so he could come to Monet today and say, I need you.
Because he did.
He needed her to come help him stabilize things at home while he figured out how to give his children a better life.
His children needed more than him. He wasn’t patient and tender, or particularly affectionate. He loved his children but he didn’t know how to meet all their needs, which is why he needed a partner...a better half. He needed a wife, someone maternal, someone to create stability in their home. He traveled too much. He worked too long. He was constantly at war with himself, juggling his business commitments while trying to be present with the children—not easy when his main office was in New York and his children were being raised in Sicily. He’d fly to New York for three days, but inevitably he’d have to extend his trip by a day, and then another, and another. Sometimes his brief trips became a week long and then two weeks, and he not only worried about the kids, but he’d also be filled with guilt and self-loathing.
Guilt that Galeta had died.
Self-loathing because he didn’t want to remarry and it’s why he hadn’t proposed to someone sooner.
Galeta had been a kind, loyal wife, and while they didn’t have a passionate marriage, they became friends and partners, with Galeta creating a warm loving home for him and their children in the main apartment at the palazzo. Her death had been a shock, and it had taken him years to wrap his head around the tragedy. Why hadn’t he known that a woman was still so vulnerable after delivery? Why had he thought that once she was home from the hospital everything was fine?
The guilt. The agony. She had deserved better, and so did their children. He wasn’t the father he’d thought he would be. He wasn’t good enough at all. And so while he didn’t want another wife, he would remarry, and he’d make sure that his new wife understood that her first responsibility was to the children.
“I can’t forgive the favor because I need you,” he replied now, his rough tone betraying his impatience. “You needed help from me eight years ago, and I helped you, and now I’m asking for you to return the favor. You understand this, I know you do. You lived with us long enough to understand our Sicilian view of these things.”
Monet gave her dark head a faint shake. Two bright spots of color stained her cheekbones, while her large golden-brown eyes glowed, burning with emotion.
“I also know that you could choose to be magnanimous and forgive the debt.”
“If my children weren’t involved, then yes, perhaps I could. But this is about my children, and they need you, which is why I need you.”
She slowly sat back in her chair, her slim frame practically vibrating with fury. She was both beautiful and fierce, and it struck him that he’d never seen this side of her before. In Palermo she’d been quiet and sweet with a deliciously dry sense of humor. She rarely spoke when his father was present, but when she was with Marcu and his brother and sisters, she had plenty to say, and inevitably she made everyone laugh. He should have known that underneath her sweet persona she had backbone. He was pleased to see it, finding it something of a relief. His world was filled with people who acquiesced to his every desire simply because he was wealthy and powerful. But it was hard to trust people who claimed they always agreed with you and only wanted to please you. Those people were dangerous. They could be bought.
“I don’t like you,” she said quietly, carefully, the lushness of her lower lip quivering before she pressed her mouth into a firm line.
Her words hung there between them, coloring the private dining room. He let them hover, too, even though his first instinct was to remind her that once she’d followed him everywhere, had been absolutely devoted to him, and was always the first to defend him even though he’d never needed her defense. No, he’d never needed it but her loyalty had always touched him, and in return he’d kept an eye out for her, been protective of her even when he’d been away at university. He’d paid one of the palazzo staff to report to him because he worried about her in his absence. Her mother was oblivious to her existence and while his father would never hurt her, he only tolerated the girl for Candie’s sake.
It was never good to merely be tolerated. Monet was too smart, too sensitive not to have been aware of her position in the Uberto household.
“Now,” he said, breaking the silence. “You don’t like me now. We both know that wasn’t always the case.”
“But that dislike should be enough for you to not want me to be with your children. That dislike should make you reject me as a suitable caregiver.”
“Your dislike is at least honest. I respect such honesty, and I also know that you are far too fair to allow your personal feelings for me to prejudice you against my children.”
“But you don’t know me. I’m not the girl who left Palermo eight years ago with nothing but a knapsack on her back—”
“And five thousand of my euros in your pocket.”
“Don’t you understand?” she blurted, rising swiftly to her feet. “I didn’t want your money then, and I don’t want it now.”
She would have fled if he’d allowed it. He wasn’t going to let her go, though. His hand snaked out and wrapped around her wrist, preventing her from leaving.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “Have a conversation with me.”
“There is no point,” she said hotly. “You don’t listen. You’re not hearing what I’m saying.” She tugged to free herself. He didn’t let go. “Why can’t you offer a compromise? Why can’t you meet me partway? I can’t leave my job now. I would be willing to do it in January—”
“I don’t need you in January,” he interrupted, releasing her, hoping she would sit. She didn’t. She continued to stand there at the table, furious and indignant. “Miss Sheldon will be back then,” he added. “Once she’s back, I won’t need you.”
“I can’t leave my work for up to five weeks. It’s mid-December now. That means I’d still be gone in the middle of January.”
“Four weeks then.” He suppressed a sigh. “Will you sit, please?”
“That’s still the middle of January.”
He was silent a long moment before countering. “Three weeks from tomorrow, but only if you sit down. This is uncomfortable, and we’re drawing attention.”
“There is no one else in this dining room. It’s exceptionally private.”
“I’m in this dining room and you’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Heavens, we can’t have that, can we?” she retorted mockingly, before slowly sitting back down. “Two weeks.”
“Three.”
She reached for her wineglass and took a sip, hoping he wouldn’t see how her hand trembled. “I wouldn’t want to remain after you and Vittoria return after New Year’s.”
“You wouldn’t have to.”
“I’ll be on a flight home that first weekend of January.”
“I’ll send you home on my plane. I promise.”
