sierra’s eyes and she blinked rapidly to dispel them. She didn’t want Marco to see her cry. She could guess why her mother had retreated more. Her father must have been so angry with her leaving, and he would have taken it out on her mother. She’d have had no choice but to hide.
‘The truth hurts, does it?’ Marco said, his voice close to a sneer. He’d seen her tears and he wasn’t impressed. ‘I suppose it was easy to forget about them from afar.’
‘None of it was easy,’ Sierra choked out. She drew a deep breath and willed the grief back. Showing Marco how much she was affected would only make him more contemptuous. He’d judged her long ago and nothing she could do or say would change the way he felt about her. And it shouldn’t matter, because after today she would never see him again.
A prospect that caused her an absurd flash of pain; she forced herself to shrug it off.
‘It seemed easy from where I stood,’ Marco answered. His voice was sharp with bitterness.
‘Maybe it did,’ Sierra agreed. ‘But what good can it do now, to go over these things? What do you want from me, Marco?’
* * *
What did he want from her? Why was he pushing her, demanding answers she obviously couldn’t or didn’t want to give? Did it even matter which? It was seven years ago. She’d had cold feet, changed her mind, whatever. She’d treated both him and her parents callously, and he was glad to have escaped a lifetime sentence with a woman as cold as she was. They’d both moved on.
Except when he’d seen her standing in the doorway of di Santis’s office, when he’d remembered how she’d tasted and felt and even more, how he’d enjoyed being with her, seeing her shy smile, the way those blue-grey eyes had warmed with surprised laughter...when he’d been looking forward to the life they would build together... It didn’t feel as if he’d moved on. At all. And that realisation infuriated him.
Marco swung away from her, bracing his hands against the counter. ‘I don’t want anything from you. Not any more.’ He busied himself with opening the tin of tomatoes and pouring the contents into a pan. ‘Seeing you again has made me ask some questions,’ he answered, his voice thankfully cool. ‘And want some answers. Since I never had any.’
‘I can understand that.’ She sounded sad.
‘Can you?’ Then why...? But he wouldn’t ask her anything more. He wouldn’t beg. Wordlessly, he turned back to their makeshift meal. Sierra watched him, saying nothing, but Marco felt the tension ease slightly. The anger that had been propelling him along had left in a defeated rush, leaving him feeling more sad than anything else. And he didn’t want to feel sad. God help him, he was over Sierra. He’d never loved her, after all—he’d desired her, yes. He’d wanted her very much.
But love? No. He’d never felt that and he had no intention of feeling it for anyone.
He slid his gaze towards her, saw the way her chest rose and fell under the baggy T-shirt. He could see the peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric, and desire arced through him. He still wanted her.
And did she want him? The question intrigued him and, even though he knew nothing would happen between them now, he realised he wanted to know the answer—very much.
There was only one way to find out. He reached for the salt, letting his arm brush across her breasts for one tantalising second. He heard her draw her breath in sharply and step back. When he glanced at her, he saw the colour flare into her face, her eyes widen before she quickly looked away.
Marco only just suppressed his smile as satisfaction surged through him. She wanted him. Seducing her would be easy...and such sweet revenge. But was that all he wanted from Sierra now? A moment’s pleasure? The proof that she’d missed out? It felt petty and small, and more exposing of him than her.
And yet it would be so satisfying.
‘What will you do with the estate?’ She cleared her throat, her gaze flicking away from his as she stirred the pasta. ‘Will you live here? Or sell it?’
‘I haven’t decided.’ His thoughts of revenge were replaced by an uncomfortable flicker of guilt for taking Sierra’s inheritance from her. Not that he’d actually wanted to; Arturo had insisted, claiming Marco had been far more of a son to him than Sierra had ever been a daughter. And, in his self-righteous anger and hurt, Marco had relented. Sierra had walked away from the family that had embraced him. He’d believed she deserved what she’d got: nothing.
‘Is there anything you want from the villa?’ he asked. ‘Or the palazzo in Palermo? Some heirlooms or pictures?’
She shook her head, her certainty shocking him even though he knew it shouldn’t. She’d turned her back on all of it seven years ago. ‘No. I don’t want anything.’
‘There’s nothing?’ he pressed. ‘What about a photograph of your parents? There’s a wedding picture in the front hall of the palazzo. It’s lovely.’ He watched her, searching for some sign of softness, some relenting towards her family, towards him.
‘No,’ she said, and her voice was firm. ‘I don’t want anything.’
They worked in silent tandem, preparing the simple meal, and it wasn’t until they were seated at the table in the alcove with steaming plates of pasta that Sierra spoke again.
‘I always liked this spot. I ate breakfast here. The cook was an old battleaxe who thought I should eat in the dining room but I couldn’t bear it, with all the stuffy portraits staring down at me so disapprovingly. I much preferred it here.’ She smiled, the gesture touched with sorrowful whimsy.
Marco imagined her as a child sitting at the table, her feet not even touching the floor. He imagined their daughter doing the same, and then abruptly banished the thought. Dreams he’d once had of a proper family, a real life, and now they were nothing but ashes and smoke. He’d never live here with Sierra or anyone.
‘You can have the villa.’ His voice came out abrupt, ungracious. Marco cleared his throat. ‘I won’t be using it. And it was your family home.’
She stared at him, her eyes wide. ‘You’re offering me the villa?’
He shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I? I didn’t need any of your inheritance. The only thing I wanted was your father’s shares in Rocci Enterprises.’ Which gave him control of the empire he’d helped to build.
‘Of course.’ Her mouth curved in a mocking smile. ‘That’s why you wanted to marry me, after all.’
‘What do you mean?’ He stared at her in surprise, shocked by her assumption. ‘Is that what you think? That I wanted to marry you only for personal gain?’
‘Can you really deny it? What better way to move through the ranks than marry the boss’s daughter?’ She held his gaze and even though her voice was cool he saw pain in her eyes. Old, unforgotten pain, a remnant of long past emotion, and strangely it gratified him. So this was why she’d left—because she’d assumed he had been using her?
‘I won’t deny that there were some advantages to marrying you,’ he began, and she let out a hard laugh.
‘That’s putting it mildly. You wouldn’t have looked twice at me if my last name hadn’t been Rocci.’
‘That’s not necessarily true. But I was introduced to you by your father. I always knew you were a Rocci.’
‘And he stage-managed it all, didn’t he? The whole reason he introduced you to me was to marry me off.’
Marco heard the bitterness in her voice and wondered at it. ‘But surely you knew that.’
‘Yes, I knew.’ She shook her head, regret etched on her fine-boned features. Marco laid down his knife and fork and stared at her hard.
‘Then how can you object? Your father was concerned for your welfare. It made sense, assuming we got along, for him to encourage the match. He’d provide for his daughter and secure his business.’
‘Which sounds positively medieval—’
‘Not medieval,’ Marco interjected. ‘Sicilian, perhaps. He was an old-fashioned man, this is an old-fashioned country, with outdated ideas about some things. Trust me, I know.’
She looked up, the bitterness and regret sliding from her face, replaced by curiosity. ‘Why do you say that? Why should you know better than another?’
He shouldn’t have said that at all. He had no intention of telling Sierra about the shame of his parentage, the sorrow of his childhood. The past was best left forgotten, and he knew he could not stomach her pity. ‘We’ve both encountered it, in different ways,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘But if you knew your father intended for us to marry, why do you fault me for it now?’
Sierra sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘I don’t, not really.’
‘But...’ He shook his head, mystified and more than a little annoyed. ‘I don’t understand you, Sierra. Perhaps I never did.’
‘I know.’ She was quiet then, her face drawn in sorrowful lines. ‘If it helps, I’m truly sorry for the way it all happened. If I’d had more courage, more clarity, I would have never let it get as far as it did. I would have never agreed to your proposal.’
And that was supposed to make him feel better? Marco’s chest hurt with the pressure of holding back his anger and hurt. He was not going to show Sierra how her words wounded him. She saw their entire relationship as a mistake, an error of judgement. Until she hadn’t come down the aisle, he’d been intending to spend the rest of his life with her. The difference in their experiences, their feelings, was too marked and painful for him to remark on it.
‘I didn’t intend to marry you simply because it was good business,’ he finally managed, his voice level. He would not have her accuse him of being mercenary.
‘I suppose it helped that I didn’t have a face like an old boot,’ Sierra returned before he could continue. ‘And I was so biddable, wasn’t I? So eager to please, practically fawning over you.’ She shook her head in self-derision.
Marco cocked his head, surprise sweeping over him. ‘Is that how you saw it?’
‘That’s how it was.’
He knew there was truth in what she said, but it hadn’t been the whole truth. Yes, she’d been pretty and he’d been physically attracted to her. Overwhelmingly physically attracted to her, so his palms had itched to touch her softness, to feel her body yield to his. And they still did.
And yes, he’d liked how much she’d seemed to like him, how eager and admiring she’d been. What man wouldn’t?
She’d been young and isolated, but so had he, even though he’d been almost thirty. Back then he hadn’t had many, if any, people who looked up to him. He’d been a street rat from the dusty gutters of Palermo, a virtual orphan who had worked through half a dozen foster homes before he’d finally left at sixteen. No one had missed him.
Seeing Sierra Rocci look at him with stars in her eyes had felt good. Had made him feel part of something bigger than himself, and he’d craved that desperately. But Sierra made it sound as if he’d been calculating and cold, and it had never been like that for him.
‘You are painting only part of the picture,’ Marco finally said.
‘Oh, I’m sure you felt an affection for me,’ Sierra cut in. ‘An amused tolerance, no doubt. But eventually you would have tired of me and I would have resented you. It would have been a disaster, like I said.’
He opened his mouth to object, to tell her what he’d hoped would have happened. That maybe they would have liked each other, grown closer. No, he hadn’t loved her, hadn’t wanted to love her. Hadn’t wanted that much emotional risk. But he’d hoped for a good marriage. A real family.
She stared at him with challenge in her eyes and he closed his mouth. Why would he say all that now? Admit so much pathetic need? There was nothing between them now, no hope of any kind of future. Nothing but an intense physical awareness, and one he could use to his own ruthless advantage. Why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he have Sierra Rocci in bed? Surely she wasn’t the innocent she’d once been, and he could tell she desired him. Even if she didn’t want to.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said tonelessly. ‘In any case, you never gave us the opportunity to discover what might have happened. And, as you’ve said, it’s all in the past.’
Sierra’s breath left in a rush. ‘Yes.’ She sounded wary, as if she didn’t trust his words, that he could be so forgiving.
‘I’m glad you’ve realised that,’ she said, her voice cool, and Marco inclined his head. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’ She rose gracefully and took her plate to the sink. Marco watched her go. ‘It’s been a long day and I have to get up early tomorrow for my flight.’
‘Very well.’
She turned to him, uncertainty flashing in her eyes. ‘Goodnight.’
Marco smiled fleetingly, letting his gaze rest on hers with intent, watching with satisfaction as her pupils flared and her breath hitched. ‘Let me show you to your room.’
‘It’s not necessary—’
He rose from the table and strode towards her, his steps eating up the space in a few long strides. ‘Oh,’ he assured her with a smile that had become feral, predatory, ‘but it is.’
