the city. ‘I love it. It’s the most amazing room I’ve ever seen.’ She turned to him, gratified and even touched to see the relief that flashed across his face before he schooled his features into a more neutral, composed expression. ‘But surely this isn’t the whole suite?’ The circular room was a living area only. ‘I don’t see any beds. Or a bathroom, for that matter.’
‘The rest of the suite is upstairs. But I wanted to show you this first.’
‘It really is amazing. You must have a fantastic architect.’
‘I do, but the idea for this suite was mine.’ Sierra saw a slight blush colour Marco’s high cheekbones and she felt an answering wave of something almost like tenderness. ‘He didn’t think it was possible, and I nagged him until he conceded it was.’
‘Clearly you’re tenacious.’
‘When I have to be.’
His gaze held hers for a moment and she wondered at the subtext. Was he talking about them? If she’d confessed her fears to him all those years ago, would he have been tenacious in helping to assuage them, in making their marriage work? It was so dangerous to think that way, and yet impossible to keep herself from wondering. But she didn’t want to imagine what life could have been; she wanted to think about what still could be.
‘Let me show you the upstairs,’ Marco said and took her hand as he led her to the spiral staircase in the centre of the room, next to the lift, that led to the rooms above.
Upstairs there were still the soaring views, although the space was divided into several rooms and the windows didn’t go from ceiling to floor. Marco showed her the kitchen, the two sumptuous bedrooms with luxurious en suite bathrooms, and Sierra noted the small amount of hallway between them. There was room for two as Marco had assured her, but they would be sleeping right across from each other. The prospect filled her with excitement and even anticipation rather than alarm.
What was happening to her?
‘You should refresh yourself,’ Marco said when he’d shown her the guest room that she would use. ‘Rest if you need to. It’s been a long day.’
‘Okay.’
‘The ribbon-cutting and gala are tomorrow but if you feel up for it we could see a few sights today,’ Marco suggested. ‘If you’re up for it?’
‘Definitely. Let me just get changed.’
As she showered and dressed, Sierra gave herself a mental talking-to. She was playing a dangerous game, she knew, and one she hadn’t intended to play. She was attracted to Marco and she was discovering all over again how much she liked him. She knew he was attracted to her; maybe he even liked her. They had plenty of reasons to have a nice time together, even to have a fling.
It didn’t have to be for ever. They’d contemplated marriage once before, a marriage based on expediency rather than love, but they didn’t have to this time. This time whatever was between them could be for pleasure. In her mind it sounded simple and yet Sierra knew the dangers. Trusting any man, even with just her body, was a big step, and one she hadn’t taken before. Did she really want to with Marco?
And yet the three days that stretched so enticingly in front of her, the excitement of being with Marco... How could she resist?
But perhaps she wouldn’t need to. Perhaps Marco had no intention of acting on the attraction between them. Perhaps he’d meant what he’d said back at the villa about never touching her again.
With her thoughts still in a hopeless snarl, Sierra left her bedroom in search of Marco. She found him downstairs in the circular salon, talking in clipped English on his phone. Sierra had become fluent in English since moving to London and she could tell he was checking on the hotel’s readiness for tomorrow.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked as Marco slid the phone into his pocket.
‘Yes. Just checking on a few last-minute details. I don’t want anything to go wrong, not even the hors d’oeuvres.’
He smiled ruefully and Sierra laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘This is really important to you.’
He gazed down at her, his wry smile replaced by a sombre look. ‘I told you the truth before, Sierra. The whole truth. The hotel is everything to me.’
Everything. Sierra didn’t know whether to feel rebuked or relieved. She decided to feel neither, to simply enjoy the possibilities of the day. ‘So what sights are you going to show me? You must have been to New York loads of times, overseeing the hotel.’
‘Do you have anything you want to see in particular?’
‘Whatever your favourite thing is.’ She wanted to get to know this man more.
A smile curled Marco’s mouth, drawing Sierra’s attention to his firm and yet lush lips. Lips she still remembered the taste of, and craved. ‘All right, then. Let’s go.’
It wasn’t until they were out on Central Park West and Marco had hailed one of the city’s trademark yellow cabs that Sierra asked where they were going.
He ushered her into the cab first, sliding in next to her so their thighs were pressed together. ‘The Museum of Modern Art.’
‘Art!’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I never knew you liked art.’
‘Modern art. And there are a lot of things you don’t know about me.’
‘Yes,’ Sierra answered as Marco held her gaze, a small smile curving his wonderful mouth. ‘I’m coming to realise that.’
MARCO COULD NOT remember a time when he’d enjoyed himself more. He and Sierra wandered around the airy galleries of the MoMA and, at some point while looking at the vast canvases and modern sculpture, he took her hand.
It felt so natural that he didn’t even think about it first, just slid his hand into hers and let their fingers entwine. She didn’t resist, and they spent the rest of the afternoon remarking on and joking about Klimt’s use of colour and Picasso’s intriguing angular forms.
‘I’m not an expert, by any means,’ Marco told her when they wandered out into the sunshine again. It was August and New York simmered under a summer sun, heat radiating from the pavement. ‘I just like the possibility in modern art. That people dared to do things differently, to see the world another way.’
‘Yes, I can understand that.’ She slid him a look of smiling compassion. ‘Especially considering your background.’
Marco tensed instinctively but Sierra was still holding his hand, and he forced himself to relax. She knew more about him than anyone else did, even Arturo, who had been as good as a father. Arturo had known about his background a little; he’d raised him up from being a bellboy and, in any case, Marco knew his accent gave him away as a Sicilian street rat. But Arturo had never known about his father. He’d never asked.
‘Where to now?’ Sierra asked and Marco shrugged.
‘Wherever you like. Are you getting tired?’
