She didn’t want to live on the fringes of Marcu’s life. She didn’t want to know about his wife or children. She refused to look back, refused to remember, unwilling to feel the pain that washed through her every time his name was mentioned.
The pain baffled her, too, because when she left Palermo, she’d convinced herself that she hadn’t loved him, she’d merely been infatuated. She’d told herself she felt curiosity and desire, but not true love. So why did his name hurt? Why did his marriage wound? It wasn’t until he’d married Galeta and they’d had that first baby together, that Monet realized her feelings for him were stronger and deeper than she’d previously allowed herself to acknowledge. She couldn’t possibly hurt so much if she’d merely been infatuated. She wouldn’t miss him so much if she’d just been curious. No, she hurt because she loved him, and he was only the second person in her whole life she’d ever loved.
Monet turned back to Marcu again, still not quite able to believe he was here, beside her. She felt so many different things, and her chaotic emotions weren’t improved by his close proximity. Marcu had been handsome at twenty, and twenty-five, but now, at thirty-three, his face was even more arresting. He’d matured, the bones in his jaw and cheekbones more defined, the hollows beneath his cheekbones more pronounced, his skin lightly tanned, glowing with health and vitality.
“How did she die?” Monet asked, trying to organize her thoughts, never mind her impossible emotions.
“She had a stroke after childbirth.” He drew a breath. “I’d never heard of such a thing but our doctor said that while it’s uncommon, strokes cause ten percent of all pregnancy-related deaths.” He was silent another moment. “I wasn’t even there when it happened. I’d just flown to New York, thinking she was in good hands at the palazzo with the nanny and night nurse.”
“You don’t blame yourself, do you?”
“I don’t blame myself for the stroke, but I can’t forget that she died while I was on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean. It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t have been that way. If I’d been there, maybe I could have gotten her help sooner. Maybe the doctors could have saved her.”
Monet didn’t know how to respond and so she sat there with the distressing words resonating around her, listening to the soft rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers moving back and forth, clearing the glass, even as her heart did a painful beat in her chest.
Of course Marcu would feel badly. How could he not feel partially responsible? But at the same time, that didn’t make his situation her problem. He needed help, yes, but why from her?
“Does your late wife have no family who could help with the children?” she asked as the traffic thinned. They were approaching London’s commercial financial hub, and during the week the streets bustled with activity but now the area was quiet and dark. “What of Galeta’s parents? No grandparents to lend a supportive hand?”
“Galeta was an only child, and her parents are both gone. My father is gone. I have my brother and sisters, but they all are busy with their own lives.”
“Just as I am busy with my own life,” she retorted lightly, unwilling to escalate things in the close confines of his car.
“I’m asking for a few weeks, not years.”
She glanced out the window and watched the grand Bank of England pass by. Lovingly referred to as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street by some, Monet was always awed and reassured by its history and size. “It’s simply not a good time,” she answered, glancing from the bank to Marcu.
“Would any time be a good time?” he countered.
The car turned at the corner, passing more historic buildings that formed the heart of the city of London, making Monet wonder where they were going to eat in this particular neighborhood before her attention returned to Marcu.
“No,” she answered with a sigh, even as she reached up to tuck a long tendril behind her ear. She was tired and uncomfortable and she wanted out of her slim dress and heels. She wanted the delicate underwire bra off and the smoothing undergarments off so that she could climb into pajamas and eat warm comfort food and sip a big glass of red wine. Merlot. Burgundy. Shiraz. “I have no desire to work for you, ever.”
“I know,” he answered even as the driver pulled over in front of one of the big dark buildings, parked, and exited the driver’s side, again wielding the umbrella. He opened the back door and Marcu stepped out and then reached in to assist her. She avoided his hand, neatly stepping away to make sure there was no contact between them.
He shot her a sardonic glance but said nothing as the driver walked them to a plain wooden door. Marcu reached out and touched one gray stone. There was a long pause and then the door silently opened. They stepped inside a dimly lit, severe-looking entrance hall. The door closed behind them and Monet gazed around, curious but also confused by the stillness and emptiness of the impersonal cream-and-gray space. There were stairs at the back of the hallway and a service elevator to their right but that was all.
“I normally prefer the stairs,” Marcu said, “but you’ve been on your feet all day, so I suggest we take the elevator.”
They did, traveling down, but it was impossible to say how far down they went, before the doors silently opened, revealing a black-and-white marble parquet floor, massive columns, and what looked like the entrance to a huge bank vault. Walls glimmered gold and silver on the other side of the vault entrance. She glanced at Marcu, an eyebrow lifting in silent enquiry.
He gestured for her to proceed through the open vault door, where they were greeted by a gentleman in a dark suit and black shirt. “Mr. Uberto,” the man said. “It’s good to have you back.”
They were ushered past an elegant bar of stainless steel and thick glass where a bartender was mixing drinks, then through another archway to a dining room dotted with chandeliers. The chandeliers were an eclectic mix of styles and time periods, and hung from a silver ceiling casting soft pools of light on pale lavender velvet chairs and upholstered booths. There weren’t more than a dozen tables in the room. There were men at some tables, and couples at others. Monet and Marcu were taken to yet another room, this one small and private, with just one table. The chandelier was all pink glass, and the upholstery on the high back chairs was gray.
Monet sank into her well-upholstered chair with an appreciative sigh. It felt even more welcoming than it looked. “This is quite a place,” she said, as waiters appeared in quick succession with bottles of chilled mineral water, olives, and pâté with slivers of toasted baguette.
“It was once part of the Bank of Sicily. It’s now a private members’ club.”
“I suspected as much.” She reached for an olive and popped it in her mouth, suddenly ravenous. “Let me guess, your father used to have a membership here, and they extended an invitation to you?”
“My grandfather used to own the bank, my father closed it, and when he couldn’t find someone to buy the building for its proper value, I took it on and turned the Vault into a private club five years ago.”
“What happened to the rest of the building?”
“It’s now a members-only hotel and spa.”
“Do you use the same door to access the hotel and spa?”
“No, there is a different entrance.”
“Why?”
“Because
