when he’d seen her standing in the doorway of di Santis’s office, when he’d remembered how she’d tasted and felt and even more, how he’d enjoyed being with her, seeing her shy smile, the way those blue-grey eyes had warmed with surprised laughter...when he’d been looking forward to the life they would build together... It didn’t feel as if he’d moved on. At all. And that realisation infuriated him.
Marco swung away from her, bracing his hands against the counter. ‘I don’t want anything from you. Not any more.’ He busied himself with opening the tin of tomatoes and pouring the contents into a pan. ‘Seeing you again has made me ask some questions,’ he answered, his voice thankfully cool. ‘And want some answers. Since I never had any.’
‘I can understand that.’ She sounded sad.
‘Can you?’ Then why...? But he wouldn’t ask her anything more. He wouldn’t beg. Wordlessly, he turned back to their makeshift meal. Sierra watched him, saying nothing, but Marco felt the tension ease slightly. The anger that had been propelling him along had left in a defeated rush, leaving him feeling more sad than anything else. And he didn’t want to feel sad. God help him, he was over Sierra. He’d never loved her, after all—he’d desired her, yes. He’d wanted her very much.
But love? No. He’d never felt that and he had no intention of feeling it for anyone.
He slid his gaze towards her, saw the way her chest rose and fell under the baggy T-shirt. He could see the peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric, and desire arced through him. He still wanted her.
And did she want him? The question intrigued him and, even though he knew nothing would happen between them now, he realised he wanted to know the answer—very much.
There was only one way to find out. He reached for the salt, letting his arm brush across her breasts for one tantalising second. He heard her draw her breath in sharply and step back. When he glanced at her, he saw the colour flare into her face, her eyes widen before she quickly looked away.
Marco only just suppressed his smile as satisfaction surged through him. She wanted him. Seducing her would be easy...and such sweet revenge. But was that all he wanted from Sierra now? A moment’s pleasure? The proof that she’d missed out? It felt petty and small, and more exposing of him than her.
And yet it would be so satisfying.
‘What will you do with the estate?’ She cleared her throat, her gaze flicking away from his as she stirred the pasta. ‘Will you live here? Or sell it?’
‘I haven’t decided.’ His thoughts of revenge were replaced by an uncomfortable flicker of guilt for taking Sierra’s inheritance from her. Not that he’d actually wanted to; Arturo had insisted, claiming Marco had been far more of a son to him than Sierra had ever been a daughter. And, in his self-righteous anger and hurt, Marco had relented. Sierra had walked away from the family that had embraced him. He’d believed she deserved what she’d got: nothing.
‘Is there anything you want from the villa?’ he asked. ‘Or the palazzo in Palermo? Some heirlooms or pictures?’
She shook her head, her certainty shocking him even though he knew it shouldn’t. She’d turned her back on all of it seven years ago. ‘No. I don’t want anything.’
‘There’s nothing?’ he pressed. ‘What about a photograph of your parents? There’s a wedding picture in the front hall of the palazzo. It’s lovely.’ He watched her, searching for some sign of softness, some relenting towards her family, towards him.
‘No,’ she said, and her voice was firm. ‘I don’t want anything.’
They worked in silent tandem, preparing the simple meal, and it wasn’t until they were seated at the table in the alcove with steaming plates of pasta that Sierra spoke again.
‘I always liked this spot. I ate breakfast here. The cook was an old battleaxe who thought I should eat in the dining room but I couldn’t bear it, with all the stuffy portraits staring down at me so disapprovingly. I much preferred it here.’ She smiled, the gesture touched with sorrowful whimsy.
Marco imagined her as a child sitting at the table, her feet not even touching the floor. He imagined their daughter doing the same, and then abruptly banished the thought. Dreams he’d once had of a proper family, a real life, and now they were nothing but ashes and smoke. He’d never live here with Sierra or anyone.
‘You can have the villa.’ His voice came out abrupt, ungracious. Marco cleared his throat. ‘I won’t be using it. And it was your family home.’
She stared at him, her eyes wide. ‘You’re offering me the villa?’
He shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I? I didn’t need any of your inheritance. The only thing I wanted was your father’s shares in Rocci Enterprises.’ Which gave him control of the empire he’d helped to build.
‘Of course.’ Her mouth curved in a mocking smile. ‘That’s why you wanted to marry me, after all.’
‘What do you mean?’ He stared at her in surprise, shocked by her assumption. ‘Is that what you think? That I wanted to marry you only for personal gain?’
‘Can you really deny it? What better way to move through the ranks than marry the boss’s daughter?’ She held his gaze and even though her voice was cool he saw pain in her eyes. Old, unforgotten pain, a remnant of long past emotion, and strangely it gratified him. So this was why she’d left—because she’d assumed he had been using her?
‘I won’t deny that there were some advantages to marrying you,’ he began, and she let out a hard laugh.
‘That’s putting it mildly. You wouldn’t have looked twice at me if my last name hadn’t been Rocci.’
‘That’s not necessarily true. But I was introduced to you by your father. I always knew you were a Rocci.’
‘And he stage-managed it all, didn’t he? The whole reason he introduced you to me was to marry me off.’
Marco heard the bitterness in her voice and wondered at it. ‘But surely you knew that.’
‘Yes, I knew.’ She shook her head, regret etched on her fine-boned features. Marco laid down his knife and fork and stared at her hard.
‘Then how can you object? Your father was concerned for your welfare. It made sense, assuming we got along, for him to encourage the match. He’d provide for his daughter and secure his business.’
‘Which sounds positively medieval—’
‘Not medieval,’ Marco interjected. ‘Sicilian, perhaps. He was an old-fashioned man, this is an old-fashioned country, with outdated ideas about some things. Trust me, I know.’
She looked up, the bitterness and regret sliding from her face, replaced by curiosity. ‘Why do you say that? Why should you know better than another?’
He shouldn’t have said that at all. He had no intention of telling Sierra about the shame of his parentage, the sorrow of his childhood. The past was best left forgotten, and he knew he could not stomach her pity. ‘We’ve both encountered it, in different ways,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘But if you knew your father intended for us to marry, why do you fault me for it now?’
Sierra
