it?’
‘For LA?’
She stilled and then raised her head, her gaze clear and direct. ‘No. For London.’
Fury and hurt coursed through him, choking him so he could barely speak. He didn’t want to feel hurt; anger was stronger. ‘Damn it, Sierra,’ he exclaimed. He raised his hand to do what, he didn’t know—touch her shoulder, beseech her somehow—but he stilled when she instinctively flinched as if she’d expected him to strike her.
‘Sierra?’ His voice was low, her name a question.
She straightened, her expression erased of the cringing fear he’d seen for one alarming second. ‘I’m going.’
Marco watched her for a few moments, forcing himself to be calm. He’d overreacted; he could see that now. ‘Were you planning on returning to London before you got back to the penthouse?’ he asked quietly.
She gave him another one of those direct looks that cut right to his heart. ‘No, I wasn’t.’
He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. ‘I’m sorry I was so angry.’
She made a tiny shrugging gesture, as if it was of no importance, and yet Marco knew instinctively that it was. ‘You flinched just then, almost as if...’ He didn’t want to voice the suspicion lurking in the dark corners of his mind. And maybe that flinch had been a moment’s instinctive reaction, and yet...she’d had such a look on her face, one of terrible fear.
‘Almost as if what?’ Sierra asked, and it sounded like a challenge.
‘Almost as if you expected me to...’ He swallowed hard. ‘Hit you.’
‘I wasn’t,’ she said after a moment. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘But old habits die hard, I suppose.’
‘What do you mean?’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘There’s no point having this conversation.’
‘How can you say that? This might be the most important conversation we’ve ever had.’
‘Oh, Marco.’ She looked up at him, and everything in him jolted at the look of weary sorrow in her eyes. ‘I wish it could be, but...’ She trailed off, biting her lip.
‘What do you mean? What aren’t you telling me?’ She didn’t answer and he forced himself not to take a step towards her, not to raise his voice or seem threatening in any way. ‘Sierra, did a man...did a man ever hit you?’
The silence following his question seemed endless. Marco felt as if he could scarcely breathe.
Finally Sierra looked up, resignation in every weary line of her lovely face. ‘Yes,’ she said and then Marco felt a fury like none he’d known before—this time at this unknown man who had dared to hurt and abuse her. He’d kill the bastard.
‘Who?’ he demanded. ‘A boyfriend...?’
‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘My father.’
* * *
Sierra watched Marco blink, his jaw slackening, as he stared at her in obvious disbelief. She kept packing. Having him yell at her like that had been the wake-up call she needed, and in that moment she’d realised why she’d felt so uneasy earlier, when Marco had left her alone in the suite. She was turning into her mother. Dropping her own life at a man’s request, living for his pleasure. There was no way she was walking even one step down that road, and when Marco had shouted at her, looking so angry, Sierra had realised the trap she’d been just about to step into. Thank God she’d realised before it was too late...even if the thought of leaving Marco made her insides twist with grief.
‘Your father?’ Marco repeated hoarsely. ‘Arturo? No.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me.’
He was shaking his head slowly, looking utterly winded. Sierra almost felt sorry for him.
‘But...’ he began, and then stopped. She reached for the dress she’d worn to the opening yesterday. ‘Sierra, wait.’ He grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly, and she went completely still.
He stared at her for a moment, his face white, and then he let her go and backed away, his hands raised like a man about to be arrested. ‘You know I would never, ever hurt you.’
‘I know that,’ she said quietly. She believed it but even with that head knowledge she couldn’t keep from fearing. Trust was a hard, hard thing.
Slowly, Marco dropped his hands. Sierra resumed packing. He watched her for several moments and his scrutiny made her hands tremble as she tried to fold her clothes. ‘Do you mind?’ she finally asked, and to her irritation her voice shook.
‘What did you mean—that he hit you?’ Marco asked.
‘Does it really need explaining?’
‘Sierra, your father was as good as my father. I loved him. I trusted him. Yes, it needs explaining.’ His voice came out harsh, grating, and she forced herself not to flinch.
‘Then let me explain it for you,’ she said coolly. She was surprised at how much a relief it was to tell him the truth. She’d been keeping this secret for far too long, first out of fear that he wouldn’t believe her, and then because she hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Both reasons seemed like pathetic excuses now. ‘My father hit me,’ Sierra stated clearly. ‘Often. He hit my mother, too. He played the doting father and adoring husband for the public, but in private he heaped physical and emotional abuse on us. Slaps, pinches, punches, the lot. And the words...the insults, the sneers, the mockery.’ She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes as a lump formed in her throat. ‘My mother loved him anyway. I’ve never been able to understand that. She loved him and wouldn’t hear a word against him, although she always tried to protect me from his anger.’
Marco was shaking his head, his body language refuting every word she’d said. ‘No...’
‘I don’t care if you believe me or not,’ Sierra said, even though she knew that for a lie. She did care. Far too much. ‘But at least now I’ve said it. Now you know, even if you don’t want to.’
She closed her suitcase, struggling with the zip. Marco placed a hand on top of the case. ‘Please, Sierra, don’t go like this.’
‘Why should I stay?’
‘Because I want you to stay. Because we’ve been having a fantastic time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look, this is a tremendous shock to me. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but give me a few moments to absorb it. Please.’
Slowly Sierra nodded. She could see the sense in what he was staying, even if her instinct was to run. And in truth there was a part of her, a large part, that didn’t want to leave. ‘Okay,’ she said, and then waited.
A full minute passed in silence. Finally Marco said hesitantly, ‘Why...why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would you have believed me? You hated me, Marco.’ It hurt to remind him of that.
‘I
