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CHAPTER SIX

‘YOU NEED SIERRA ROCCI.’

Marco swivelled around in his chair to gaze out of the window at Palermo’s business district as everything in him resisted that flatly spoken statement. ‘I’ve been Arturo’s right-hand man for nearly ten years. I don’t need her.’

Paolo Conti, his second-in-command and closest confidant, sighed. ‘I’m afraid you do, Marco. The board isn’t happy without a Rocci to front the business, at least at first. And with the hotel opening in New York in a few weeks...’

‘What about it? Everything is going according to plan.’ He’d overseen the work on Rocci Enterprises’ first hotel in North America himself; it had been his idea to expand, and to take the exclusive chain of hotels in a new direction. His credibility as CEO rested on The Rocci New York succeeding.

‘That’s true,’ Paolo replied, ‘but in the seventy years of Rocci Enterprises, a Rocci has always headed the board.’

‘Things change.’

‘Yes,’ Paolo agreed patiently, running his hand through his silver hair, ‘but for the last seventy years a Rocci has opened each hotel. Palermo, Rome, Paris, Madrid, London, Berlin.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘A Rocci at every one.’

‘I know.’ He’d seen a few of the grand openings himself. He’d started work for Rocci Enterprises when he was sixteen years old, as a bellboy at the hotel in Palermo. He’d seen Sierra walking with her parents up the pink marble steps to eat in the hotel’s luxurious dining room. He’d watched her walk so daintily, her hands held by both her mother and father. The perfect family.

‘Change is a part of life,’ Marco dismissed, ‘and Arturo Rocci willed his shares to me. The board—and the public—will simply have to adjust.’ It had been nearly a month since he’d left Sierra at the Palermo airport. Four weeks since he’d watched her walk away from him and told himself he was glad, even as he felt the old injustice burn. She hadn’t looked back.

He wasn’t angry with her any more, but he didn’t know what he felt. Whatever emotion raged through him didn’t feel good.

‘It’s not that simple, Marco,’ Paolo said. He’d been with Rocci Enterprises for decades, always quietly serving and guiding. As Arturo had become more and more ill, Marco had relied increasingly on Paolo’s help and wisdom.

‘It can be,’ he insisted.

‘If the board feels there is too much separation from the Rocci name and values, they might hold a vote of no confidence.’

Marco tensed. ‘I’ve been with this company for over ten years. And I hold the controlling shares.’

‘The board needs to see you in public, acting as CEO. They need to believe in you.’

‘Fine. I’ll appear at any number of events.’

‘With a Rocci,’ Paolo clarified. ‘And, as you know, Sierra is the only Rocci left.’ Arturo’s brother, a bachelor, had died a dozen years ago, his parents before then. ‘There needs to be a smooth transition,’ Paolo insisted. ‘For the board and the public. Arturo wasn’t able to manage it while he was alive—’

‘He was ill.’

‘I know. I’m sure he would have addressed this himself if he could have.’

But Arturo hadn’t made Marco the beneficiary of his will until the very end. Marco suspected the old man had been hoping for Sierra to come back, to keep the business in the family. Restlessly, Marco rose from his chair and paced his office. Damn it, he’d given his life to Rocci Enterprises. He could still remember the sense of incredulous joy he’d had when Arturo had moved him from hefting suitcases to working in an office. Arturo Rocci had seen his potential and helped him to rise. And he’d paid his mentor back tenfold, by increasing Rocci Enterprises’ revenue and expanding its business concerns. But he feared that all his board saw was a street rat from Palermo’s gutters who had got ideas far above his station.

Sighing, he sank back into his chair. He could see the sense in what Paolo was saying. A smooth transition from him being the second-in-command who worked invisibly behind the scenes to being the public face of Rocci Enterprises. All it would take was a few key appearances, some stage-managed events...with Sierra.

Considering how they’d parted, he doubted Sierra Rocci was going to want to help him out in any fashion. He might not be angry with her any more, but she could very well still harbour a grudge for his ruthless semiseduction of her at the villa. Sighing, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, fighting off the tension headache that felt like a band of iron encircling his head.

He didn’t want to need Sierra. He certainly didn’t want to go begging for favours. But Rocci Enterprises meant everything to him. He couldn’t afford to risk its well-being.

‘Well?’ Paolo asked. ‘Do you think Sierra Rocci will agree? I know the two of you have a history...’ He paused delicately, and Marco opened his eyes.

‘I’ll make her agree,’ he stated flatly. Already his mind was racing through the possibilities. How could he get Sierra to come to New York? She’d accused him of being manipulative seven years ago, of engaging her affections so he could secure his position with Rocci Enterprises. She’d been wrong then, or at least that hadn’t been the whole truth. But now it would be.

Marco’s mouth curved coldly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told Paolo. ‘I know how to handle her.’

* * *

‘Play it again please, Chloe.’

Sierra shifted in her hard chair as her pupil sawed her way through ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ for the third time. Sierra tried not to wince. She loved her job tutoring children in music for a variety of after-school clubs, but it wasn’t always easy on the ears.

Her mind drifted, as it had these last few weeks, to Marco Ferranti. It irritated and unnerved her that he was so often in her thoughts; the passionate interlude in the music room had haunted her dreams and left her aching with both desire and shame.

There was so much she didn’t understand about Marco. He seemed like a tangle of unsettling contradictions: his anger at her abandonment of him seven years ago, and then the sudden moments of generosity and even tenderness that he’d shown her. Which was the real man? Which was the act? And why on earth was she still thinking about him?

‘Miss Rocci?’

Sierra’s unfocused gaze settled on the little girl in front of her. ‘Yes, Chloe?’

‘I finished.’

‘Yes, of course you did,’ Sierra murmured. ‘Well done.’ She leafed through the music she’d brought before selecting another piece. ‘Why don’t you try this one now that you’ve managed “Twinkle, Twinkle” so well?’

An hour later Sierra packed up her things and headed out of the school where she’d been running music lessons. It had taken a few years, but she’d managed to build up a regular business, offering lessons to schoolchildren across London’s schools.

After her tumultuous and panicked flight from Sicily, she’d found her mother’s friend Mary Bertram living in London; she’d moved house but, with the help of the internet, Sierra had managed to track her down. Mary had sheltered her, helped her find her feet along with her first job. She’d died three years ago, and Sierra had felt as if she’d lost another mother.

Outside the school, she started down the pavement towards the Tube station, the midsummer evening sultry and warm. People were spilling out of houses and offices, laughing as they slung bags over their shoulders and made plans for the pub.

Sierra regarded them with a slight pang of envy. She’d never been able to make friends easily; her isolated childhood and her innate quietness had made it difficult. Her job was isolated, too, although she’d become friendly with a few of the other extracurricular teachers at various schools. But in the seven years she’d lived in London, no one had got close. She’d never had a lover or even a boyfriend, nothing more than a handful of dates that had gone nowhere.

‘Hello, Sierra.’

Sierra came to a shocked halt as Marco Ferranti stepped out in front of her. Her mouth opened soundlessly; she felt as if she’d conjured him from thin air, from her lonely thoughts. He quirked an eyebrow, his mouth curving in the gentle quirk of a smile she recognised from seven years ago.

‘What...what are you doing here?’ she finally managed.

‘Looking for you.’

A thrill of illicit pleasure as well as of apprehension shivered through her. He’d come to London just for her? ‘How did you know where I was?’

He shrugged, the movement assured, elegant. ‘Information is always easy to find.’

And just like that she was unnerved again, realising once more how little she knew him, the real him. How powerful he was. ‘I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me, Marco.’

‘Is there somewhere private we could go?’

She glanced around the busy city street and shrugged. ‘Not really.’

‘Then let me find a place.’ Marco slid his phone from the pocket of his suit jacket and thumbed a few buttons. Within seconds he was issuing instructions and then he returned his phone to his pocket and put his hand on the small of Sierra’s back, where it rested enticingly, his palm warm through the thin fabric of her summer blouse. ‘I’ve found a place.’

‘Just like that?’ Sierra hadn’t heard what he’d said into the phone; his Italian had been low and rapid, inaudible over the sounds of traffic.

‘Just like that,’ Marco answered with a smile and guided her down the street, his hand never leaving her back.

A few minutes later they were entering a wine bar with plush velvet sofas and tables of polished ebony and teak. Sierra gaped to see a sofa in a private alcove already prepared for them, a bottle of red wine opened and breathing next to two crystal wine glasses.

‘Some service,’ she remarked shakily.

‘As a Rocci, you must be used to such service,’ Marco replied. He gestured for her to sit down while he poured the wine.

‘Perhaps, but it’s been a while.’ In the seven years since she’d come to London she’d lived on little more than a pittance. She rented a tiny flat in Clapham and she bought everything second-hand. The days of luxury and privilege as Arturo Rocci’s daughter were long over.

As she sank into the velvet sofa and watched Marco pour her a glass of wine, Sierra couldn’t help but enjoy the moment. Even if Marco’s presence overwhelmed and unnerved her. She had no idea why he’d come to London to find her, or what he could possibly want.

‘Here.’ He pressed a glass of wine into her hand and she took a much-needed sip.

‘What do you want from me?’ she asked, and then steeled herself for his answer.

Whatever they were, Marco wasn’t going to reveal his intentions so easily. ‘I didn’t realise you were a music teacher.’

So he’d done some digging. She took another sip of wine. ‘I teach children in after-school clubs.’

‘And you play the piano and violin yourself.’

‘Only in private.’ Her cheeks heated as Marco’s knowing gaze locked with hers. She knew they were both remembering the last time she’d played, and just how private it had been.

‘I’d like to hear you play the violin.’ His gaze seemed to caress her, and she felt goosebumps rise on her arms as a familiar ache started in her centre. ‘I’d like you to play it for me.’ His voice was low, sensuous, his gaze never leaving hers, his words making images and ideas leap into her mind in a vivid and erotic montage.

Sierra shook her head slowly, forcing the feelings back. ‘Why are you acting this way, Marco?’

He took a sip of wine, one eyebrow arched. ‘What way?’

‘Like...like a lover,’ she blurted, and then blushed. ‘The last time we saw each other you seemed glad to be shot of me.’

‘And I must confess you seemed likewise.’

‘Considering the circumstances, not to mention our history, yes.’

‘I’m sorry for the way I acted,’ Marco said abruptly. His gaze was still locked on hers, his expression intent. ‘In the music room. When I made love to you. I was trying to prove you still desired me and it was a petty, stupid thing to do. I’m sorry.’ His lips curved in a tiny smile. ‘Even if it seemed you enjoyed it.’

His words were gently teasing, and they made her blush all the more. She had no idea how to respond.

‘Thank you,’ she finally muttered. ‘For your apology. But I still don’t know why you’re here.’

Marco shifted in his seat, his powerful thigh brushing her leg. The contact sent sizzling arrows of remembered sensation firing through her, and Sierra only just resisted pulling away. She wouldn’t show him how much he affected her. In any case, he undoubtedly already knew.

‘I’ve been thinking about you, Sierra.’ His voice flowed over like her melted chocolate, warm and liquid, enticing but also a way to drown. ‘A lot.’

Her mouth had dried, her lungs emptying of air, and yet suspicion and doubt still took hold of her heart. She shook her head slowly. ‘Marco...’

‘I’ve been thinking that it’s unfair you didn’t receive anything from your father’s will.’

The abrupt reality check felt like falling flat on her face. Left her breathless, smarting. Of course he wasn’t thinking about her that way. She shouldn’t even want to be thinking of him that way. Good grief, where was her backbone? Her resolve? She’d spent the last seven years telling herself she’d done the right thing in walking away from this man, and now she was panting and dreaming like some lovesick teenager.

‘I don’t care about my father’s will.’

‘You should. You had a birthright, Sierra.’

‘Even though I walked away from my family? In di Santis’s office you seemed to think I was getting exactly what I deserved. Almost nothing.’ She hadn’t cared about her father’s inheritance, but Marco’s smug triumph had rankled. More than rankled, if she was honest. It had hurt.

‘I was angry,’ Marco admitted quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

So many apologies. She didn’t know what to do with them. She didn’t entirely trust them—or him. And her own feelings were cartwheeling all over the place, which made sounding and feeling logical pretty difficult. ‘It’s all in the past, Marco. Let’s leave it there.’

‘I think you should have a part in Rocci Enterprises.’

She drew back, truly startled. If anything, she’d been expecting him to offer her the villa again, or perhaps some family heirlooms she had no need for. Not her father’s business. ‘I’ve never had a part in Rocci Enterprises.’ Her father had been very much of the persuasion that women didn’t need to be involved in business. She’d left school at sixteen at her father’s behest.

‘A new hotel is opening in New York City,’ Marco continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘It will be the most luxurious Rocci hotel yet, and I think you should be there. You deserve to be there.’

‘In New York?’ She stared at him in disbelief.

‘You opened four hotels before you were nineteen,’ Marco reminded her. ‘People are used to seeing a Rocci cut the ribbon. You should be the one to do it.’

‘I had nothing to do with that hotel, or any of them.’ She was filled with sudden and utter revulsion at the thought of opening one of her father’s hotels. Playing happy families, and this time from the grave. How many times had she smiled and curtsied for the crowds, how many times had her mother waved, wearing a long-sleeved dress to hide the bruises? She had no desire whatsoever to revisit those memories or play that part again. ‘I appreciate your consideration,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I don’t need to open the hotel. I have no wish to.’ Some of her distaste must have shown on her face because Marco frowned.

‘Why not?’

Sierra hesitated, stalling for time by taking a sip of wine. She was still hesitant to tell Marco the truth of her father, her family, because she didn’t think he’d believe her and even if he did she didn’t want his pity. It was shaming to admit she’d allow herself to be abused and used for so long, even if she’d only been a child. And if he didn’t believe her? If he accused her of lying or exaggerating to sully her father’s name? Or maybe he would believe her, and think her father had been justified. Maybe he countenanced a little rough handling. The truth was, she had no idea what his response would be and she had no intention of finding out.

‘Sierra?’ He leaned forward, covering her hand with his own. She realised she was trembling and she strove for control.

‘Like I said, the past is in the past, Marco. I don’t need to be part of Rocci Enterprises. I left it behind when I left Sicily.’ She forced a smile, small and polite, definitely strained. ‘But, as I said, thank you for thinking of me.’

His hand still rested on hers; it felt warm and strong. Comforting, even if it shouldn’t be. Even if she still didn’t understand or trust this man. She didn’t pull away.

* * *

Confused frustration surged through him as Marco gazed at Sierra, tried to figure out what she was thinking. His magnanimous approach had clearly failed. He’d hoped that Sierra would embrace his suggestion, that she’d be glad to have a chance to mend a few bridges, be a Rocci again. More fool him.

He sat back, letting go of her hand, noticing the loss even as his mind raced for another way forward. ‘You don’t seem to bear much good will for Rocci Enterprises,’ he remarked, ‘even though you were obviously close to your family at one time.’

Her mouth twisted. ‘I don’t feel anything for Rocci Enterprises,’ she said flatly. ‘I was never part of it.’

‘You were at every hotel opening—’

‘For show.’ She turned away, her expression closing, her gaze downcast so he could see her blond lashes fanning her cheeks.

‘For show?’ He disliked the thought instinctively. ‘It looked real to me.’

‘It was meant to.’

‘What are you saying? I know your parents loved you very much, Sierra. I saw how they reacted when you left. They were devastated, both of them. Your father couldn’t speak of you without tears coming into his eyes. And you never even wrote them a letter to say you were safe.’ His voice throbbed with intensity, with accusation, and Sierra noticed. Her gaze narrowed and her lips pursed.

‘You don’t think my father could have found me if he wanted?’

‘Of course he could have. He was a very powerful man.’

‘So why do you think he didn’t?’

Marco hesitated, trying to assess Sierra’s tone, her mood. ‘Sierra,’ he said finally, ‘I am under no illusions about your father. He was a proud and sometimes ruthless man, but he was honourable. Good.’ Sierra pressed her lips together and said nothing. ‘You hurt him very much by leaving. Even if he’d never admit it.’

‘Of course.’ She shook her head. ‘Why did you ask me to come to New York?’ she said. ‘Really?’

Unease spiked in his gut. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you’re not telling me the truth. Not the whole truth,’ she amended when he opened his mouth to object. ‘Just like always. This isn’t some act of chivalry, is it, Marco? It isn’t some benevolent impulse you’ve had out of the goodness of your heart.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I almost bought it. I almost bought the whole act, because I was almost so stupid. Again.’

‘Again?’

‘I trusted you seven years ago—’

‘I wasn’t the one who betrayed a trust,’ Marco snapped.

Sierra leaned forward, her eyes glittering icy-blue now, two slits of arctic rage. ‘And you say you’re not angry any more? Why are you here? Why am I here?’ She folded her arms, levelling him with her glare. ‘What do you really want from me?’