“You make me crazy.”

Marco’s head dipped and his mouth covered hers in a kiss so hot, so fierce that it stole her breath, emptied her lungs and left her head spinning.

Hot tears stung her eyes and, reaching up, Payton clasped his shirt, hanging on to him as her heart felt as if it were being wrenched in two.

No one, but no one kissed like this. No one but Marco made her feel like this, and she wasn’t over him yet. Not by a long shot. Maybe not ever.

A cry escaped her as his lips parted hers. She shouldn’t—couldn’t—let this happen, and yet it was heaven and hell and Payton knew this was how it had always been with Marco. Her response was pure instinct, impossible to control….

Marco’s Pride
Jane Porter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

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

PROLOGUE

“I WON’T let her ruin the wedding.” Marco d’Angelo’s deep voice rang out in the high ceiling Milan salon. He rarely raised his voice and the seamstress and models at the far end of the elegant salon briefly glanced his way before resuming the fitting.

Princess Marilena placed a light hand on Marco’s arm. “She won’t ruin the wedding, darling. The ceremony isn’t for months.”

“Two and a half months.” They were getting married less than a week after the Spring show previewing the new collection, and the new collection so far hadn’t come together.

They were running out of time.

“I don’t think you should worry yourself yet. Things always have a way of working out,” the princess added evenly.

Marco wasn’t so sure. His angular jaw tightened, and his thick eyebrows lowered, becoming heavy black slashes above brooding eyes. His gaze narrowed, focused on Marilena’s pale hand where it rested on his coat sleeve, studying the opulent engagement ring he’d given her less than a month ago.

He’d hunted the ring down, a three carat emerald cut diamond surrounded by sapphires in an eighteenth century gold setting. The ring had belonged to the royal Borgiano family for three centuries until Marilena’s father, Prince Stefano Borgiano, had been forced to sell it twenty-five years ago.

The aristocratic Borgiano fortunes had fallen even as the d’Angelo’s had risen. But right now Marco didn’t feel very blessed. He was troubled, deeply troubled, aware that the new collection lacked imagination. Inspiration.

It was, he thought irritably, boring. And that, in the fashion world, was a fate worse than death.

Like his father before him, Marco had never needed an outsider to tell him when something worked or didn’t. He knew. He felt it in his gut. And his gut was telling him now that the Spring collection would be a disappointment if he didn’t find the spark soon. If he couldn’t make magic.

But what was the special something?

He didn’t know yet, and he certainly wouldn’t find the answers with his ex-wife here. “I don’t trust her,” he said after a moment, his voice low and rough. “Payton’s only ever been interested in herself.”

“She said her visit was just for holiday, didn’t she?”

Marco glanced up to meet Marilena’s steady gaze. She had remarkable eyes, the irises the color of caramels, the rich tawny color contrasting perfectly with her glossy black hair and lush black lashes.

As the head of d’Angelo, Milan’s top fashion design house, Marco worked with stunning models every day, and had dressed many of the world’s most beautiful women for nearly two decades, but Princess Marilena Borgiano was a class apart.

The hard press of his lips eased. “How can you be so understanding?” he asked, reaching into his coat pocket for a cigarette before remembering he’d promised her he’d quit smoking.

Her slim shoulders shrugged in an ultrafeminine, ultra-Italian gesture. “Because Payton’s not a threat.”

Marilena must have caught the arch of his eyebrows as she smiled, her full dark red mouth curving. “We’ve known each other a long time, Marco, you and me. We’ve been through a great deal together. We understand each other and we know what we want. It’s different from your first marriage, yes?”

Completely different, he thought, biting down on his back teeth, his temper nearly flaring again. If pressed, he wouldn’t even call the brief twenty-one month arrangement a marriage. It was more like a disaster.

No, a nightmare.

Marilena stood on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. “Don’t look so angry, darling. She won’t be here long, and she’ll have the girls with her. I know you’ve wanted a relationship with them—”

“That was a long time ago, before she held them hostage, before she used them against me. Maybe once they were my daughters, but they’re not mine anymore. Payton made sure of that.”

Marilena clucked softly. “That’s not true. They’re still your children. You adore the girls. I know you’ve missed them terribly.”

Marco swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He had missed them. He’d missed them so much he almost felt sick inside. “Payton knows I’ll sue for custody,” he said after a long moment. “She knows if she comes back, she’ll find it next to impossible to take them out of the country again.”

Marilena cocked her head. “So, why is she bringing them here now?”

Good question, Marco thought. A very good question indeed.

CHAPTER ONE

DEATH and taxes. The only two certainties in life. Death and taxes…

The words went around and around Payton’s head like the unclaimed luggage on the airport baggage carousel.

With a tired hand, she pushed the tangle of dark red curls from her forehead. She’d boarded the plane with her hair pinned up, but after fifteen hours traveling the curls had burst free from the French twist.

A black suitcase came sliding out the luggage chute and Payton carefully stooped to check the tag without disturbing the toddler slumped against her shoulder.

Wrong name. Not hers.

As Payton straightened she cradled the back of Gia’s head and glanced down into her sleeping daughter’s face. Wet tears still streaked Gia’s swollen cheeks, a testament to the hours Gia had wailed inconsolably for the small fuzzy blankie lost somewhere between boarding in San Francisco and changing planes in New York’s La Guardia airport.

It had not been an easy flight.

It had not been an easy month.

It had not been an easy life.

Payton’s lips twisted as she suppressed the rise of emotion. She couldn’t start thinking now. Thinking would only make everything worse.

She shot Livia a quick glance. “Are you okay, Liv?” she whispered, mustering a smile for Gia’s twin.

The three-year-old sat perched on top of an up-ended car seat, her thumb popped in her mouth, her arm clutching her own fuzzy blankie.

Livia nodded solemnly, her dark blue eyes the same shade as Payton’s. The girls had inherited Payton’s heart-shaped face, small straight nose, and dark blue eyes, but their gorgeous coloring came from their father. Onyx curls, light olive skin, the longest, thickest black fringe of eyelash imaginable.

Just thinking of Marco made Payton’s chest squeeze tight. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. When she’d left Milan two years ago she’d rashly vowed that nothing short of death would bring her back.

And it had.

Blinking, Payton concentrated on the moving carousel to keep the tears from forming. She wasn’t much of a crier anymore but she was exhausted and when she was overly tired tears welled more easily.

The last year had been hard, but nothing like the last month. That had been hell. Four weeks endless fear. Endless worry. Endless soul-searching.

And finally at last the truth came: if she were sick, the girls would need their father.

Gia stirred in her arms, black lashes fluttering open. “I want my blankie,” she croaked, voice raspy from hours of crying.

Payton cupped the back of her daughter’s head. “I know you do.”

Brilliant tears welled in Gia’s eyes. “I want it now!”

Gia’s forlorn cry knotted Payton’s heart. She felt like she’d failed Gia. The girls never went anywhere without their blankets. How could Payton lose track of Gia’s? It’d never happened before. It was unthinkable. “I know, I know, but we can’t get it right now—”

“Noooo!”

The wail filled the baggage claim area. Payton kissed Gia’s flushed cheek and rocked her. “We’ll get it back soon, I promise.”

But Gia wasn’t comforted and Liv, hearing Gia’s distress, began to whimper, too.

Suddenly the baggage carousel shut off.

Payton stared at the now flat belt with a smattering of suitcases still on it. An airline employee began retrieving the remaining luggage, locking them together on a cart.

Her suitcase hadn’t made it. The girls’ bag had arrived. The two car seats had made it. But not Payton’s own bag.

No clean underwear, no nightgown, no comfortable shoes, nothing at all.

A five-month audit from the Internal Revenue Service.

A horrible biopsy.

And now no clean underwear. Unbelievable.

“Moommmmmy!” Gia wailed louder.

Livia’s eyes filled with tears and she began to cry for Gia. “Get Gia’s blankie, Mommy! She needs her blankie.”

“I know.” Payton crouched down, scooped up both girls in her arms and held them on her lap. “And I’ll try. I promise.”

“Now!” Gia sobbed, pummeling her fist against Payton’s shoulder. “Get it now. Now. Now!”

“She needs blankie,” Liv echoed, lower lip trembling.

Gia’s wet gaze met her sister’s “Blankie misses me!”

Now both girls were sobbing uncontrollably. Payton jiggled both in her arms, hushing them, even as she wondered how in God’s name she’d made it this far as a single mom.

It hadn’t been easy.

“I miss blankie, too,” Payton whispered. “Maybe we can find you a new one. I bet there are some beautiful blankets here and you can pick out the one you like best—”

“Noooooo.” Gia sounded stricken and her cries grew louder, rose higher, nearing a feverish pitch.

Suddenly a deep voice boomed, “Gianina Elettra Maria d’Angelo!” The reprimand immediately silenced Gia.

The reprimand chilled Payton, too.

Payton knew that voice. An icy shiver raced down her back. Marco.

O God, she didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to be here. But she had no choice…

Payton battled her own hysteria and slowly dragged her gaze up the imposing length of her ex-husband, a man she hadn’t seen in nearly a year.

His dark eyes, the color of cocoa, met hers and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, the air bottled in her lungs, her heart constricting with anger and pain.

She’d never thought she’d be back, never in a million years. And hadn’t she thrown something like that in Marco’s face on their last meeting? Nothing short of death would make me come back to you!

Her head grew light. Her limbs felt heavy and brittle, as if coated with ice. Tiny black dots danced before her eyes and Payton forced herself to exhale, and then inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

She could do this. She had to do this. It was for the girls.

But looking at the girls—Gia’s small face almost white with shock, while huge tears filmed Liv’s dark blue eyes and clung to her lush black lashes—Payton felt a stab of utter despair.

They didn’t even know him! How could she leave them with him? How could she think this—he—was the solution? How could he be the solution? She had to be out of her mind.

Or out of options.

Dammit, it wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Life had never given her a chance!

“Hello, Marco,” she said, trying to sound natural and failing miserably. Seemed like she was failing at everything these days.

“Hello, Payton.” He echoed her greeting and he sounded so coolly, casually composed. This was the Marco d’Angelo that faced the media, the Marco of a million magazine and newspaper stories, the Marco photographed a dozen times a week, the Marco that believed his own press.

Her jaw ached and she realized she was smiling hard, smiling a tight fierce white toothy smile as though her life depended on it, and in a way, it did.

No matter what happened to her, the girls would come first now. The girl’s future was all that mattered.

She might hate Marco d’Angelo but he was the father of her children.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she answered, forcing more air through her lips, praying she’d find her footing fast. She felt ridiculously disheveled her eyes gritty and dry after the all-night flight.

“You left word that you were arriving in Milan this morning.”

She felt rather than saw the narrowing of his eyes, the press of his lips. He was irritated. Which didn’t surprise her. She’d always irritated him. He’d been so impatient during their brief painful marriage, so angry.

“I left word so you wouldn’t be surprised when I rang you from the hotel—not to arrange a ride.”

“You need a ride,” he answered simply.

“There are taxis.”

“My children are not staying in a hotel.”

“I’ve already made reservations.”

“I canceled them.” His gaze dropped to wide-eyed Livia who practically quaked on Payton’s lap, her small knees pulled to her chest and her inky ringlets intensifying the stunning blueness of her eyes.

Marco’s hard jaw tightened. “She’s trembling like a mouse.”

Payton heard the unspoken criticism in his voice, heard the reproach that was always there.

In his book, Payton had failed as a wife, a woman and a mother many times over. An Italian woman would have never made the choices Payton had made.

But she wasn’t Italian and he’d never given her a chance.

Her chest burned. She felt like she’d swallowed fire. “She’s…overwhelmed,” Payton said even as she hugged Liv closer, letting her more timid twin hide her face from her father’s displeasure.

Liv’s preschool teacher had nicknamed her Tender Heart, and it’d stuck. Gia was the fighter. Liv was the lover.

“And this one?” Marco demanded, nodding at elf-like Gia who glared up at her father, her small mouth flattened, perfectly mimicking his dark expression.

“Gia lost her blanket and she misses it very much.”

“Her blanket,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“And she must have it?”

“Yes,” Gia answered for herself. Her father was speaking English. She had no problem understanding. “I miss blankie. I want blankie back.”

Marco’s and Gia’s gazes clashed and then held. Gia didn’t back down easily and she wasn’t going to be intimidated now.

To think she was only three years old! Payton knew already these two were going to really butt heads, as Gia grew older.

Marco looked at her. “They’re not too old for blankets?”

“No,” Gia answered smartly, indignantly. “They’re our lovies. The doctor says we can have a lovie.”

Again Marco’s gaze lifted and he stared at Payton rather incredulously. “You tell them this stuff?”

“No,” Payton replied. “Their pediatrician told them. Dr. Crosby explained to the girls that they were too old for pacifiers, but understood that Gia and Liv still needed a lovie. The blankets became the lovie.” Payton’s chin rose. Things you’d know if you’d been part of their lives, she wanted to spit at him, but wouldn’t, not with the girls here, not when they were already so unsettled.

The girls needed breakfast and a nap. They needed routine. They needed time and attention and lots of love, but Payton said none of these things, biting the inside of her lip so hard that she nearly drew blood.

Wasn’t it ironic that at Calvanté Design in San Francisco, she had was known for her warmth, her skill, her compassionate approach in dealing with people and problems, yet the moment she came face-to-face with Marco she felt wildly out of control?

“I’m not crazy about the word, lovie,” Marco said with a grimace, “but if she needs her blanket, we’ll get the blanket.”

He lifted Gia out of Payton’s arms and into his. Gia stiffened, resisting him. She turned her small face away, giving him her fierce profile but she didn’t utter a word.

Gia was scared. Gia, who wasn’t afraid of anyone, or anything, was afraid of her own father.

Payton’s heart squeezed. It was never supposed to turn out like this. It was never supposed to come down to this. If it hadn’t been for that lab report she wouldn’t be here now, either.

Marco reached into his elegant suit-coat and retrieved his phone. “When did you last have the blanket?”

“Sometime between boarding in San Francisco and changing planes in New York.”

Gia turned her head slightly to look at Marco.

“So it’s on the first plane,” he said.

Payton’s shoulders lifted. “Or in La Guardia’s terminal.” It was difficult changing planes in the middle of the night with two sleepy little girls, a tangle of carry-on bags, and a fistful of boarding passes. Payton could have sworn she’d double-checked the girl’s tiny backpacks for the blankets but obviously she’d overlooked Gia’s.

Marco punched in a number and rattled off directions in Italian. Payton hadn’t spoken Italian in a couple of years but she had no problem following his rapid speech.

He’d called his assistant, the one that handled his travel, and he was telling her to track down the lost blanket. If his assistant couldn’t locate it from her desk in Milan, he wanted her on the last flight out that day to try to retrieve it in person.

Marco hung up the phone and put it away. Payton felt reluctant admiration. She didn’t always like his tactics but they worked. He usually got what he wanted.

Except he hadn’t wanted her, and he’d gotten her anyway.

Payton’s faint smile faded. “Thank you,” she said, hating the tangle of emotion inside her chest. She’d told herself she was going to handle this calmly, told herself that she wasn’t going to let the past influence this reconciliation but that was easier said than done.

Marco nodded. “Do you have everything?”

Payton remembered her suitcase. “My bag never made it.”

He bit back a sigh and his flash of irritation stung her.

He never minded helping the girls but he objected to helping her. The distinction had been made years ago. The girls might be d’Angelo, but she wasn’t, and she’d never be.

Payton filled the necessary forms for tracking her lost suitcase, felt Marco’s close scrutiny. He still held Gia but Liv clung to Payton’s leg, trying to put as much distance between her and that man.

That man. Their father. Payton realized it had all begun. The changes. The choices. The courage.

The limousine ride was quiet. The girls dozed. The tires of the car hummed on the road. Payton noted that Marco kept his distance, sitting as far from her in the back of the car as possible, and for that she was thankful.

As the tall stone house with the late Baroque facade came into view, her stomach tightened. Once she’d been so in awe of the elegant house with the high windows, perfectly painted shutters, curved iron balustrade. But now she felt fear.

Inside the house, Payton settled the girls into the bright, airy nursery, the plaster painted a warm yellow and the low shelves in the room filled with toys and dolls. Then with the girls happily playing, she knew it was time to face Marco.

Marco waited for her in the salon downstairs. His suit jacket disappeared. He wore a thin dark brown sweater that hugged the hard planes of his chest, the expensive leather belt at his waist emphasizing his lean, muscular build. He’d always been athletic. He looked dangerous now.

“You’re back,” he said tautly, reaching for the espresso a maid had carried in.

His voice sounded cool and hard just like the rest of him and it sliced through Payton’s exhaustion, sliced through the jumble of thoughts in her head and brought her the focus she needed.

Payton stiffened slightly, helplessly. “Not by choice.”

He laughed low, the sound harsh and grating. “I find that hard to believe.”

Thank God she didn’t feel anything.

She hadn’t been sure if she would. She’d worried about this moment for weeks, anticipating the moment she finally came face-to-face and heard his voice again, saw his face again and the fierce fire in his eyes.

Now the moment had come and her heart didn’t lurch and her stomach didn’t fall. No racing pulse, no ache of emotion. Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. Thank God.

She couldn’t have handed over her babies knowing that they—she and Marco—could have been a perfect family. She couldn’t have walked away if there’d been a chance for real happiness.

Now that she was here, now that she stood just a foot from Marco d’Angelo she realized that they’d never been in love. They’d never been really together, despite the vows and the ring and the children. They’d been just an accidental meeting.

She cleared her throat. “I didn’t want to argue in front of the girls, but I booked a hotel because I prefer to stay in a hotel—”

“You came all this way to see me but you want a hotel?”

God, she didn’t want to fight. She was swaying on her feet. Exhausted out of her mind. A fight was the last thing she could handle now. “I came so the girls could spend time with you—”

“And how do you propose they’ll spend time with me if they’re sequestered away in a city hotel?”

Payton drew another breath, trying desperately to stay calm. “They’ll spend the day with you, of course—”

“I work during the day. In fact, I need to leave to return to the office in just a moment.”

“You’re going back already?”

“It’s only eleven in the morning. It’s a work day, Payton.”

“But the girls—”

“Are sleeping right now, as they should be. They’re exhausted and obviously need the rest.” Payton didn’t say anything and his shoulders shifted impatiently. “You were the one that insisted on coming now. You didn’t ask my opinion, didn’t check with my schedule. Don’t blame me if I have work to do.”

She dug her nails into her palms. “I realize it’s short notice. I’m sorry about that. But I was hoping you could take some time off. Really get to know the girls better.”

“I’m getting married in a couple of months. I will be taking three weeks honeymoon then. It’s impossible to take more time now. But that doesn’t mean I won’t spend any time with the girls. I’ll make sure we have time together.”

Yes, just as he’d made sure he visited them often in California.

Payton felt a wave of anger roll through her. He’d always said she’d been selfish with the children that she’d turned them against him, but it wasn’t true. He’d never even tried to get to know them. He’d visited them less than a half dozen times in two years. What kind of relationship was that? “Your children are here for the first time in nearly two years—”

“And whose fault is that?” he bristled.

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe they were arguing already. It was all they’d ever done during their last twelve months together. The fighting had become unbearable. The tension impossible. “We’ll see you later this afternoon then.”

Marco’s thoughts weren’t on business when he arrived at the d’Angelo headquarters on Via Borgospesso in the elegant fashion district. He was thinking about the girls, and he made a mental note to follow up with his secretary on Gia’s lost blanket. It was imperative that the blanket be found quickly. Traveling was hard enough on young children without the loss of a favorite possession.

Yet on arriving at the office he was mobbed by a half dozen of his senior staff members, each with a pressing problem. They followed them into his office, talking at once. The men’s designer, his creative director, the vice president in charge of textiles and home collection—they were all crowding through the door, shouting over each other.

Marco shut the door, waved them toward the stylish modern couches against the wall. “I gather we have a couple problems,” he said dryly.

“A couple?” Jacopo rolled his eyes. He was the brainchild behind d’Angelo’s successful men’s collection. The House of d’Angelo had catered exclusively to women during Marco’s father’s time, but since taking over the business ten years ago Marco had entered new markets and Jacopo was the first new designer Marco had brought on board.

“Our number one mill closed their doors this morning,” Jacopo continued bitterly. “They’ve nothing for us. They fulfilled nothing in our order. We won’t have a single new textile for the show.”

“We didn’t contract with anyone else this year.” Fabrizio, the creative director, dropped onto the low black leather sofa, and threw an arm behind his head. “We’d decided this was the year we were going to go small. Work with one mill. We screwed ourselves.”

That was putting it bluntly, Marco thought, rubbing his temple, but it did seem to fit.

The closing of the mill impacted the women’s collection more than menswear. It would cripple womenswear and the fledgling home collection. “They can’t close their doors without fulfilling our contract. They’d open themselves to a horrendous lawsuit.”

No one said anything and Marco glanced at Maria, the director of fragrance. She hadn’t spoken yet. “What? I can tell something’s bothering you, and I can guarantee it’s not the mill.”

Maria’s dark eyebrows winged higher. “I’d say so.” She folded her arms over the leather clipboard. “It’s the new ad campaign. They shot the first print ad yesterday.”

“And?”

“It’s not the ad we agreed on. It’s not the new ad campaign that we’ve planned.”

“But is it any good?” The ad was scheduled to run in two dozen fashion publications around the globe.

“No.”

There were days Marco wished he hadn’t gotten out of bed. Today was one of them. “That bad?”

“You’d hate it.”

“Okay. Get the ad agency on the phone. Jacopo, make an appointment with our friends at the mill. Let them know we’re coming, along with our legal counsel. Looks like we’re going to have a busy day everyone.”

It would be busy, he thought, giving his creative team a chance to file out before reaching for his phone. But it wasn’t so busy he’d forgotten the twins. Leaning across his desk, he punched in the number for his travel coordinator. “Marco here,” he said. “Any success locating my daughter’s blanket?”

No luck. That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, and his travel coordinator’s solution irritated him. “I know I could buy her a new blanket, but that’s not the point. Gia doesn’t love a new blanket. She loves the old one. Make sure you’re on the last flight out tonight. I want her favorite blanket.”

CHAPTER TWO

HE GOT home far later than he intended and by the time he’d arrived, the house was dark and quiet, only a few lights glowing downstairs.

Marco followed the light to the grand salon where he heard Payton talking in a hushed voice. The doors were slightly ajar and he could see Payton curled on the love seat speaking on her cell phone. She was wearing slim hunter-green slacks, a black turtleneck, and a suede green blazer. She knew color, he thought. That shade of green she was wearing—forest with a hint of moss—set off her fiery hair and accented her pale complexion.

She’d always had a good eye for color and design and that was exactly what she was discussing now. Business. She must be talking to someone at work in San Francisco.

For a moment he felt a strange spark of emotion, part anger, part resentment. He and Payton had had their problems but he only had respect for her talent. She was a natural when it came to design. It was almost as if she could see how fabric would drape in her mind’s eye, picture the texture, the color, the cut and with just a few pencil sketches, she’d come up with brilliant ideas.

He’d admired her work. He’d wanted her on his team, producing for him. But once their relationship fell apart, Payton headed back to America and went to work for an Italian designer there.

Payton’s fingers were beginning to cramp from holding the little cell phone so long. She’d called the office just to check in but her assistant wouldn’t let her off the phone.

“When are you coming back?” her assistant demanded, already sounding rattled for eleven o’clock in the morning. “I swear, you’re the only one who knows what’s going on.”

“Well, somebody else better figure it out soon,” Payton answered lightly, thinking that if her being gone two days was a problem for Calvanti Design, then they were really going to be thrown for a loop when she announced that she was taking a leave of absence on her return.

She was just hanging up when she heard the wooden floor creak. Turning, Payton spotted Marco standing outside the tall gilded salon doors. “When did you get home?”

“A few minutes ago.” He gestured to the phone. “I didn’t overhear anything I wasn’t supposed to hear, did I?”

“No.”

He walked toward her, shedding his coat en route. “I heard you design for Calvanti under your own label now.”

“Yes.” Payton warily watched him approach.

He’d been livid when she took the position with Calvanti on returning to San Francisco two years ago. Calvanti was a small Italian-American design firm that had shown stunning poise and creativity for a small upstart fashion house. Payton had been thrilled at the prospect of having her own label and yet Marco had said they’d only hired her to capitalize on the d’Angelo name.

“You’ve given up working on menswear then?” he asked, dropping his coat on the back on a chair.

She felt a muscle pull in her jaw. He’d never thought much of her as a designer. Early in their marriage she’d shyly shown him her work and he’d been less than impressed. Actually he’d been far more blunt than that. “I still collaborate on menswear and the sportswear collection, but in the future I’ll be focusing more exclusively on my label.”

“You’ve been successful.”

“Surprisingly so, yes.”

“I guess it doesn’t hurt being a d’Angelo after all.”

She felt her face grow hot. She couldn’t speak for a moment, formulating silent protests, wanting instinctively to defend herself but it would do no good. Marco wouldn’t believe she’d kept his name for the girls’ sake. All Payton had wanted was to keep Gia and Liv’s lives simple. Uncomplicated. As free from tension as possible.

“You’ll be meeting Princess Marilena tonight. She’ll be here in a half hour. I expect you’ll treat her with nothing but kindness and respect.”

Payton felt as if he’d tossed a sandbag at her middle. She drew a quick breath, the air nearly knocked out of her. “Of course.”

“I ask that you’ll keep your distance.”

Her cheeks burned. “I understand, Marco. We’re speaking English.”

“Yes, but you’re famous for selective listening. You hear only what you want to hear and I’m telling you now that you can not, will not, come between Marilena and me.”

“Good, because I have no desire to come between you and the princess. If anything, I want to ensure the stability of your relationship—”

“Why?”

He could have been a surgeon with his cold precision. She struggled about, searching for the right words. It wasn’t easy. “If anything happened to me, the girls would…” her voice faded for a moment. Her mind swept the future, saw only a great blankness and shied away. “They’d go to you.”

“I thought you’d always intended they’d go to your mom—” Marco broke off, realizing he’d just erred. Her mother had died in the past year. Payton and her mother had been very close. “I’m sorry. I’d forgotten.”

She nodded painfully. “Thank you.”

Damn her, Marco thought. She looked so guileless standing there, long hair loose, the soft auburn curls flattering her high cheekbones, softening her firm chin. But he knew her. Knew the tricks in her heart. She was no Botticelli angel. She had a goal when she traveled to Milan four years ago. She wanted an internship with a prominent fashion house and she wanted to snare a prominent man. She’d done both.

And yet…yet she looked so tired, so vulnerable just now and it weighed on him. She’d been raising the twins on her own for two years now, and God knows, that couldn’t have been easy.

“I didn’t bring the girls to create friction,” Payton added after a moment. “I thought it’d be good for them to meet the princess before the wedding. I thought it’d help them adjust.”

He looked at her long and hard. Was she telling the truth? Could he possibly trust her?

“Have the girls been in bed long?” he asked, changing the subject, not knowing where to go with any of this. Seeing Payton again wasn’t easy. Nothing with Payton had ever been easy. “I wanted to get back earlier but I had a meeting that turned nasty.”

“They fell asleep a couple hours ago. They’re exhausted. The traveling and the time change.”

Payton saw the new lines at Marco’s eyes and the tightness at his mouth. Those lines hadn’t been there two years ago. He seemed to be feeling so much pressure and she wondered at the stress he was under.

“I was thinking,” she said, “that perhaps we—you, Princess Marilena, and I—could have dinner tonight.”

He tensed. “Tonight?”

“Yes. The three of us. But you might already have other plans—”

“We do.”

She heard the reproach in his voice. He hated things being thrown at him last minute. “It’s not a problem. We can do dinner another time. Or lunch, too, if that’s better.”

The double salon doors suddenly opened and Princess Marilena stood there, a hand on each handle, her tall slender figure elegant in a trim suit, navy silk the color of midnight, that accented her narrow waist and long legs. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, her English flawless, just like the rest of her.

Marco stood up, a warm smile easing his tight features. “Not at all, darling. Come in. We were just talking about you.”

Her lips twisted. “No wonder my ears were burning. Tell me, was it good?”

She was crossing the grand salon, her heels tapping against the marble parquet and yet she only had eyes for Marco and he only had eyes for her.

“It’s always good,” he answered, his voice dropping, husky and intimate as Marilena reached his side.

His arm reached out, circled her waist, hand resting lightly on her hip. “Everything all right?” he whispered, the question clearly meant for Marilena but loud enough for Payton to hear.

Marilena nodded, smiled faintly. “Yes, darling, thank you.” Then she turned to Payton who had risen when Marilena entered the room. “You must be Payton.”

Payton felt a stab of envy. She shouldn’t be jealous. There was no reason to be jealous. She didn’t want a life with Marco—she’d had her chance two years ago—yet it felt peculiar seeing Marco so warm with the princess.

Not just warm, she corrected, but close. Comfortable. Payton had never been comfortable like that; she’d always felt nervous, on edge. But that was all in the past. Marco wasn’t her husband anymore and she wasn’t part of his future.

She forced herself to act, and she held her hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess Marilena. And congratulations, too.”

Princess Marilena inclined her head, but didn’t take Payton’s hand. “Thank you, Payton. We’re very much looking forward to the wedding. The ceremony will be at the Duomo,” she said, referring to the city’s famous Gothic cathedral. “The reception will probably be here.”

“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.” The words were beginning to stick in Payton’s throat and no one else said anything.

The silence grew weighted and Payton realized Marco and Princess Marilena were exchanging curious glances.

Marco straightened. “Payton was suggesting that the three of us have dinner together sometime—”

“A lovely idea,” Marilena charmingly agreed, her voice beautifully modulated. “We really should get to know each other.”

Marco’s heavy eyebrow lifted. “Unfortunately, getting acquainted will have to wait. Payton, you’ll forgive us if we sneak out? We have dinner reservations.”

As Marco assisted Marilena into the passenger seat of his Ferrari, a car he’d bought himself a month after Payton moved back to America, he found his thoughts returning to his ex-wife.

She was different, he thought. She even looked different. Something had happened. Something had changed. Was she having money trouble? Man trouble? Was it something with the girls?

And just like that he realized he’d just made another tactical error. She shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have allowed her into his house. She was trouble. She’d been trouble from the very get-go.

As he started the car, Marilena reached out to rest her hand on his thigh. “Don’t worry so much. Everything will be all right, Marco. Everything will be just fine.”

His eyes met hers and he lifted her hand and kissed it. Yet even as he kissed the back of her hand, his thoughts strayed once more to Payton. Payton had a way of getting under his skin, unsettling him. And she was doing a damn good job of it right now.

In an effort to keep her mind off Marco, Payton set to work emptying the girls’ knapsacks, sorting out the toys and chunky books from the tangled bits of clothes.

It was odd being back in this house, she thought, folding the tiny lilac and sky-blue cardigans and stacking the delicate sweaters on top of the matching striped cotton leggings.

Although Marco’s father had died two years before Payton met Marco, the villa still embodied the great late Franco d’Angelo. Which made it especially painful when Marco moved out and left her and girls behind in his family house.

For the first few months she was alone in the house, she tried to keep up the pretense that she and Marco were fine. She tried to keep it together for the girls, too. But theory and reality are two different things.

In the end, she couldn’t do it. After their volatile separation, she couldn’t manage to be in the same room with Marco and act casual. She couldn’t make polite conversation at one end of the salon while he stood at the other. She couldn’t bear to watch him talk, walk, work—couldn’t bear it when he touched another woman, even if he was just merely helping her with a coat.

He was so comfortable with everyone, so easy with all. Except with her.

She’d heard that time healed wounds but the pain inside her didn’t fade, it just grew worse. Seeing Marco, being near Marco, intensified the loss.

It rubbed her raw, rubbed away her protective reserve, rubbed away everything until she felt as if she were slowly cracking up, falling apart, dangerously close to losing it completely. Just a glimpse of Marco was enough to shatter her all over again. One glimpse of him and it felt as if someone had taken a serrated knife to her heart.

The months of stilted conversation and tense existence took its toll. Payton knew that everyone watched her. Some were curious, and pitied her. Some were puzzled, and blamed her. And for a long time she tried to continue, doing her best to make everything normal for the girls, trying to make everything okay. But on the inside, nothing was okay.

And maybe that’s what everyone knew.

She was trying to act normal and it was just an act.

Finally, nine months after he took separate quarters, she moved, leaving the villa, Milan, and Marco behind.

“You’re settling in then?”

Payton startled at the sound of Marco’s voice. She hadn’t heard him approach, and yet she’d left the door open in case the girls woke. “The girls haven’t stirred and I’ll be turning in soon.” She sat down on the edge of the bed near the stack of clothing. “You’re back early.”

“I have a seven o’clock breakfast meeting.”

So he wouldn’t have time for the girls in the morning. Payton bit her lip in disappointment.

“These meetings were planned weeks ago, Payton.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but I can see it in your eyes. You think I should be here. You think I should drop everything just because you’ve arrived.”

She felt his anger. It was tangible, a physical thing, black, heavy, threatening, and she stiffened. “I don’t expect you to drop everything.”

“Good, because I can’t. In September we’ll be celebrating the fifty-year anniversary of the House of d’Angelo. It’s a big deal, not just for me, but for Milan and the industry itself.”

She already knew about the anniversary. It was part of the fashion world buzz and she was as fascinated by Franco d’Angelo as the rest of the world. He’d been a genius. He’d dressed many of the world’s most famous and beautiful women. Queens, princesses, wives of presidents, international film stars, mistresses of sheikhs.

“A crew from England is here this week,” he continued. “They’re making a documentary on my father. I have fittings scheduled all morning and then they’re interviewing me in the afternoon.”

“Is there anything I could do?”

“You’re no longer with d’Angelo,” Marco rebuffed bluntly. “Besides, the girls need you here.”

Payton tensed, looked away. Why had she even bothered to offer? He’d never understood that she liked to contribute. Never realized it made her feel good to contribute.

“That came out wrong. I’m sorry.” Marco sighed heavily. “I’m tired. It’s been a difficult month.”

For both of them then. “I understand. The IRS has had a field day with my income tax. I’ve spent hours poring over my financial statements, making sure all of my expenses are accounted for.”

His expression eased. He actually looked sympathetic. “But that’s behind you now?”

“Fortunately.”

Looking at him, seeing him stand there and smile at her, she felt a rush of bittersweet memory. She’d loved Marco so much.

He’d been her world. Her stars. Her sky. He had taken her ordinary life and made it big, made her feel, made her love.

And then he’d brought it all down on her…the love, the want, the need…he’d let the world crash down, her dreams and heart breaking. He’d let it shatter and he hadn’t felt a damn thing. God help her, but it’d been the worst pain, the worst loss imaginable. She’d cried for months, cried in the shower, cried in her pillow, cried in the car on her way to the grocery store.

How to get over someone? How to stop wanting someone? How to stop needing someone?

The only way she’d finally survived the loss was to kill the love. She’d been forced to take all that need and want and passion and smother it.

No more tenderness.

No more desire.

No more passion. Nothing but anger. Fierce, sharp unrelenting anger. He’d hurt her so badly she’d decided never to forgive him, never to forget him, never have contact again.

Of course it didn’t work out like that. The biopsy had forced Payton to confront not just her own mortality, but her pride.

“Fortunately,” she repeated softly, swallowing hard and pushing a loose tendril from her forehead. “And I hope I don’t have to deal with the tax man again for quite some time.”

He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. I have someone on a plane to New York trying to track down Gia’s blanket.”

“Thank you. It’d be a miracle if you find it, but it’d be a welcome miracle.”

His mouth tightened. “You don’t think I care about them, Payton, but you’re wrong. I love them. They’ve always been important to me.”

“Yet you haven’t visited very often.”

“You were the one that moved to America.”

He couldn’t reduce all their problems to the move. “It was the only thing I could do.”

“That’s absurd. I wanted you here. I knew it’d be difficult to see the girls once you were half way round the world and I was right.”

“You have business in the United States. You didn’t make many attempts to see us.” She pressed her nails into her hands, her voice taking on an edge. “I know for a fact you were in the Bay Area a number of times and yet you never came by the house.”

His voice sharpened, too. “I tried. Every time I phoned you had an excuse. You were heading out of town, or one of the girls was sick.”

“The time we were heading out of town, I was going to attend a funeral.” Her mother’s funeral. After a five-year battle with cancer her mother had finally lost the fight and Payton had been nearly incoherent with grief. “And children do get sick!”

“I sent gifts,” he defended tersely, but Marco knew it was a lame defense. He had stayed away. Not because he wanted to, but because visiting Payton and the girls hurt more than it helped. He felt like hell after each visit. Felt like a failure.

“A stuffed bear isn’t quite the same thing as a father.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he shouted, furious that she was right and that he’d lost control. God damn it, he hated that Payton could do this to him, hated that she made him feel like an absolute lunatic. “Don’t you think I struggle every day with the knowledge that my children are being raised halfway around the world and they view me as nothing more than a stranger?”

She took a step toward him. “You’re right. They do think of you as a stranger. And why shouldn’t they? You haven’t even tried to be part of their lives. And then last month, it was their birthday. I sent you an invitation. Why didn’t you come?”

He felt the blood drain from his face. “I couldn’t make it.”

“So call me. E-mail me. Tell me so your children won’t be disappointed!”

“They didn’t even notice I wasn’t there.”

He had no idea, she thought, seething. He had no idea how out of touch he was.

Her chest burned and her eyes felt gritty and she realized she was angry—not just with him, but with fate and life and everything. “Do you know they spent their party watching the door? Do you know they begged me not to cut the cake just in case you arrived late?”

“Payton, stop.”

“No, you stop. You stop treating the girls badly because you’re angry with me. They didn’t divorce you. They’re not to blame.”

His shoulders slumped. “I don’t blame them.”

“It seems like it.”

“Then why are you here?”

She dashed her fists beneath her eyes to keep the tears from falling. “My mother died earlier in the year. If anything should happen to me, the girls would come to you.” Her voice broke and she turned away. “It’s too late to save our marriage, but it’s not too late to make sure the girls have a loving relationship with you.”

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