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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MARCO COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d felt so furious—and so afraid. He’d come up to the penthouse suite expecting to see Sierra still lounging in bed, waiting for him. Instead, the place had been echoing and empty, and when he’d called downstairs the concierge had said she’d left hours ago.

He’d paced the penthouse for a quarter of an hour, trying to stifle his panic and anger, but rational thought was hard when so many memories kept crowding in. He told himself she hadn’t taken her clothes and that she wouldn’t just leave.

But she’d taken hardly anything when she’d left the night before his wedding. And the possibility that she might have skipped out on him again made everything in him clench. Damn it, he would be the one to say when they were done. And it wasn’t yet.

‘Well?’ he demanded while she simply stared at him. ‘Do you have an answer?’

‘No,’ Sierra stated clearly, her voice so very cold, and she stalked past him.

Marco whirled around, disbelieving. ‘No? You’re gone for hours and you can’t even tell me where you went?’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything, Marco,’ Sierra tossed over her shoulder. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’

‘How about an explanation?’

She walked up the spiral stairs, one hand on the railing, her head held high. ‘Not even that.’

Marco followed her up the stairs and into the bedroom and then watched in disbelief as she took out her suitcase and started putting clothes into it.

‘You’re packing?’

She gave him a grim smile. ‘It looks like it, doesn’t it?’

‘For LA?’

She stilled and then raised her head, her gaze clear and direct. ‘No. For London.’

Fury and hurt coursed through him, choking him so he could barely speak. He didn’t want to feel hurt; anger was stronger. ‘Damn it, Sierra,’ he exclaimed. He raised his hand to do what, he didn’t know—touch her shoulder, beseech her somehow—but he stilled when she instinctively flinched as if she’d expected him to strike her.

‘Sierra?’ His voice was low, her name a question.

She straightened, her expression erased of the cringing fear he’d seen for one alarming second. ‘I’m going.’

Marco watched her for a few moments, forcing himself to be calm. He’d overreacted; he could see that now. ‘Were you planning on returning to London before you got back to the penthouse?’ he asked quietly.

She gave him another one of those direct looks that cut right to his heart. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. ‘I’m sorry I was so angry.’

She made a tiny shrugging gesture, as if it was of no importance, and yet Marco knew instinctively that it was. ‘You flinched just then, almost as if...’ He didn’t want to voice the suspicion lurking in the dark corners of his mind. And maybe that flinch had been a moment’s instinctive reaction, and yet...she’d had such a look on her face, one of terrible fear.

‘Almost as if what?’ Sierra asked, and it sounded like a challenge.

‘Almost as if you expected me to...’ He swallowed hard. ‘Hit you.’

‘I wasn’t,’ she said after a moment. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘But old habits die hard, I suppose.’

‘What do you mean?’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘There’s no point having this conversation.’

‘How can you say that? This might be the most important conversation we’ve ever had.’

‘Oh, Marco.’ She looked up at him, and everything in him jolted at the look of weary sorrow in her eyes. ‘I wish it could be, but...’ She trailed off, biting her lip.

‘What do you mean? What aren’t you telling me?’ She didn’t answer and he forced himself not to take a step towards her, not to raise his voice or seem threatening in any way. ‘Sierra, did a man...did a man ever hit you?’

The silence following his question seemed endless. Marco felt as if he could scarcely breathe.

Finally Sierra looked up, resignation in every weary line of her lovely face. ‘Yes,’ she said and then Marco felt a fury like none he’d known before—this time at this unknown man who had dared to hurt and abuse her. He’d kill the bastard.

‘Who?’ he demanded. ‘A boyfriend...?’

‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘My father.’

* * *

Sierra watched Marco blink, his jaw slackening, as he stared at her in obvious disbelief. She kept packing. Having him yell at her like that had been the wake-up call she needed, and in that moment she’d realised why she’d felt so uneasy earlier, when Marco had left her alone in the suite. She was turning into her mother. Dropping her own life at a man’s request, living for his pleasure. There was no way she was walking even one step down that road, and when Marco had shouted at her, looking so angry, Sierra had realised the trap she’d been just about to step into. Thank God she’d realised before it was too late...even if the thought of leaving Marco made her insides twist with grief.

‘Your father?’ Marco repeated hoarsely. ‘Arturo? No.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me.’

He was shaking his head slowly, looking utterly winded. Sierra almost felt sorry for him.

‘But...’ he began, and then stopped. She reached for the dress she’d worn to the opening yesterday. ‘Sierra, wait.’ He grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly, and she went completely still.

He stared at her for a moment, his face white, and then he let her go and backed away, his hands raised like a man about to be arrested. ‘You know I would never, ever hurt you.’

‘I know that,’ she said quietly. She believed it but even with that head knowledge she couldn’t keep from fearing. Trust was a hard, hard thing.

Slowly, Marco dropped his hands. Sierra resumed packing. He watched her for several moments and his scrutiny made her hands tremble as she tried to fold her clothes. ‘Do you mind?’ she finally asked, and to her irritation her voice shook.

‘What did you mean—that he hit you?’ Marco asked.

‘Does it really need explaining?’

‘Sierra, your father was as good as my father. I loved him. I trusted him. Yes, it needs explaining.’ His voice came out harsh, grating, and she forced herself not to flinch.

‘Then let me explain it for you,’ she said coolly. She was surprised at how much a relief it was to tell him the truth. She’d been keeping this secret for far too long, first out of fear that he wouldn’t believe her, and then because she hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Both reasons seemed like pathetic excuses now. ‘My father hit me,’ Sierra stated clearly. ‘Often. He hit my mother, too. He played the doting father and adoring husband for the public, but in private he heaped physical and emotional abuse on us. Slaps, pinches, punches, the lot. And the words...the insults, the sneers, the mockery.’ She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes as a lump formed in her throat. ‘My mother loved him anyway. I’ve never been able to understand that. She loved him and wouldn’t hear a word against him, although she always tried to protect me from his anger.’

Marco was shaking his head, his body language refuting every word she’d said. ‘No...’

‘I don’t care if you believe me or not,’ Sierra said, even though she knew that for a lie. She did care. Far too much. ‘But at least now I’ve said it. Now you know, even if you don’t want to.’

She closed her suitcase, struggling with the zip. Marco placed a hand on top of the case. ‘Please, Sierra, don’t go like this.’

‘Why should I stay?’

‘Because I want you to stay. Because we’ve been having a fantastic time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, this is a tremendous shock to me. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but give me a few moments to absorb it. Please.’

Slowly Sierra nodded. She could see the sense in what he was staying, even if her instinct was to run. And in truth there was a part of her, a large part, that didn’t want to leave. ‘Okay,’ she said, and then waited.

A full minute passed in silence. Finally Marco said hesitantly, ‘Why...why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Would you have believed me? You hated me, Marco.’ It hurt to remind him of that.

‘I mean before.’ The look he gave her was full of confusion and pain, and it made guilt flash through her like a streak of lightning. ‘When we were engaged.’

‘Even then you were his right-hand man.’

‘But you were going to marry me. How could we have had a marriage, with such a secret between us?’

‘I realised we couldn’t.’

‘Your father is why you left?’ Marco stared at her in disbelief, his jaw tight.

‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose.’

‘I don’t understand, Sierra.’ He raked his hands through his hair and even now, in the midst of all this confusion and misery, Sierra watched him with longing. Those muscled arms had held her so tenderly. She’d nestled against that chiselled chest, had kissed his salty skin. She averted her gaze from him. ‘Please help me to understand,’ Marco said, and underneath the sadness Sierra heard a note of frustration, even anger, and she tensed.

‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

‘Anything. Something. Why did you agree to marry me?’ The question rang out, echoing through the suite.

Sierra took a deep breath and met his gaze. ‘To get away from my father.’

Marco’s face paled as his jaw bunched. Sierra kept herself from flinching even though she could tell he was angry. She didn’t completely understand why, but she felt it emanating from his taut body. ‘That’s the only reason?’ he asked in a low voice.

Wordlessly she nodded, and then she watched as Marco turned and strode from the bedroom. Alone, she sank onto the bed, her legs suddenly feeling weak. Everything feeling weak. She felt nearer to tears now than she had a few moments ago, and why? Because she’d lost Marco? It was better this way, and in any case she’d never really had him. Not like that.

But it still felt like a loss, a gaping wound that was bleeding out. Another deep breath and Sierra turned to her suitcase. She struggled with the zip, but she finally got it closed. And then she sat there, having no idea what to do. Where to go, if anywhere.

After a few moments she worked up the nerve to lug her suitcase down the spiral staircase. Marco stood in the living room, his back to her as he stared out at the darkened city. She hesitated on the bottom step because now that she was here, she didn’t really want to go. Walk out like she did once before, into a dark night, an unknown future.

Yet how could she stay?

The step creaked beneath her and Marco turned around, his dark eyebrows snapping together as he saw her clutching the handle of her suitcase. ‘You’re still planning to go?’ he asked, his voice harsh.

‘I don’t know what to do, Marco.’ She hated the wobble in her voice and she blinked rapidly. Marco swore under his breath and strode towards her.

‘Sierra, cara, I’ve been an utter ass. Please forgive me.’

It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. He took the suitcase from her and put it on the floor. Then he stretched out his hands beseechingly, his face a plea. ‘Don’t go, Sierra. Please. Not yet. Not till I understand. Not till we’ve made this right.’

‘How can we? I know what my father meant to you, and I hate him, hate him—’ She broke off, weeping, half amazed at the emotion that suddenly burst from her, tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘I always have,’ she continued, but then her voice was lost to sobs, her shoulders shaking, and Marco had enfolded her in his arms.

She pressed her face into his hard chest as he stroked his hand down her back and murmured nonsense endearments. She hadn’t realised she had so many tears left in her and, more than just tears, a deep welling of grief and sorrow, not just for the father she’d had, but for the father she’d never had. For the years of loneliness and fear and frustration. For the fact that even now, seven years on, she was afraid to trust someone. To love someone, and the result was this brokenness, this feeling that she might never be whole.

‘I’m sorry,’ she finally managed, pulling away from him a bit to swipe at her damp cheeks. Now that the first storm of crying had passed, she felt embarrassed by her emotional display. ‘I didn’t mean to fall apart...’

‘Nonsense. You needed to cry. You have suffered, Sierra, more than I could ever imagine. More than I ever knew.’ Sierra heard the sharp note of self-recrimination in Marco’s voice and wondered at it. ‘Come, let us sit down.’

He guided her to one of the leather sofas and pulled her down next to him, his arm around her shoulders so she was still nestled against him, safe in his arms. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

‘Will you tell me?’ Marco finally asked.

Sierra drew a shuddering breath. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything.’

‘I don’t know where to begin.’

He nestled her closer to him, settling them both more comfortably. ‘Begin wherever you want to, Sierra,’ he said quietly.

After a moment she started talking, searching for each word, finding her way slowly. She told him how the first time her father hit her she was four years old, a slap across the face, and she hadn’t understood what she’d done wrong. It had taken her decades to realise the answer to that question: nothing.

She told him about how kind and jovial he could be, throwing her up in the air, calling her his princess, showering her and her mother with gifts. ‘It wasn’t until I was much older that I realised he only treated us that way when someone was watching.’

‘And when you were alone?’ Marco asked in a low voice. ‘Always...?’

‘Often enough so that I tried to hide from him, but that angered him, too. No monster likes to see his reflection.’

‘And when you were older?’

‘I knew I needed to get away. My mother would never leave him. I begged her to, but she refused. She’d get quite angry with me because she loved him.’ Sierra shook her head slowly. ‘I’ve never understood that. I know he could be charming and he was handsome, but the way he treated her...’ Her voice choked and she sniffed loudly.

‘So why didn’t you run away? When you were older?’

She let out an abrupt yet weary laugh. ‘You make it sound so simple.’

‘I don’t mean to,’ Marco answered. ‘I just want to understand. It all seems so difficult to believe.’

How difficult? Sierra wondered. Did he believe her? Or even now did he doubt? The possibility was enough to make her fall silent. Marco touched her chin with his finger, turning her face so she had to look at him.

‘I didn’t mean it like that, Sierra.’

‘Do you believe me?’ she blurted. The question felt far too revealing, and even worse was Marco’s silence after she’d asked it.

‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Of course I do. But I don’t want to.’

‘Because you loved him.’

Marco nodded, his expression shuttered, his jaw tight. ‘You know how I told you my own father left? He was hardly around to begin with, and then one day he just never came back. And my mother...’ He paused, and curiosity flared within the misery that had swamped her.

‘Your mother?’

‘It doesn’t matter. What I meant to say is that Arturo was the closest thing to a father that I ever had. I told you how I was working as a bellboy when he noticed me... I would have spent my life heaving suitcases if not for him. He took me out for a drink, told me he could tell I had ambition and drive. Then he gave me a job as an office junior when I was seventeen. Within a few years he’d promoted me, and you know the rest.’ He sighed, his arm still around her. ‘And all the while he’d encourage me, listen to me...accept me in a way my father never did. To now realise this man I held in such high esteem was...was what you say he was...’ Marco’s voice turned hoarse. ‘It hurts to believe it. But I do.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘You don’t need to thank me, Sierra.’ He paused, and Sierra could tell he was searching for words. ‘So you wanted to escape. Why did you choose me?’

‘My father chose you,’ Sierra returned. ‘I was under no illusion about that, although I flattered myself to think I had a bit more discernment and control than I actually did.’ She let out a sad, soft laugh. ‘Do you know what convinced me, Marco? I saw you stroking a cat, the day I met you. You were in the courtyard, waiting to come in, and one of the street cats wound its way between your legs. You bent down and stroked it. My father would have kicked it away. In that moment I believed you were a gentle man.’

‘You sound,’ Marco said after a moment, ‘as if you now think you were wrong.’

‘No, I...’ She stopped, biting her lip. It was so difficult to separate what she’d felt then and what she felt now. ‘I was going to marry you for the wrong reasons, Marco, back then. I realised that the night before our wedding. No matter what is between us now—and I know it’s just a fling—it would have never worked back then. I needed to find my own way, become my own person.’

‘So what happened that night?’ Marco asked. ‘Really?’ He sounded as if he were struggling with some emotion, perhaps anger. Sierra could feel how tense his body was.

‘Just what I told you. I overheard you talking with my father. I realised just how close you were. I...I hadn’t quite realised it before. And then I heard my father give you that awful advice.’

‘“I know how to handle her”,’ Marco repeated flatly. ‘I see now why that would have alarmed you, but...couldn’t you have asked me, Sierra?’

‘And what would I ask, exactly?’ The first note of temper entered her voice. ‘“Will you ever hit me, Marco?” That’s not exactly a question someone will answer honestly.’

‘I would have.’

‘I wouldn’t have believed you. That’s what I realised that night, Marco. I was taking too great a risk. It was about me as much as it was about you.’

‘So you ran away, just as you could have done before we’d ever become engaged.’

‘Not exactly. My mother helped me. When I told her I didn’t love you...’ Sierra trailed off uncertainly. Of course Marco knew she hadn’t loved him then. He hadn’t loved her. And yet it sounded so cold now.

‘Yes? When you told her that, what did she do?’

‘She gave me some money,’ Sierra whispered. ‘And the name of a friend in England I could go to.’

‘And you just walked out into the night? Into Palermo?’

‘Yes. I was terrified.’ She swallowed hard, the memories swarming her. ‘Utterly terrified. I’d never been out alone in the city—any city—before. But I hailed a taxi and went to the docks. I waited the rest of the night in the ferry office, and then I took the first boat to the mainland.’

‘And then to England? That must have been quite a journey.’ Marco didn’t sound impressed so much as incredulous.

‘Yes, it was. I took endless trains, and then I was spat out in London with barely enough English to make myself understood. I got lost on the Tube and someone tried to pickpocket me. And when I went to find my mother’s friend, she’d moved house. I spent a night at a women’s shelter and then used a computer in a library to locate the new address of my mother’s friend, and she finally took me in.’

‘So much effort to get away from me,’ Marco remarked tonelessly and Sierra jerked away from him.

‘No, to get away from my father. It wasn’t about you, Marco. I keep telling you that.’

He gazed at her with eyes the colour of steel, his mouth a hard line. ‘How can you say that, Sierra? It most certainly was about me. Yes, it was about your father, as well, I understand that. But if you’d known me at all, if you’d trusted me at all, you would never have had to go to London.’

She recognised the truth of his words even if she didn’t want to. ‘Understandably,’ she answered stiffly, ‘I have had difficulties with trusting people, especially men.’

Marco sighed, the sound one of defeat, his shoulders slumping. ‘Understandably,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Yes.’

Sierra stood up, pacing the room, her arms wrapped around her body. Suddenly she felt cold. She had no idea if what she’d told Marco changed things. Then she realised that of course it changed things; she had no idea how much.

‘What now?’ she finally asked, and she turned to face him. He was still sitting on the sofa, watching her, his expression bland. ‘Should I leave?’ she forced herself to ask. ‘I can go back to London tonight.’

Marco didn’t look away; he didn’t so much as blink. ‘Is that what you want?’

Was it? Her heart hammered and her mouth went dry. Here was a moment when she could try to trust. When she could leap out and see if he caught her. If he wanted to. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It isn’t.’

Marco looked startled, and then a look of such naked relief passed over his face that Sierra sagged with a deep relief of her own.

He rose from the sofa and crossed the room, pulling her into his arms. ‘Good,’ he said, and kissed her.