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CHAPTER FIVE

SHE COULDN’T SLEEP. Sierra lay in the double bed in the guest room Marco had shown her to a few hours ago and stared up at the ceiling. The rain drummed against the roof and the wind battered the shutters. And inside her a tangle of fear and desire left her feeling restless, uncertain.

She didn’t think she’d been imagining the heightened sense of expectation as Marco had led her from the kitchen and up the sweeping marble staircase to the wing of guest bedrooms. She certainly hadn’t been imagining the pulse of excitement she’d felt low in her belly when he’d taken her hand to guide her down the darkened corridor.

She hated how immediate and overwhelming her response to him was, and yet she told herself it was natural. Understandable. He was an attractive, virile man, and she’d responded to him before. She couldn’t control the way he made her body feel, but she could certainly control her actions.

And so with effort she’d pulled her hand from his. The gesture seemed only to amuse him; he’d glanced back at her with a knowing smile, and Sierra had had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking—and feeling.

But he hadn’t acted on it. He’d shown her into the bedroom and she’d stood there, clearly waiting, while he’d turned on lights and checked that the shutters were bolted.

For an exquisite, excruciating second Sierra had thought he was going to do something. Kiss her. He’d stood in front of her, the lamplight creating a warm golden pool that bathed them both, and had looked at her. And she’d waited, ready, expectant...

If he’d kissed her then, she wouldn’t have been able to resist. The realisation should have been shaming but she’d felt too much desire for that.

But Marco hadn’t kissed her. His features had twisted in some emotion she couldn’t discern, and then he’d simply said goodnight and left her alone. Thank God.

There was absolutely no reason whatsoever to feel disappointed about that.

Now Sierra rose from the bed, swinging her legs over so her bare feet hit the cold tiles. Music. Music was what she needed now. Music had always been both her solace and her inspiration. When she was playing the violin, she could soar far above all the petty worries and cruelties of her day-to-day life. But she didn’t have her violin here; she’d left it in London.

Still, the villa had a music room with a piano. It was better than nothing. And she needed to escape from the din inside her own head, if only for a few minutes. Quietly, she crept from her bedroom and down the long darkened hallway. The house was silent save for the steady patter of rain, the distant rumble of thunder as the storm thankfully moved off.

Sierra tiptoed down the stairs, feeling her way through the dark, the moonless night not offering even a sliver of light. Finally, she found her way to the small music room with its French windows opening onto the terrace that was now awash in puddles.

She flicked on a single lamp, its warm glow creating a pool of light across the dusty ebony of grand piano. Gently she eased up the lid; the instrument was no doubt woefully out of tune. She quietly pressed a key and winced at the discordant sound.

Never mind. She sat at the piano and softly played the opening bars to Debussy’s Sarabande, not wanting to wake Marco in one of the rooms above. Even with the piano out of tune, the music filled her, swept away her worries and regrets and left only light and sound in their wake. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the piece, to the feeling. Forgetting, for a few needful moments, about her parents, her past, Marco.

She didn’t know when she became aware that she wasn’t alone. A prickling along her scalp, the nape of her neck. A shivery awareness that rippled through her and caused her to open her eyes.

Marco stood in the doorway of the music room, wearing only a pair of pyjama bottoms, his glorious chest bare, his gaze trained on her. Sierra’s fingers stilled on the piano, plunging the room into an expectant silence.

‘I didn’t know you played piano.’ His voice was low, husky with sleep, and it wove its sensual threads around her, ensnaring her.

‘I don’t, not really.’ She put her hands in her lap, self-conscious and all too aware of Marco standing so near her, so bare and so beautiful. Every muscle of his chest was bronzed and perfectly sculpted; he looked like an ad for cologne or clothes or cars. Looking the way he did, she thought he could sell anyone anything. ‘I had a few lessons,’ Sierra continued stiltedly, ‘but I’m mostly self-taught.’

‘That’s impressive.’

She shrugged, his surprising praise unnerving her. Having Marco standing here, wearing next to nothing, acting almost as if he admired her, sent her senses into hyperdrive and left her speechless.

‘I never even knew you were musical.’ He’d taken a step closer to her and she could feel the heat from his body. When she took a breath the musky male scent of him hit her nostrils and made her stomach clench. Hard.

‘The violin is actually my chosen instrument, but it’s not something I usually tell people. It’s a private thing.’ She forced herself to meet his sleepy, silvery gaze. She’d been a fool to come out of her bedroom tonight, and yet a distant part of her recognised she’d done it because she’d wanted this. Him. And even though desire was rushing through her in a torrent, both nerves and common sense made her back off. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I must have got carried away.’ She half rose from the piano bench, halting inexplicably, pinned by his gaze.

‘It sounded lovely.’

‘The piano is out of tune.’

‘Even so.’

He held her gaze, and inwardly Sierra quaked at how intent he looked. How utterly purposeful. So she wasn’t even surprised when he reached a hand out and cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking the softness of her lower lip. Her breath caught in a gasp that lodged in her chest. Her heart started to pound. She’d been waiting for this, and even though she was afraid she knew she still wanted it.

‘Almost,’ he said softly, ‘as lovely as you. Do you know how beautiful you are, Sierra? I’ve always thought that. You undid me, with your loveliness. I was caught from the moment I saw you, at your father’s palazzo. Do you remember? You were standing in the drawing room, wearing a pink dress. You looked like a rose.’

She stared at him, shocked by how much he had admitted, how much he’d felt. ‘I remember,’ she whispered. Of course she remembered. She’d glimpsed him from the window, seen him gently stroke that silly cat, and felt her heart lift in both hope and desire. How quickly she’d fallen for him. How completely. Not in love, no, but in childish hope and longing. He’d overwhelmed her senses, even when she’d thought she’d been acting smart, playing safe.

‘Do you remember when I kissed you?’ Marco asked. His thumb pressed her lip gently, reminding her of how his lips had felt on hers. Hard, hot, soft, cool. Everything, all at once.

‘Yes,’ she managed in a shaky whisper. ‘I remember.’

‘You liked my kisses.’ It was a statement, and he waited for her to refute it, confident that she couldn’t. Sierra tried to look away but Marco held her gaze as if he were holding her face in place with his hands. He was that commanding, that forceful, and he hadn’t even moved.

‘You don’t deny it.’

‘No.’ The word was drawn from her with helpless reluctance.

‘You still like them, I think,’ he said softly, and her silence condemned her. Slowly, inexorably, Marco drew her to him. She knew he was going to kiss her, and she knew she wanted him to. She also knew it was a bad idea, a dangerous idea, considering all that had—and hadn’t—happened between them and yet she didn’t resist.

His lips brushed hers once, twice. A shuddering sigh escaped her and she reached up to clutch his shoulders and steady herself. His skin felt hot and hard under her palms and she couldn’t keep herself from smoothing her hands down his back, revelling in the feel of him. How could a man’s skin feel so silky?

Marco’s hands framed her face as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding sweetly into her mouth as he tasted and explored her. He slid his hands from her face to her shoulders and then, wonderfully, to her breasts, cupping them as he had that day under the plane tree. She remembered how exciting it had felt, or at least she thought she had, but the reality of his touch now was so intense, so exquisite, she almost cried out as his thumbs brushed over her nipples. She hadn’t remembered this, not enough.

‘Marco.’ His name came on a breath, and she didn’t even know why she said it. Was she asking him to continue or telling him to stop?

He moved his mouth to her jaw, blazing kisses along her neck and collarbone as he slid his hand under her T-shirt and cupped her bare breast, the feel of his rough palm against her soft flesh, the gentle abrasion of it, making every nerve-ending blaze almost painfully to life. It was too much, and yet she wanted more.

‘I want you.’ He spoke hoarsely, firmly, declaring his intent. Sierra could only nod. He touched her chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his blazing gaze. ‘Say it. Say you want me, Sierra.’

‘I want you,’ she whispered, the words drawn from her, falling into the stillness, creating ripples.

Triumph blazed in his eyes as he pulled the T-shirt off her. She hadn’t bothered with the tracksuit bottoms for pyjamas, so in one fluid movement she’d become naked. She sucked in a hard breath when he pulled her towards him, her breasts colliding and then crushed against his chest. The feel of their bare skin touching sent another tingling quiver of awareness shooting through her. Marco’s hands were on her waist and then her hips as he fitted her against him. She could feel his arousal through the thin pyjama bottoms and it made her gasp. So many sensations all at once; she could barely acknowledge one before another came crashing over her.

Marco eased her back onto the piano bench, spreading her legs so he could stand between them. Her head fell back as he kissed his way from her collarbone to her breasts, and Sierra moaned as his tongue flicked across her sensitive flesh. She’d never realised you could feel this way, that a man could make you feel this way. He glanced up at her, his grey eyes blazing with triumph, and then he moved his head from her breasts to between her thighs and her breath came out in a shaky moan as he touched her centre.

‘Oh.’ She arched against his mouth, astonished at how sharp and intense the pleasure was, how consuming as his tongue found the very heart of her. ‘Oh.’ She threaded her hands through his silky hair as her body arched helplessly against his mouth and his hands gripped her hips. It only took a few exquisite moments for her world to explode in glittering fragments around her and she cried out, one jagged note that echoed through the stillness of the villa.

She really had no idea.

She sagged against the piano as her body trembled with the aftershocks of her climax and Marco lifted his head to gaze at her with blatant—and smug—satisfaction. Realisation thudded sickly through her; his look said it all. He’d been trying to prove something, and he’d just proved it—in spades.

Shakily, colour rushing to her face, Sierra pushed her tangle of hair from her hot cheeks and closed her legs, pushing him away from her. The intensity of the moment had splintered, leaving her feeling raw and exposed. Wounded and ashamed. She’d been so wanton, so shameless, and Marco had been utterly in control. As always.

‘Now at least you know a little of what you’ve missed,’ he said and her mouth opened on a soundless gasp.

‘You’ve proved your point, then, I suppose,’ she managed and on shaking legs she grabbed her T-shirt and rushed from the room.

* * *

Marco stalked upstairs, his whole body throbbing with unfulfilled desire—and worse, regret. He’d behaved like a cad. A heartless, cruel cad. And he needed an icy-cold shower. Swearing under his breath, he strode into his bedroom and went straight to the en suite bathroom, turning the cold on full blast. He stepped beneath the needling spray, sucking in a hard breath as the icy water hit his skin and chilled him right through. And even then he couldn’t quench the fire that raged in his veins, heated his blood, born of both shame and lust.

He’d wanted her so much, more than he’d ever wanted another woman. More than he’d ever thought possible. The sweetness of her response, the innocence of it... Marco braced his hands against the shower stall. He could almost believe she was still untouched. She’d seemed so surprised by everything, so enthralled. And when she’d fallen to pieces beneath his mouth...

Forcefully he pushed the memory away. The last thing he needed now was to remember how that had felt. Better to remember the sudden look of uncertainty on her face, of shame. The realisation that he’d been low enough to exact some kind of revenge, using her body against her. Forcing her to respond to him, even though she’d once rejected him.

He’d been tempted to seduce her, yes, and he could have had her earlier, when he’d shown her to her bedroom. He’d seen the uncertainty and desire in her eyes, how she had hesitated. But he’d resisted the temptation, had told himself he was better than that.

Apparently he wasn’t.

His body numb with cold, his blood still hot, Marco turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around his hips. Sleep would not come for him tonight, not when too many emotions still churned through him. He went to his laptop instead, powered it up and prepared to work.

By dawn his eyes were gritty, his body aching, but at least the rain had stopped. Marco stood at the window and gazed out at the rain-washed gardens. The once manicured lawns and groomed beds were a wild tangle of shrubs and trees; he hadn’t looked after the estate in the last few years, when Arturo had been too ill to do so himself. He’d hire a gardener to clean it up before he sold it. He didn’t want to have anything more to do with the place.

When he came downstairs Sierra was already in the kitchen, dressed in the silk blouse and pencil skirt she’d worn yesterday. Both were creased but dry; she’d put her hair back up in its sleek chignon and all of it felt like armour, a way to protect herself against him.

Marco hesitated in the doorway, wondering whether to mention last night. What would he even say? In any case Sierra looked as if she wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, and maybe that was best.

‘We should get on the road if your flight is this afternoon.’

‘We?’ She shook her head firmly. ‘I’ll drive myself.’

‘The mountain roads still aren’t passable, and your rental car looks like little more than a tin can on wheels,’ Marco dismissed. ‘I’ll drive you. My car can handle the flooding.’

‘But what about my rental...?’

‘I’ll have someone pick it up and deliver it to the agency. It’s not a problem.’

She licked her lips, her eyes wide, her expression more than a little panicked. ‘But...’

‘It makes sense, Sierra. And, trust me, you don’t have to worry about some kind of repeat of last night. I don’t intend to touch you ever again.’ He hadn’t meant to sound quite so harsh, but he saw the surprised hurt flicker in her eyes before she looked away.

‘And I have no intention of letting you touch me ever again.’

He was almost tempted to prove her wrong, but he resisted the impulse. The sooner Sierra was out of his life, the better. ‘It seems we’re agreed, then. Now, we should get ready to go.’ Marco grabbed his keys and switched off the lights before ushering Sierra out of the kitchen. He followed her, locking the villa behind him, and then opened the passenger door to his SUV. As Sierra slid inside the car he breathed in her lemony scent, and his gut tightened. It was going to be a long three hours.

They drove in silence down the sweeping drive, the villa’s gates closing silently behind them. Sierra let out a sigh of relief as Marco turned onto the mountain road.

‘You’re glad to leave?’

‘Not glad, exactly,’ she answered. ‘But memories can be...difficult.’

He couldn’t argue with that. He had a truckload of difficult memories, from his father’s retreat from his life, to his mother leaving him at the door of an orphanage run by monks when he was ten years old, to the slew of foster homes he’d bounced through, to the endless moment when he’d stood at the front of the church, the smile slipping from his face as Arturo came down the aisle, his face set in extraordinarily grim lines.

Sierra was staring out of the window; it was as if she’d dismissed him entirely. As he would dismiss her. For better or worse, last night’s episode would serve as a line drawn across the past. Perhaps he had evened the score between them. In any case, his tie to Sierra Rocci was cut—firmly and for ever.

Setting his jaw, Marco stared straight ahead as he drove in silence all the way to Palermo.