‘Why did you want to marry me?’

Marco stared at her for a moment, furious that he felt cornered. Damn it, how dared she ask him—accuse him—when she was the one who should be called to account? What did it matter why he’d married her when she’d agreed?

Sierra had moved closer to the fire, and the flames cast dancing shadows across her face. She looked utterly delectable wearing his too-big clothes. The belt she’d cinched at her waist showed off its narrowness and the high, proud curve of her breasts. He remembered the feel of them in his hands when he’d given his desire free rein for a few intensely exquisite moments.

That memory had the power to stir the embers of his desire, and he turned away from her, willing the memories and the emotion back. He didn’t want to feel anything for Sierra Rocci now. Not even simple lust.

‘Damn it, Sierra, you have some nerve, asking me why I behaved the way I did. You’re the one who chose to leave without so much as a note.’

‘I know.’

‘And you still haven’t given me a reason why. Don’t you think I deserve an explanation? Your parents are no longer alive to hear why you abandoned them, but I am.’ His voice hardened, rose. ‘So why don’t you just tell me the truth?’

After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, KATE HEWITT now lives in a small village in the English Lake District with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories, she loves reading, baking and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com.

Inherited by Ferranti

Kate Hewitt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

TOMORROW WAS HER wedding day. Sierra Rocci gazed at the fluffy white meringue of a dress hanging from her wardrobe door and tried to suppress the rush of nerves that seethed in her stomach and fluttered up her throat. She was doing the right thing. She had to be. She had no other choice.

Pressing one hand to her jumpy middle, she turned to look out of the window at the darkened gardens of her father’s villa on the Via Marinai Alliata in Palermo. The summer night was still and hot, without even a breath of wind to make the leaves of the plane trees in the garden rattle. The stillness felt expectant, even eerie, and she tried to shake off her nervousness; she’d chosen this.

Earlier that night she’d dined with her parents and Marco Ferranti, the man she was going to marry. They’d chatted easily, and Marco’s gaze had rested on her like a caress, a promise. She could trust this man, she’d told herself. She had to. In less than twenty-four hours she would promise to love, honour and obey him. Her life would be in his hands.

She knew the hard price of obedience. She prayed Marco truly was a gentle man. He’d been kind to her so far, in the three months of their courtship. Gentle and patient, never punishing or pushing, except perhaps for that one time, when they’d gone for a walk in the gardens and he’d kissed her in the shadow of a plane tree, his mouth hard and insistent and surprisingly exciting on hers.

Another leap in her belly, and this was a whole different kind of fear. She was nineteen years old, and she’d only been kissed by her fiancé a handful of times. She was utterly inexperienced when it came to what happened in the bedroom, but Marco had told her, when he’d stopped his shockingly delicious onslaught under the plane tree, that he would be patient and gentle when it came to their wedding night.

She believed him. She’d chosen to believe him—an act of will, a step towards securing her future, her freedom. And yet... Sierra’s unfocused gaze rested on the darkened gardens as nerves leapt and writhed inside her and doubt crept into the dark corners of her heart, sly and insidious as that old serpent. Did she really know Marco Ferranti? When she’d first glimpsed him in the courtyard of her father’s palazzo, she’d watched as one of the kitchen cats had wound its scrawny body around Marco’s legs. He’d bent down and stroked the cat’s ears and the animal had purred and rubbed against him. Her father would have kicked the cat away, insist its kittens be drowned. Seeing Marco exhibit a moment of unthinking kindness when he thought no one was looking had lit the spark of hope inside Sierra’s heart.

She knew her father approved of the marriage between her and Marco; she was not so naïve not to realise that it was his strong hand that had pushed Marco towards her. But she’d encouraged Marco; she’d made a choice. As much as was possible, she’d controlled her own destiny.

On that first evening he’d introduced himself, and then later he had asked her out to dinner. He’d wooed her gently, always courteous, even tender. She wasn’t in love with him; she had no interest in that deceitful, dangerous emotion, but she wanted a way out of her father’s house and marriage to Marco Ferranti would provide it...if she could truly trust him. She would find out tomorrow, when the vows were said, when the bedroom door closed...

Heaven help her. Sierra bit her knuckles as a fresh wave of fear broke coldly over her. Could she really do this? How could she not? To back out now would be to incur her father’s endless wrath. She was marrying in order to be free, and yet she was not free to cry off. Perhaps she would never be truly free. But what other choice was there for a girl like her, nineteen years old and completely cut off from society, from life? Sheltered and trapped.

From below she heard the low rumble of her father’s voice. Although she couldn’t make out the words, just the sound of his voice had her tensing, alarm prickling the nape of her neck. And then she heard Marco answer, his voice as low as her father’s and yet somehow warm. She’d liked his voice the first time she’d heard it, when he’d been introduced to her. She’d liked his smile, too, the quirking of one corner of his mouth, the slow way it lit up his face. She’d trusted him instinctively, even though he worked for her father. Even though he was a man of great power and charm, just as her father was. She’d convinced herself he was different. But what if she’d been wrong?

Before she could lose her nerve Sierra slipped out of her bedroom and hurried halfway down the front stairs, the white marble cold under her bare feet. She paused on the landing, out of view of the men in the foyer below, and strained to listen.

‘I am glad to welcome you into my family as a true son.’ Her father was at his best, charming and authoritative, a benevolent papà, brimming with good will.

‘And I am glad to be so welcomed.’

Sierra heard the sound of her father slapping Marco’s back and then his good-humoured chuckle. She knew that sound so well. She knew how false it was.

‘Bene, Marco. As long as you know how to handle Sierra. A woman needs a firm hand to guide her. Don’t be too gentle or they get notions. You can’t have that.’ The words were abhorrent and yet so terribly familiar, the tone gentle, almost amused, her father as assured as ever and completely in control.

Every muscle in Sierra’s body seemed to turn to iron as she waited for Marco’s response.

‘Don’t worry, signor,’ Marco said. ‘I know how to handle her.’

Sierra shrank back against the wall, horror and fear churning inside her. I know how to handle her. Did he really think that way, like her father did? That she was some beast to be guided and tamed into subservience?

‘Of course you do,’ Arturo Rocci said, his voice smug with satisfaction. ‘I’ve groomed you myself, chosen you as my son. This is what I wanted, and I could not be more pleased. I have no doubts about you, Marco.’

‘You honour me, signor.’

‘Papà, Marco. You may call me Papà.’

Sierra peeked around the edge of the landing and saw the two men embracing. Then her father gave Marco one more back slap before disappearing down the corridor, towards his study.

Sierra watched Marco, a faint smile curving that mobile mouth, the sharp angle of his jaw darkened with five o’clock shadow, his silvery-grey eyes hooded and sleepy. He’d loosened his tie and shed his suit jacket, and he looked rumpled and tired and overwhelmingly male. Sexy.

But there was nothing sexy about what he’d just said. Nothing romantic or loving or remotely attractive about a man who thought women needed to be handled. Her stomach clenched hard with fear and, underneath, anger. Anger at Marco Ferranti, for clearly thinking as her father did, and anger at herself for being so naïve to think she actually knew a man after just three months, a handful of arranged dates, all of them carefully orchestrated evenings where Marco was at his best, guiding her gently towards the inevitable conclusion. She’d thought she’d chosen him, but now she wondered how well she’d been manipulated. Handled. Perhaps her fiancé was as false as her father, presenting a front she wanted to see while disguising the true man underneath. Would she ever know? Yes, when it was too late. When she was married to him and had no way to escape.

‘Sierra?’ Marco’s silvery gaze flicked upwards, one eyebrow lifted as he gazed at her peeking around the landing, his faint smile deepening, revealing a dimple in one cheek. When Sierra had first seen that dimple it had made him seem friendlier. Kinder. She’d liked him more because of a dimple. She felt like such a child, naïve to the point of stupidity, thinking she’d wrested some control for herself when in fact she’d been the merest puppet.

‘What are you doing hiding up there?’ he asked, and he stretched one hand towards her.

‘I...’ Sierra licked dry lips as her mind spun. She could not think of a single thing to say. The only thing she could hear on an endless, awful reel was Marco’s assured, indulgent words. I know how to handle her.

Marco glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after midnight, so technically I suppose I shouldn’t see you. It’s our wedding day, after all.’

Wedding day. In just a few hours she would marry this man. She would promise to love him. To honour and obey him...

I know how to handle her.

‘Sierra?’ Marco asked, concern sharpening his voice. ‘Is something wrong?’

Everything was wrong. Everything had been wrong for ever, and she’d actually thought she’d been fixing it. She’d thought she was finally escaping, that she was choosing her own destiny. The thought seemed laughable now. How could she have fooled herself for so long? ‘Sierra?’ Impatience edged his voice now, and Sierra heard it. Heard how quickly the façade of concern fell away, revealed the true man underneath. Just as it did with her father.

‘I’m only tired,’ she whispered. Marco beckoned her towards him and on shaking legs she came down the stairs and stood before him, trying not to tremble. Not to show her fear. It was one small act of defiance she’d nurtured for most of her life, because she knew it infuriated her father. He wanted his women to cower and cringe. And Sierra had done her fair share of both, to her shame, over the years. But when she had the strength to stand tall, to act cool and composed, she did. Cloaking herself in numbness had been a way of coping since she was small. She was glad of it now.

Marco cupped her cheek with one hand. His palm was warm and dry and even now the tender gesture sent sparks shooting through her belly, and her legs shook.

‘It’s not long now,’ he murmured, and his thumb brushed her lips. His expression was tender, but Sierra couldn’t trust it any more. ‘Are you nervous, little one?’

She was terrified. Wordlessly she shook her head. Marco chuckled, the sound indulgent, perhaps patronising. The assumptions she’d made about this man were proving to be just that: assumptions. She didn’t really know who he was, what he was capable of. He’d been kind to her, yes, but what if it had just been an act, just like her father’s kindness in public was? Marco smiled down at her, his dimple showing. ‘Are you certain about that, mi amore?’

Mi amore. My love. But Marco Ferranti didn’t love her. He’d never said he did, and she didn’t even want him to. Looking back, she could see how expedient their relationship had been. A family dinner that led to a walk in the gardens that led to a proper date that led to a proposal. It had been a systematic procedure orchestrated by this man—and her father. And she hadn’t realised, not completely. She’d thought she’d had some say in the proceedings, but now she wondered at how well she’d been manipulated. Used.

‘I’m all right, Marco.’ Her voice came out in a breathy whisper, and it took all the strength she possessed to step away from him so his hand dropped from her cheek. He frowned, and she wondered if he didn’t like her taking even that paltry amount of control. She’d let him dictate everything in the three months of their courtship, she realised now. When and where they went, what they talked about—everything had been decided by him. She’d been so desperate to get away, and she’d convinced herself he was a kind man.

‘One last kiss,’ Marco murmured and before Sierra could think to step farther away he was pulling her towards him, his hands sliding up to cup her face as his lips came down on hers. Hard and soft. Hot and cold. A thousand sensations shivered through her as her lips parted helplessly. Longing and joy. Fear and desire. All of the emotions tangled up together so she couldn’t tell them apart. Her hands fisted in his shirt and she stood on her tiptoes to bring his body closer to hers, unable to keep herself from it, not realising how revealing her response was until Marco chuckled and eased her away from him.

‘There will be plenty of time later,’ he promised her. ‘Tomorrow night.’

When they were wed. Sierra pressed her fingers to her lips and Marco smiled, satisfied by her obvious response.

‘Goodnight, Sierra,’ he said softly, and Sierra managed to choke out a response.

‘Goodnight.’ She turned and hurried up the stairs, not daring to look back, knowing Marco was watching her.

In the quiet darkness of the upstairs hallway she pressed a hand to her thundering heart. Hated herself, hated Marco, for they were both to blame. She never should have let this happen. She should have never thought she could escape.

Sierra hurried down the hallway to the far wing of the house, knocking softly on the door of her mother’s bedroom.

Violet Rocci opened the door a crack, her eyes wide with apprehension. She relaxed visibly when she saw it was Sierra, and opened the door wider to let her daughter in.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘Papà’s downstairs.’

‘Even so.’ Violet clutched the folds of her silk dressing gown together, her face pale with worry and strain. Twenty years ago she’d been a beautiful young woman, a world-class pianist who played in London’s best concert halls, on the cusp of major fame. Then she’d married Arturo Rocci and virtually disappeared from the public, losing herself in the process.

‘Mamma...’ Sierra stared helplessly at her mother. ‘I think I may have made a mistake.’

Violet drew her breath in sharply. ‘Marco?’ Sierra nodded. ‘But you love him...’ Even after twenty years of living with Arturo Rocci, cringing under his hand, Violet believed in love. She loved her husband desperately, and it had been her destruction.

‘I’ve never loved him, Mamma.’

‘What?’ Violet shook her head. ‘But Sierra, you said...’

‘I trusted him. I thought he was gentle. But the only reason I wanted to marry him was to escape...’ Even now she couldn’t say it. Escape Papà. She knew the words would hurt her mother; Violet hid from the truth as much as she could.

‘And now?’ Violet asked after a moment, her voice low.

‘And now I don’t know.’ Sierra paced the room, the anxiety inside her like a spring that coiled tighter and tighter. ‘I realise I don’t know him at all.’

‘The wedding is tomorrow, Sierra.’ Violet turned away from her, her hand trembling at the throat of her dressing gown. ‘What can you do? Everything has been arranged—’

‘I know.’ Sierra closed her eyes as regret rushed through her in a scalding wave. ‘I’m afraid I have been very stupid.’ She opened her eyes as she blinked back useless tears and set her jaw. ‘I know there’s nothing I can do. I have to marry him.’ Powerlessness was a familiar feeling. Heavy and leaden, a mantle that had weighed her down for far too long. Yet she’d made her own trap this time. In the end she had no one to blame but herself. She’d agreed to Marco’s proposal.

‘There might be a way.’

Sierra glanced at her mother in surprise; Violet’s face was pale, her eyes glittering with uncharacteristic determination. ‘Mamma...’

‘If you are certain that you cannot go through with it...’

‘Certain?’ Sierra shook her head. ‘I’m not certain of anything. Maybe he is a good man...’ A man who was marrying her for the sake of Rocci Enterprises? A man who worked hand in glove with her father and insisted he knew how to handle her?

‘But,’ Violet said, ‘you do not love him.’

Sierra thought of Marco’s gentle smile, the press of his lips. Then she thought of her mother’s desperate love for her father, despite his cruelty and abuse. She didn’t love Marco Ferranti. She didn’t want to love anyone. ‘No, I don’t love him.’

‘Then you must not marry him, Sierra. God knows a woman can suffer much for the sake of love, but without it...’ She pressed her lips together, shaking her head, and questions burned in Sierra’s chest, threatened to bubble up her throat. How could her mother love her father, after everything he’d done? After everything she and her mother had both endured? And yet Sierra knew she did.

‘What can I do, Mamma?’

Violet drew a ragged breath. ‘Escape. Properly. I would have suggested it earlier, but I thought you loved him. I’ve only wanted your happiness, darling. I hope you can believe that.’

‘I do believe it, Mamma.’ Her mother was a weak woman, battered into defeated submission by life’s hardships and Arturo Rocci’s hand. Yet Sierra had never doubted her mother’s love for her.

Violet pressed her lips together, gave one quick nod. ‘Then you must go, quickly. Tonight.’

‘Tonight...?’

‘Yes.’ Swiftly, her mother went to her bureau and opened a drawer, reached behind the froth of lingerie to an envelope hidden in the back of the drawer. ‘It’s all I have. I’ve been saving it over the years, in case...’

‘But how?’ Numbly, Sierra took the envelope her mother offered her; it was thick with euros.

‘Your father gives me housekeeping money every week,’ Violet said. Spots of colour had appeared high on each delicate cheekbone, and Sierra felt a stab of pity. She knew her mother was ashamed of how tied she was to her husband, how firmly under his thumb. ‘I rarely spend it. And so over the years I’ve managed to save. Not much...a thousand euros maybe, at most. But enough to get you from here.’

Hope and fear blazed within her, each as strong as the other. ‘But where would I go?’ She’d never considered such a thing—a proper escape, unencumbered, independent, truly free. The possibility was intoxicating and yet terrifying; she’d spent her childhood in a villa in the country, her adolescent years at a strict convent school. She had no experience of anything, and she knew it.

‘Take the ferry to the mainland, and then the train to Rome. From there to England.’

‘England...’ The land of her mother’s birth.

‘I have a friend, Mary Bertram,’ Violet whispered. ‘I have not spoken to her in many years, not since...’ Since she’d married Arturo Rocci twenty years ago. Wordlessly, Sierra nodded her understanding. ‘She did not want me to marry,’ Violet said, her voice so low now Sierra strained to hear it, even when she was standing right next to her mother. ‘She didn’t trust him. But she told me if anything happened, her door would always be open.’

‘You know where she lives?’

‘I have her address from twenty years ago. I am afraid that is the best I can do.’

Sierra’s insides shook as she considered what she was about to do. She, who did not venture into Palermo without an escort, a guard. Who never handled money, who had never taken so much as a taxi. How could she do this?

How could she not? This was her only chance. Tomorrow she would marry Marco Ferranti, and if he was a man like her father, as his wife she would have no escape. No hope.

‘If I leave...’ she whispered, her voice thickening. She could not continue, but she didn’t need to.

‘You will not be able to return,’ Violet said flatly. ‘Your father would...’ She swallowed, shaking her head. ‘This will be goodbye.’

‘Come with me, Mamma—’

Violet’s expression hardened. ‘I can’t.’

‘Because you love him?’ The hurt spilled from her like a handful of broken glass, sharp and jagged with pain. ‘How can you love him, after everything...?’

‘Do not question my choices, Sierra.’ Violet’s face was pale, her mouth pinched tight. ‘But make your own.’

Her own choice. Freedom at last. Overwhelming, frightening freedom, more than she’d ever had before, more than she’d even know what to do with. Instead of shackling herself to a man, even a good man, she would be her own person. Free to choose, to live.

The realisation made her feel sick with fear, dizzy with hope. Sierra closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know, Mamma...’

‘I cannot choose for you, Sierra.’ Her mother brushed her cheek lightly with her fingertips. ‘Only you can decide your own destiny. But a marriage without love...’ Her mother swallowed hard. ‘I would not wish that on anyone.’

Not every man is like Arturo Rocci. Not every man is cruel, controlling, hard. Sierra swallowed down the words. Marco Ferranti might not be like her father, but he might very well be. After what she’d heard and realised tonight, she knew she couldn’t take the risk.

Her hand clenched on the envelope of euros. Violet nodded, seeing the decision made in Sierra’s face. ‘God go with you, Sierra.’

Sierra hugged her mother tightly, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Quickly now,’ Violet said, and Sierra hurried from the room. Down the hall to her own bedroom, the wedding dress hanging from the wardrobe like a ghost. She dressed quickly and then grabbed a bag and stuffed some clothes into it. Her hands shook.

The house was quiet, the night air still and silent. Sierra glanced at the violin case under her bed and hesitated. It would be difficult to bring, and yet...

Music had been her only solace for much of her life. Leaving her violin would be akin to leaving a piece of her soul. She grabbed the case and swung the holdall of clothes over her shoulder. And then she tiptoed downstairs, holding her breath, her heart pounding so hard her chest hurt. The front door was locked for the night, but Sierra slid the bolt from its hinges without so much as a squeak. From the study she heard her father shift in his chair, rustle some papers. For a terrible moment her heart stilled, suspended in her chest as she froze in terror.

Then he let out a sigh and she eased the door open slowly, so slowly, every second seeming to last an hour. She slipped through and closed it carefully behind her before glancing at the dark, empty street. She looked back at the house with its lit windows one last time before hurrying into the night.

CHAPTER TWO

Seven years later

‘SHE MIGHT NOT COME.’

Marco Ferranti turned from the window and his indifferent perusal of Palermo’s business district with a shrug. ‘She might not.’ He glanced at the lawyer seated behind the large mahogany desk and then strode from the window, every taut, controlled movement belying the restlessness inside him.

‘She didn’t come to her mother’s funeral,’ the lawyer, Roberto di Santis, reminded him cautiously.

Marco’s hands curled into fists and he unclenched them deliberately before shoving them into the pockets of his trousers and turning to face the man. ‘I know.’

Violet Rocci had died three years ago; cancer had stalked her and killed her in a handful of months. Sierra had not come back for her mother’s illness or funeral, despite Arturo’s beseeching requests. She had not even sent a letter or card, much to her father’s sorrow. The last time Marco had seen her had been the night before their wedding, when he’d kissed her and felt her trembling, passionate response.

The next morning he’d waited at the front of the church of Santa Caterina for his bride to process down the aisle. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Seven years later he was still waiting for Sierra Rocci to show up.

The lawyer shuffled some papers before clearing his throat noisily. He was nervous, impatient, wanting to get the ordeal of Arturo Rocci’s will over with. He’d assured Marco it was straightforward if uncomfortable; Marco had seen the document himself, before Arturo had died. He knew what it said. He didn’t think Sierra did, though, and he grimly looked forward to acquainting her with its details.

Surely she would come?

Marco had instructed the lawyer to contact her personally. Marco had known where Sierra was for a while; about five years ago, when the first tidal wave of rage had finally receded to a mist, he’d hired a private investigator to discover her whereabouts. He’d never contacted her, never wanted to. But he’d needed to know where she was, what had happened to her. The knowledge that she was living a seemingly quiet, unassuming life in London had not been satisfying in the least. Nothing was.

‘She said she would come, didn’t she?’ he demanded, although he already knew the answer.

When di Santis had called her at her home, she’d agreed to meet here, at the lawyer’s office, at ten o’clock on June fifteenth. It was now nearing half past.

‘Perhaps we should just begin...?’

‘No.’ Marco paced the room, back to the window where he gazed out at the snarl of traffic. ‘We’ll wait.’ He wanted to see Sierra’s face when the will was read. He wanted to see the expression in her eyes as realisation dawned of how much she’d lost, how much she’d sacrificed simply to get away from him.

‘If it pleases you, signor,’ di Santis murmured and Marco did not bother to answer.

Thirty seconds later the outer door to the building opened with a telling cautious creak; di Santis’s assistant murmured something, and then a knock sounded on the office door.

Every muscle in Marco’s body tensed; his nerves felt as if they were scraped raw, every sense on high alert. It had to be her.

‘Signor di Santis?’ the assistant murmured. ‘Signorina Rocci has arrived.’

Marco straightened, forcing himself to relax as Sierra came into the room. She looked exactly the same. The same long, dark blond hair, now pulled back into a sleek chignon, the same wide blue-grey eyes. The same lush mouth, the same tiny, kissable mole at its left corner. The same slender, willowy figure with gentle curves that even now he itched to touch.

Desire flared through him, a single, intense flame that he resolutely quenched.

Her gaze moved to him and then quickly away again, too fast for him to gauge her expression. She stood straight, her shoulders thrown back, her chin tilted at a proud, almost haughty angle. And then Marco realised that she was not the same.

She was seven years older, and he saw it in the faint lines by her eyes and mouth. He saw it in the clothing she wore, a charcoal-grey pencil skirt and a pale pink silk blouse. Sophisticated, elegant clothing for a woman, rather than the girlish dresses she’d worn seven years earlier.

But the inner sense of stillness he’d always admired she still possessed. The sense that no one could touch or affect her. He’d been drawn to that, after the tempest of his own childhood. He’d liked her almost unnatural sense of calm, her cool purpose. Even though she’d only been nineteen she’d seemed older, wiser. And yet so innocent.

‘Signorina Rocci. I’m so glad you could join us.’ Di Santis moved forward, hands outstretched. Sierra barely brushed her fingertips with his before she moved away, to one of the club chairs. She sat down, her back straight, her ankles crossed, ever the lady. She didn’t look at Marco.

He was looking at her, his stare burning. Marco jerked his gaze from Sierra and moved back to the window. Stared blindly out at the traffic that crawled down the Via Libertà.

‘Shall we begin?’ suggested di Santis, and Marco nodded. Sierra did not speak. ‘The will is, in point of fact, quite straightforward.’ Di Santis cleared his throat and Marco felt his body tense once more. He knew just how straightforward the will was. ‘Signor Rocci, that is, your father, signorina—’ he gave Sierra an abashed smile that Marco saw from the corner of his eye she did not return ‘—made his provisions quite clear.’ He paused, and Marco knew he was not relishing the task set before him.

Sierra sat with her hands folded in her lap, her chin held high, her gaze direct and yet giving nothing away. Her face looked like a perfect icy mask. ‘Could you please tell me what they are, Signor di Santis?’ she asked when di Santis seemed disinclined to continue.

The sound of her voice, after seven years’ silence, struck Marco like a fist to the gut. Suddenly he was breathless. Low, musical, clear. And yet without the innocent, childish hesitation of seven years ago. She spoke with an assurance she hadn’t possessed before, a confidence the years had given her, and somehow this knowledge felt like an insult, a slap in his face. She’d become someone else, someone stronger perhaps, without him.

‘Of course, Signorina Rocci.’ Di Santis gave another apologetic smile. ‘I can go through the particulars, but in essence your father left the bulk of his estate and business to Signor Ferranti.’

Marco swung his gaze to her pale face, waiting for her reaction. The shock, the regret, the acknowledgement of her own guilt, the realisation of how much she’d chosen to lose. Something.

He got nothing.

Sierra merely nodded, her face composed, expressionless. ‘The bulk?’ she clarified quietly. ‘But not all?’

At her question Marco felt a savage stab of rage, a fury he’d thought he’d put behind him years ago. So she was going to be mercenary? After abandoning her family and fiancé, offering no contact for seven long years despite her parents’ distress and grief and continued appeals, she still wanted to know how much she’d get.

‘No, not all, Signorina Rocci,’ di Santis said quietly. He looked embarrassed. ‘Your father left you some of your mother’s jewellery, some pieces passed down through her family.’

Sierra bowed her head, a strand of dark blond hair falling from her chignon to rest against her cheek. Marco couldn’t see her expression, couldn’t tell if she was overcome with remorse or rage at being left so little. Trinkets, Arturo had called them. A pearl necklace, a sapphire brooch. Nothing too valuable, but in his generosity Arturo had wanted his daughter to have her mother’s things.

Sierra raised her eyes and Marco saw that her eyes glistened with tears. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you have them here?’

‘I do...’ Di Santis fumbled for a velvet pouch on his desk. ‘Here they are. Your father left them into my safekeeping a while ago, when he realised...’ He trailed off, and Sierra made no response.

When he realised he was dying, Marco filled in silently. Had the woman no heart at all? She seemed utterly unmoved by the fact that both her parents had died in her absence, both their hearts broken by their daughter’s running away. The only thing that had brought her to tears was knowing she’d get nothing more than a handful of baubles.

‘They won’t be worth much, on the open market,’ Marco said. His voice came out loud and terse, each word bitten off. Sierra’s gaze moved to him and he felt a deep jolt in his chest at the way she looked at him, her gaze opaque and fathomless. As if she were looking at a complete stranger, and one she was utterly indifferent to.

‘Is there anything else I need to know?’ Sierra asked. She’d turned back to the lawyer, effectively dismissing Marco.

‘I can read the will in its entirety...’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Her voice was low, soft. ‘Thank you for my mother’s jewels.’ She rose from the chair in one elegantly fluid movement, and Marco realised she was leaving. After seven years of waiting, wondering, wanting a moment where it all finally made sense, he got nothing.

Sierra didn’t even look at him as she left the room.

* * *

Sierra’s breath came out in a shudder as she left the lawyer’s office. Her legs trembled and her hands were clenched so tightly around the little velvet pouch that her knuckles ached.

It wasn’t until she was out on the street that her breathing started to return to normal, and it took another twenty minutes of driving out of Palermo, navigating the endless snarl of traffic and knowing she’d left Marco Ferranti far behind, before she felt the tension begin to unknot from her shoulders.

The busy city streets gave way to dusty roads that wound up to the hill towns high above Palermo, the Mediterranean glittering blue-green as she drove towards the Nebrodi mountains, and the villa where her mother was buried. When di Santis had rung her, she’d thought about not going to Sicily at all, and then she’d thought about simply going to his office and returning to London on the very same day. She had nothing left in Sicily now.

But then she’d reminded herself that her father couldn’t hurt her any longer, that Sicily was a place of ghosts and memories, and not of threats. She’d forgotten about Marco Ferranti.

A trembling laugh escaped her as she shook her head wryly. She hadn’t forgotten about Marco; she didn’t think she could ever do that. She’d simply underestimated the effect he’d have on her after seven years of thankfully numbing distance.

When she’d first caught sight of him in the office, wearing an expensive silk suit and reeking of power and privilege, looking as devastatingly attractive as he had seven years ago but colder now, so much colder, her whole body had trembled. Fortunately she’d got herself under control before Marco had swung that penetrating iron-grey gaze towards her. She had forced herself not to look at him.

She had no idea how he felt about her seven years on. Hatred or indifference, did it really matter? She’d made the right decision by running away the night before her wedding. She’d never regret it. Watching from afar as Marco Ferranti became more ingrained in Rocci Enterprises, always at her father’s side and groomed to be his next-in-line, told her all she needed to know about the man.

The road twisted and turned as it climbed higher into the mountains, the air sharper and colder, scented with pine. The hazy blue sky she’d left in Palermo was now dark with angry-looking clouds, and when Sierra parked the car in front of the villa’s locked gates she heard a distant rumble of thunder.

She shivered slightly even though the air was warm; the wind was picking up, the sirocco that blew from North Africa and promised a storm. The pine trees towered above her, the mountains seeming to crowd her in. She’d spent most of her childhood at this villa, and while she’d loved the beauty and peace of its isolated position high above the nearest hill town, the place held too many hard memories for her to have any real affection for it.

Standing by the window as dread seeped into her stomach when she saw her father’s car drive up the winding lane. Fear clenching her stomach hard as she heard his thunderous voice. Cringing as she heard her mother’s placating or pleading response. No, she definitely didn’t have good memories of here.

But she wouldn’t stay long now. She’d see her mother’s grave, pay her respects and then return to Palermo, where she’d booked into a budget hotel. By this time tomorrow she’d be back in London, and she’d never come to Sicily again.

Quickly, Sierra walked along the high stone wall that surrounded the estate. She knew the property like her own hand; she and her mother had always stayed here until Arturo called them into service, to play-act at being the perfect family for various engagements or openings of the Rocci hotels that now graced much of the globe. Her mother had lived for her husband’s summons; Sierra had dreaded them.

Away from the road she knew the wall had crumbled in places, creating a gap low enough for her to climb over. She doubted her father had seen to repairs in the last seven years; she wondered if he’d come to the villa at all. He’d preferred to live his own life in Palermo except when he needed his wife and daughter to play at happy families for the media.

She stepped into the shelter of a dense thicket of pine trees, the world falling to darkness as the trees overhead shut out any remnant of sunlight. Thunder rumbled again, and the branches snagged on her silk blouse and narrow skirt, neither a good choice for walking through woods or climbing walls.

After a few moments of walking she came to a crumbled section of wall and with effort, thanks to her pencil skirt, she managed to clamber over it. Sierra let out a breath of relief and started towards the far corner of the estate, where the family cemetery was located.

She skirted the villa, not wanting to attract attention to herself; she had no idea if anyone was in residence. Arturo had installed a housekeeper when she’d lived here with her mother, a beady-eyed old woman who had been her father’s henchman and spy. If she was still here, Sierra had no wish to attract her attention.

In the distance the ghostly white marble headstones of the Rocci family plot appeared through the stormy gloom like silent, still ghosts, and Sierra’s breath caught in her throat as she approached. She knew where her mother’s marker lay, in the far corner; it was the only one that hadn’t been there when she’d left.

Violet Rocci, Beloved Wife

She stared at the four words written starkly on the tombstone until they blurred and she blinked back tears. Beloved mother, yes, but wife? Had her father loved her mother at all? Sierra knew Violet believed so, but Sierra wanted to believe love was better and bigger than that. Love didn’t hurt, didn’t punish or belittle. She wanted to believe that, but she didn’t know if she could. She certainly had no intention of taking the risk of finding out for herself.

‘Ti amo, Mamma,’ she whispered, and rested her hand on top of the cool marble. She’d missed her mother so much over these past seven years. Although she’d written Violet a few letters over the years, her mother had discouraged contact, fearing for Sierra’s safety. The few letters she’d had were precious and all too rare, and had stopped completely well before Violet’s illness.

She drew a deep breath and willed the tears away. She wouldn’t cry now. There had been enough sadness already. Another deep breath and her composure was restored, as she needed it to be. Cloak herself in coolness, keep the feelings at bay. She turned away from the little cemetery plot and started walking back towards her car. She hoped Violet Rocci was at peace now, safe from her husband’s cruelty. It was the smallest comfort, but the only one she could cling to now.

Thunder rumbled and forked lightning split the sky as the first heavy raindrops fell. Sierra ducked her head and started hurrying back to the section of wall she’d climbed over. She didn’t want to be caught in a downpour, and neither did she relish the drive back down the steep mountain roads in this weather.

She climbed over the wall and hurried through the stand of pines, the branches snagging on her blouse and hair as the rain fell steadily, soaking her. Within seconds her pink silk blouse was plastered to her skin and her hair fell out of its chignon in wet rat’s tails.

She cursed under her breath, thankful to emerge from the trees, only to have her insides freeze as she caught sight of a second car, a dark SUV, parked behind her own. As she came onto the road the door to the car opened, and an all too familiar figure emerged.

Marco Ferranti strode towards her, his white dress shirt soon soaked under the downpour so every well-defined muscle was outlined in glorious detail. Sierra flicked her gaze upwards, but the anger she saw snapping in his eyes, the hard set of his mouth and jaw, made her insides quell and she looked away. The rain was sheeting down now and she stopped a few feet from him, sluicing rainwater from her face.

‘So.’ Marco’s voice was hard, without a shred of warmth. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing here?’

CHAPTER THREE

SIERRA DREW A deep breath and pushed the sodden mass of her hair away from her face. ‘I was paying my respects.’ She tried to move past him to her car but he blocked her way. ‘What are you doing here?’ she challenged, even though inside she felt weak and shaky with fear. Here was the real man Marco had hidden from her before, the angry, menacing man who loomed above her like a dark shadow, fierce and threatening. But, just as with her father, she wouldn’t show her fear to this man.

‘It’s my home,’ Marco informed her. ‘As of today.’

She recoiled at that, at the triumph she heard in his tone. He was glad he’d got it all, and that she’d got almost nothing. Of course he was. ‘I hope you enjoy it then,’ she bit out, and his mouth curved in an unpleasant smile.

‘I’m sure I will. But you were trespassing on private property, you do realise?’

She shook her head, stunned by the depth of his anger and cruelty. So this was the true face of the man she’d once thought of marrying. ‘I’m leaving anyway.’

‘Not so fast.’ He grabbed her arm, his powerful fingers encircling her wrist, making her go utterly still. The commanding touch was so familiar and instinctively she braced herself for a blow. But it didn’t come; Marco simply stared at her, and it took Sierra a moment to realise the fingers around her wrist were actually exerting only a gentle pressure.

‘I want to know why you were here.’

‘I told you,’ she bit out. ‘To pay my respects.’

‘Did you go inside the villa?’

She stared at him, nonplussed. ‘No.’

‘How do I know that? You might have stolen something.’

She let out an incredulous laugh. If she’d had any doubts about whether jilting Marco Ferranti had been the right thing to do, he was dispelling them with dizzying speed.

‘What on earth do you think I stole?’ She shook his hand off her wrist and spread her arms wide. ‘Where would I hide it?’ She saw Marco’s gaze flick down to her breasts and too late she realised the white lace bra she wore was visible through the soaked, near-transparent silk. Sierra kept her head held high with effort.

‘I can’t be sure of anything when it comes to you, except that you can’t be trusted.’

‘Did you follow me all the way from Palermo?’

His jaw tightened. ‘I wanted to know where you were going.’

‘Well, now you know. And now I’m going back to Palermo.’ She started to move away but Marco stilled her with one outflung hand. He nodded towards the steep, curving road that led down the mountain.

‘The road will be impassable now with flash flooding. You might as well come into the villa until it is over.’

‘And you’ll frisk me for any possible stolen goods?’ Sierra finished. ‘I’ll take my chances with the flooding.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Marco’s voice was harsh, dismissive, reminding her so much of her father. Clearly, he’d decided to emulate his mentor.

‘I’m not being stupid,’ she snapped. ‘I mean every word I say.’

‘You’d rather risk serious injury or even death than come into a dry house with me?’ Marco’s mouth twisted. ‘What did I ever do to deserve such disgust?’

‘You just accused me of stealing.’

‘I simply wanted to know why you were here.’

Above them an ear-splitting crack of thunder sounded, making Sierra jump. She was completely soaked and unfortunately she knew Marco spoke the truth. The roads would be truly impassable, most likely for some time.

‘Fine,’ she said ungraciously and got into her car.

Marco unlocked the gates with the remote control in his car, and they swung silently back, revealing the villa’s long, curving drive.

Taking a deep breath, Sierra drove up with Marco following like her jailer. As soon as his car had passed, the gates swung closed again, locking her inside.

She parked in front of the villa and turned off the engine, reluctant to get out and face Marco again. And to face all the unwelcome memories that crowded her brain and heart. Coming back to Sicily had been a very bad idea.

Her door jerked open and Marco stood there, glowering at her. ‘Are you going to get out of your car?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She climbed out, conscious of his nearness, of the animosity rolling off him even though he’d sounded cold and controlled. After seven years, did he still hate her for what she’d done? It seemed so.

‘Is anyone living in the villa?’ she asked as he pressed the security code into the keypad by the front door.

‘No. I’ve left it empty for the time being, while I’ve been in Palermo.’ He glanced back at her, his expression opaque. ‘While your father was in hospital.’

Sierra made no reply. The lawyer, di Santis, had told her that her father had died of pancreatic cancer. He’d had it for several years but had kept it secret; when the end came it had been swift. After the call she’d tried to dredge up some grief for the man who had sired her; she’d felt nothing but a weary relief that he was finally gone.

Marco opened the front door and ushered her into the huge marble foyer. The air was chilly and stale, the furniture shrouded in dust cloths. Sierra shivered.

‘I’ll turn the hot water on,’ Marco said. ‘I believe there are clothes upstairs.’

‘My clothes...?’

‘No, those were removed some time ago.’ His voice was clipped, giving nothing away. ‘But some of my clothes are in one of the guest bedrooms. You can borrow something to wear while your own clothes dry.’

She remained shivering in the foyer, dripping rainwater onto the black and white marble tiles, while Marco set about turning on lights and removing dust covers. It felt surreal to be back in this villa, and she couldn’t escape the clawing feeling of being trapped, not just by the locked gates and the memories that mocked her, but by the man inhabiting this space, seeming to take up all the air. She felt desperate to leave.

‘I’ll light a fire in the sitting room,’ Marco said. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much food.’

‘I don’t need to eat. I’m going to leave as soon as possible.’

Marco’s mouth twisted mockingly as he glanced back at her. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. The roads will be flooded for a while. I don’t think you’ll be leaving before tomorrow morning.’ His eyes glinted with challenge or perhaps derision as he folded his powerful arms across his chest. Even angry and hostile, he was a beautiful man, every taut muscle radiating strength and power. But she didn’t like brute strength. She hated the abuse of power. She looked away from him.

‘Why don’t you take a bath and change?’

Sierra’s stomach clenched at the prospect of spending a night under the same roof as Marco Ferranti. Of taking a bath, changing clothes...everything making her feel vulnerable. He must have seen something in her face for he added silkily, ‘Surely you’re not worried for your virtue? Trust me, cara, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot bargepole.’

She flinched at both the deliberate use of the endearment and the contempt she saw in his face. The casual cruelty had been second nature to her father, but it stung coming from Marco Ferranti. He’d been kind to her once.

‘Good,’ she answered when she trusted her voice. ‘Because that’s the last thing I’d want.’

His gaze darkened and he took a step towards her. ‘Are you sure about that?’

Sierra held her ground. She knew her body had once responded to Marco’s, and even with him emanating raw, unadulterated anger she had a terrible feeling it would again. A single caress or kiss and she might start to melt, much to her shame. ‘Very sure,’ she answered in a clipped voice, and then she turned towards the stairs without another word.

She found Marco’s things in one of the guest bedrooms; he hadn’t taken the master bedroom for himself and she wondered why. It was all his now, every bit of it. The villa, the palazzo in Palermo, the Rocci business empire of hotels and real estate holdings. Her father had given everything to the man he’d seen as a son, and left his daughter with nothing.

Or almost nothing. Carefully she took the velvet pouch out from the pocket of her skirt. The pearl necklace and sapphire brooch that had been her mother’s before she married were hers now. She had no idea why her father had allowed her to have them; had it been a moment of kindness on his deathbed, or had he simply been saving face, trying to seem like the kind, grieving father he’d never been?

It didn’t matter. She had a keepsake to remind her of her mother, and that was all she’d wanted.

Quickly, Sierra slipped out of her wet clothes and took a short, scaldingly hot shower. She dressed in a soft grey T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms of Marco’s; it felt bizarrely intimate to wear his clothes, and they swam on her. She used one of his belts to keep the bottoms from sliding right off her hips, and combed her hair with her fingers, leaving it hanging damply down her back.

Then, hesitantly, she went downstairs. She would have rather hidden upstairs away from Marco until the storm passed but, knowing him, he’d most likely come and find her. Perhaps it would be better to deal with the past, get that initial awful conversation out of the way, and then they could declare a silent truce and ignore each other until she was able to leave.

She found him in the sitting room, crouched in front of the fire he was fanning into crackling flame. He’d changed into jeans and a black T-shirt and the clothes fitted him snugly, emphasising his powerful chest and long legs, every inch of him radiating sexual power and virility.

Sierra stood in the doorway, conscious of a thousand things: how Marco’s damp hair had started to curl at the nape of his neck, how the soft cotton of the T-shirt she wore—his T-shirt—rubbed against her bare breasts. She felt a tingling flare of what could only be desire and tried to squelch it. He hated her now, and in any case she knew what kind of man he was. How could she possibly desire him?

He glanced back at her as she came into the room, and with a shivery thrill she saw an answering flare of awareness in his own eyes. He straightened, the denim of his jeans stretching across his powerful thighs, and Sierra’s gaze was drawn to the movement, to the long, fluid length of his legs, the powerful breadth of his shoulders. Once he would have been hers, a thought that had filled her with apprehension and even fear. Now she felt a flicker of curiosity and even loss for what might have been, and she quickly brushed it aside.

The man was handsome. Sexy. She’d always known that. It didn’t change who he was, or why she’d had to leave.

‘Come and get warm.’ Marco’s voice was low, husky. He gestured her forward and Sierra came slowly, reluctant to get any closer to him. Shadows danced across the stone hearth and her bare feet sank into the thick, luxuriously piled carpet.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured without looking at him. The tension in the room was thick and palpable, a thousand unspoken words and thoughts between them. Sierra stared at the dancing flames, having no idea how to break the silence, or whether she wanted to. Perhaps it would be better to act as if the past had never happened.

‘When do you return to London?’ Marco asked. His voice was cool, polite, the question that of an acquaintance or stranger.

Sierra released the breath she’d bottled in her lungs without realising. Maybe he would make this easy for her. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Did you not think you’d have affairs to manage here?’

She glanced at him, startled, saw how his silvery eyes had narrowed to iron slits, his mouth twisted mockingly. His questions sounded innocuous, but she could see and feel the latent anger underneath the thin veneer of politeness.

‘No. I didn’t expect my father to leave me anything in his will.’

‘You didn’t?’ Now he sounded nonplussed, and Sierra shrugged.

‘Why would he? We’ve neither spoken nor seen each other in seven years.’

‘That was your choice.’

‘Yes.’

They were both silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire, the settling of logs in the grate. Sierra had wondered how much Marco guessed of her father’s abuse and cruelty. How much he would have sanctioned. The odd slap? The heaping of insults and emotional abuse? Did it even matter?

She’d realised, that night she’d left, that she could not risk it. She’d been foolish to think she could, that she could entrust herself to any man. Leaving Marco had been as much about her as about him.

‘Why did you come back here, to this villa?’ Marco asked abruptly, and Sierra looked up from her contemplation of the fire.

‘I told you—’

‘To pay your respects. To what? To whom?’

‘To my mother. Her grave is in the family plot on the estate.’

He cocked his head, his silvery gaze sweeping coldly over her. ‘And yet you didn’t return when your mother was ill. You didn’t even send a letter.’

Because she hadn’t known. But would she have come back, even if she had known? Could she have risked her father’s wrath, being under his hand once more? Sierra swallowed and looked away.

‘No answer?’ Marco jibed softly.

‘You know the answer. And anyway, it wasn’t a question.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘You are certainly living up—or should I say down—to my expectations.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘For seven years I’ve wondered just how cold a bitch I almost married. Now I know.’

The words felt like a slap, sending her reeling. She blinked past the pain, told herself it didn’t matter. ‘You can think what you like.’

‘Of course I can. It’s not as if you’ve ever given me any answers, have you? Any possible justification for what you did, not just in leaving me, but in deserting your family?’

She didn’t reply. She didn’t want to argue with Marco, and in any case he hadn’t really been asking her a question. He’d been stating a fact, making a judgement. He’d made his mind up about her years ago, and nothing she could say would change it now, not even the truth. Besides, he’d been her father’s right-hand man for over a decade. Either he knew how her father had treated his family, or he’d chosen not to know.

‘You have nothing to say, Sierra?’

It was the first time he’d called her by her first name and it sent a shiver of apprehensive awareness rippling through her. He sounded so cold. For one brief blazing second she remembered the feel of his lips on hers when he’d kissed her in the garden. His hands on her body, sliding so knowingly up to cup her breasts; the electric tingle of excitement low in her belly, kindling a spark she hadn’t even known existed, because no man had ever touched her that way. No man had ever made her feel so desired.

Mentally, Sierra shrugged away the memory. So the man could kiss. Marco Ferranti no doubt had unimaginable sexual prowess. He’d probably been with dozens—hundreds—of women. It didn’t change facts.

‘No,’ she told him flatly. ‘I have nothing to say.’

* * *

Marco stared at Sierra, at the cool hauteur on her lovely face, and felt another blaze of anger go off like a firework in his gut. How could she be so cold?

‘You know, I admired how cool you were, all those years ago,’ he told her. Thankfully, his voice sounded as flat as hers, almost disinterested. He’d given away too much already, too much anger, too much emotion. He’d had seven years to get over Sierra. In any case, it wasn’t as if he’d ever loved her.

‘Cool?’ Sierra repeated. She looked startled, wary.

‘Yes, you were so self-possessed, so calm. I liked that about you.’ She didn’t reply, just watched him guardedly. ‘I didn’t realise,’ Marco continued, his tone clipped as he bit off each word precisely, ‘that it was because you had no heart. You were all ice underneath.’ Except she hadn’t been ice in his arms.

Still she said nothing, and Marco could feel the anger boiling inside him, threatening to spill out. ‘Damn it, Sierra, didn’t you ever think that I deserved an explanation?’

Her gaze flicked away from his and her tongue darted out to touch her lips. Just that tiny gesture set lust ricocheting through him. He felt dizzy from the excess of emotion, anger and desire twined together. He didn’t want to feel so much. After seven years of cutting himself off from such feelings, the force of their return was overwhelming and unwelcome.

‘Well?’ Marco demanded. Now that he’d asked the question, he realised he wanted an answer.

‘I thought it was explanation enough that I left,’ Sierra said coolly.

Marco stared at her, his jaw dropping before he had the presence of mind to snap it shut, the bones aching. ‘How on earth could you think that?’

Her gaze moved to his and then away again. ‘Because it was obvious I’d changed my mind.’

‘Yes, I do realise. But I’ve never understood why, and your father didn’t, either. He was devastated when you left, you know. Utterly bereft.’ He still remembered how Arturo had wept and embraced him when he’d told him, outside the church, that Sierra was gone. Marco had been numb, disbelieving; he’d wanted to send search parties until the truth of what Arturo was saying slammed home. She wasn’t missing. She’d left. She’d left him, and for a second he wasn’t even surprised. His marriage to Sierra, his acceptance into the Rocci family, it had all been too good—too wonderful—to be true.

Now Sierra’s mouth firmed and she folded her arms, her blue-grey eyes turning as cold as the Atlantic on a winter’s day. ‘Why did you want to marry me, Marco, if we’re going to rake through the past? I never quite understood that.’ She paused, her cool gaze trained on him now, unflinching and direct, offering an unspoken challenge. ‘It’s not because you loved me.’

‘No.’ He could admit that much. He hadn’t known her well enough to love her, and in any case he’d never been interested in love. Love meant opening yourself up to emotional risk, spreading your arms wide and inviting someone to take a shot. In his mother’s case, she’d sustained a direct hit. Not something he’d ever be so foolish or desperate to do.

‘So?’ Sierra arched an eyebrow, and it disconcerted him how quickly and neatly she’d flipped the conversation. He was no longer the one on the attack. How dare she put him on the defensive—she, who’d walked away without a word?

‘I could ask the same of you,’ he said. ‘Why did you agree to marry me?’ And then change your mind?

Sierra’s mouth firmed. ‘I’d convinced myself I could be happy with you. I was wrong.’

‘And what made you decide that?’ Marco demanded.

She sighed, shrugging her slim shoulders. ‘Do we really want to go through all this?’ she asked. ‘Do you think it will help? So much has happened. Seven years, Marco. Maybe we should just agree to—’

‘Disagree? We’re not talking about a little spat we had, Sierra. Some petty argument.’ His voice came out harshly—too harsh, ragged and revealing with the force of his emotion. Even so, he couldn’t keep himself from continuing. ‘We’re talking about marriage. We were a few hours away from pledging our lives to one another.’

‘I know.’ Her lips formed the words but he could barely hear her whisper. Her face had gone pale, her eyes huge and dark. Still she stood tall, chin held high. She had strength—more strength than he’d ever realised—but right now it only made him angry.

‘Then why...?’

‘You still didn’t answer my question, Marco.’ Her chin tilted up another notch. ‘Why did you want to marry me?’

He stared at her for a moment, furious that he felt cornered. ‘I need a drink,’ he said abruptly, and stalked into the kitchen. She didn’t follow him.

He yanked a bottle of whisky from the cupboard and poured a healthy measure that he downed in one swallow. Then he poured another.

Damn it, how dare she ask him, accuse him, when she was the one who should be called to account? What did it matter why he’d wanted to marry her, when she’d agreed?

He drained his second glass and then went back to the sitting room. Sierra had moved closer to the fire and the flames cast dancing shadows across her face. Her hair was starting to dry, the ends curling. She looked utterly delectable wearing his too-big clothes. The T-shirt had slipped off one shoulder, so he could see how golden and smooth her skin was. The belt she’d cinched at her waist showed off its narrowness and the high, proud curve of her breasts. He remembered the feel of them in his hands, when he’d given his desire free rein for a few intensely exquisite moments. He’d felt her arch into him, heard her breathy gasp of pleasure.

The memory now had the power to stir the embers of his desire and he turned away from her, willing the memories, the emotion, back. He didn’t want to feel anything, not even simple lust, for Sierra Rocci now.

‘Damn it, Sierra, you have some nerve asking me why I behaved the way I did. You’re the one who chose to leave without so much as a note.’

‘I know.’

‘And you still haven’t given me a reason why. You changed your mind. Fine. I accept that. It was patently obvious at the time.’ His voice came out sharp with bitterness and he strove to moderate it. ‘But you still haven’t said why. Don’t you think I deserve an explanation? Your parents are no longer alive to hear why you abandoned them, but I am.’ His voice hardened, rose. ‘So why don’t you just tell me the truth?’

CHAPTER FOUR

A 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.’

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