if it was a good time.”
She looked away, brow knitting as she looked toward the huge Palladian-style window that dominated the fifth floor, adding to the department’s restrained elegance. A few fat white flakes seemed to be floating past the glass. It wasn’t snowing, was it?
“I promise to put in a good word with Charles Bernard,” Marcu added. “I know him quite well, and I’m confident he will hold your position for you, and if not, I promise to help you find another job in January, after the wedding.”
The wedding?
That caught her attention and she turned from the window and the snow to look at Marcu. His blue gaze met hers and held.
Marcu was still Marcu—brilliant, confident, arrogant, self-contained—and for a moment she was that eighteen-year-old girl again, desperate to be in his arms, in his life, in his heart. And then she collected herself, reminding herself that she wasn’t eighteen; years had passed and thankfully they weren’t the same people. At least, she wasn’t the same girl. She wasn’t attracted to him. She felt nothing for him.
So why the sudden frisson of awareness shooting through her, warming her from the inside out?
“I’m afraid you lost me,” she said huskily. “What wedding?”
“Mine.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Perhaps you didn’t know that my wife died shortly after my youngest was born.”
Monet had known, but she’d blocked that from her mind, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said, fixing her gaze on the sharp knot of his blue tie, the silk gleaming in the soft overhead light. Of course he was exquisitely tailored. Marcu looked sleek and polished, Italian style and sophistication personified. Perhaps if she kept her attention fixed to the crisp white points of his collar, and the smooth lapels of his jacket, she could keep from seeing the face she’d once loved. It had taken her forever to get over him, and she would not allow herself to feel any attraction, or interest, or concern or affection.
“I need help with the children until after the wedding, and then it will get easier,” he said. “I won’t need your assistance longer than four weeks. Five, if it’s really rough going.”
Four or five weeks, working with him? Minding his children while he married again? “Does that include the honeymoon?” she asked drily.
He shrugged. “I have a conference mid-January in Singapore. I’m speaking so it depends on Vittoria if she’d like to make that our honeymoon.”
Monet was appalled but it was none of her business. She wasn’t going to get involved. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry, but I’ve already paid you back the cost of the airline ticket, and the cash you lent me, with interest. Our debt should be settled.”
“The debt is settled, the favor is not.”
“They are one and the same.”
“No, they are not one and the same. You do not owe me financially, but you owe me for the position you put me in when you left the palazzo, and the speculation you created by abruptly departing without saying goodbye to your mother, my father, my brother and sisters. You put me in a most difficult position, and that is the score that is to be settled now as once again I am in a difficult position and this time you can help me.”
It crossed her mind that she could argue this point forever with him, but he would never change his stance. Marcu was fixed. He was absolutely immovable. Even at twenty-five he’d been mentally strong, physically strong, a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps that had been his appeal. Monet had been raised by a woman who couldn’t put down permanent roots, and didn’t know how to make a home, or even make responsible decisions. Monet’s mother, Candie, was impulsive and irrational. Marcu was the opposite. He was analytical, cautious, risk-averse. He was reason personified.
The only time he’d ever surprised her was the night he’d kissed her, and made love to her, only stopping short of taking her virginity. And then his regret, and his scorn, had scarred her. In mere minutes he’d gone from passionate and sensual, to callous and cold.
Monet had left less than fourteen hours later, flying out of Palermo with nothing but the smallest knapsack of clothing. She owned very little. She and her mother had lived off the generosity of Marcu’s father and Monet was not about to take any of the gifts he’d bestowed on her.
It proved easy to leave Palermo, and yet once she’d arrived in London, far too hard to forget Palermo. Not because she missed her mother, but Monet missed everything else—the busy life at the historic sprawling palazzo, Marcu’s younger brother and sisters, and then there was Marcu himself...
In that first year in London Monet spent far too many nights sleepless, agonizing over the evening in Marcu’s arms. It hurt to remember his kisses and his touch, and yet they were the most potent, powerful emotions and sensations she had ever felt. She had felt like a flame—flickering, hot, radiant. He had woken something inside of her that she hadn’t known existed. And his harsh rejection of her had been confusing...shattering.
She’d worked to forget Sicily. She’d tried to put the entire Uberto family from her mind, and yet she missed the children. They had become the only family she’d ever really known.
She had also been in desperate need of a job, and her father, a man she’d only seen a handful of times in her life, had introduced her to a family in need of a nanny while the children were out of school for the summer holiday. She’d performed the job so well that the family had kept her on for the coming school year. She helped with the children, and their schoolwork, and ferrying them from one after-school activity to another. She’d stayed with that family until the parents divorced and could no longer keep her on, but she’d found another job right away, and then another until she’d realized that she couldn’t continue in child care—all the goodbyes were too hard on her heart—and she went to work in retail.
She’d started downstairs at the register in hats and gloves, and then when they were short-staffed in bridal, went to the fifth floor to fill in, and had never left the bridal department. If others thought she was too young to be the manager of the department at twenty-six, no one said so, because despite her age, she had style and flair and an eye for quality. Monet wasn’t entirely surprised. She was her mother’s daughter after all.
“I know this is a lot to take in so I propose we postpone further conversation until you’ve finished here, and we can go to dinner and relax and have a civilized discussion.” Marcu gave her an encouraging smile. “It will give you an opportunity to ask the questions that I’m sure will come to you—”
“But I have no questions,” she interrupted, refusing to fall for his charm, painfully aware that in the past she’d found Marcu nearly irresistible—and he knew it, too. He knew exactly how to play her, just as he’d successfully played her eight years ago. She had no wish to fall in with his plans again and rose, indicating she was finished with the conversation.
“Marcu, I have no interest in this position. It’s pointless to continue as I have no wish to waste your time, nor do I wish to waste my own. I’m to return here early tomorrow morning and I still need to find a missing gown before Mrs. Wilkerson descends on us again.” She drew another short, tight breath. “I wish I could say it was good to see you, but that would be a lie, and after all these years there is no point in either of us lying to the other.”
“I never imagined you to be vindictive.”
