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“If it was a one-off, and it won’t happen again, why are you telling me?” she asked, coolly. “Was there a reason for me to know?”
“I feel badly about it.”
She gave him a long level look before shrugging. “I have never imagined you to be a saint. You will do what you want—”
“But I don’t, and I wouldn’t when we marry.” If we marry, he silently added, before wondering where that came from.
He wasn’t having serious doubts, was he?
He couldn’t let Monet turn everything inside out.
“Men have affairs,” Vittoria answered matter-of-factly. “Women do, too. It’s human nature.”
“I never cheated on Galeta. If we married, I wouldn’t cheat on you,” he said grimly.
“If,” she said, head tipping, long hair spilling over her shoulder. “You are not so sure now, are you? A few days with this nanny from your childhood, and you kiss her, and then question our relationship. Perhaps you have feelings for her.”
“I did,” he said, “when I was younger, before I married Galeta.”
“Perhaps you still do now.”
Dinner ended soon after that, and he drove Vittoria back to her apartment, and he left her after seeing her to her door.
Back in his car he’d felt wildly out of sorts. Kissing Monet had changed everything. It shouldn’t have because the kiss was brief. It had lasted less than a minute. There had been no touching, no exploration of skin or curves...and yet he might as well have stripped her bare because her body was so imprinted on his mind and imagination.
He’d felt her soft breasts against his chest. He’d felt the shape of her hips, and the indentation of her waist. He’d felt the heat of her slim body and the vanilla-and-orange-blossom scent of her hair and skin.
She’d smelled like summer and her fragrance had stayed with him long after he’d gone to bed, making him think of home, and a past that was long gone.
On the one hand she was vastly different from the girl she’d been, and on the other, she was exactly the same girl—strong, smart, authentic, original.
He’d never met anyone like Monet. She was so opposite him in every way and yet somehow it had once felt right.
Now...
Now...
But there was no now, he told himself tersely, tension weighting his limbs. He still needed a wife, and Vittoria had met the children and it could be a good marriage. He hadn’t married Galeta because he’d loved her, but he’d respected her, and he respected Vittoria. Love was inconsequential. Security mattered. Stability mattered. He wasn’t going to risk the future—or his children’s mental health—on something as temporary, and unstable, as romantic love.
Not that he’d ever loved Monet, either. But there had been desire. Fierce desire. Desire that had destroyed a six-year relationship and created a serious chasm between him and his father.
He had to smash the desire now. He had to get control of himself immediately. There was no way he’d allow an impulse to wreck his plans. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he didn’t want and his decision had been made.
Exhaling, Marcu turned the windshield wipers on higher, needing the increased speed to clear the falling snow from the windshield. The snow was coming down harder. The wind was blowing sheets of snow across the road, turning the world beyond his car a blinding white. It was going to be a long drive to the castello tonight.
* * *
By the time he arrived home, the children were in bed, asleep—he knew, because he checked in on them and they were all in their beds, tucked in against the night’s chill. Marcu went to Monet’s room and knocked on the door, wanting to see how things had gone while he’d been away.
It took her a few moments to come to the door and he wondered if she’d also gone to bed. He was just turning away when her door opened and she peeked out, her long dark hair tumbling free over her shoulders, her eyes lovely and luminous in her pale oval face.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, feeling guilty for disturbing her, and yet it wasn’t that late, not even quite nine.
“No, I was just in bed reading.”
“How was everything here? I didn’t hear from you so I hope things went smoothly.”
“Very smoothly,” she answered. “We get along very well. So well, that the time just flies by.”
There was something in her cheerful answer that sounded a little forced. “What did you do to pass the time?” he asked.
“We made cookies, and played in the snow.” She smiled brightly up at him, still holding the door close so that all he could see of her was her head and part of her shoulder. “We had lots of fresh air. I’ve put your winter coats and boots to good use.”
“You’re making me suspicious,” he said.
“Why?”
“You seem determined to be happy—”
“But I am happy,” she interrupted. “I really enjoy your children. We have a lot of fun together.”
And that’s when he spotted a bit of sparkle behind her shoulder. It was a gleam of light, reflecting off something silver and shiny and then he took a breath and smelled fragrant pine.
Marcu reached above her head and gave the door a push, forcing it open. In her sitting room on the table near her hearth stood a shimmering tree with white lights and colorful glass ornaments. It was small but beautifully decorated and the fresh smell filled her room, making him immediately feel nostalgic.
For a moment he couldn’t speak, and then he drew a slow, measured breath, fighting to remain in control. “I thought we agreed there would be no decorations, no tree, none of this nonsense—”
“I didn’t agree,” she interrupted hotly, arms crossing over her chest. “I never agreed, because I completely disagree with you—”
“That doesn’t matter. Your opinion doesn’t matter. You’re here to do what I tell you.”
“Wrong. You’re here because you trust me to take care of your children, and I am.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas, Monet.”
“Fine, but must you deprive the children? Are they no longer allowed to experience the beauty of it? I understand you are grieving, and they also continue to grieve, but you are turning their loss into a greater punishment. You are taking the loss of their mother and turning it into the loss of all hope and beauty—”
“Rubbish!” he snapped, silencing her again, his voice growing louder, his temper hotter. She was trying his patience and he didn’t like it. Marcu stepped all the way into her room and closed the door behind him.
“You have spent too much time in England now,” he added, stalking toward the hearth, which glowed with red embers. He circled the table with the tree, feeling emotions he didn’t welcome. “You have bought in to this very commercialized idea of Christmas,” he said, looking back at her. “In Sicily, Christmas was never about trees and decorations and presents. I give my children presents on Epiphany. You will see that my children eagerly await for the arrival of Le Befana and the sweets they’ve hoped for. They will receive little toys and treats if they have been good, and that’s our heritage, our tradition, and they don’t need your British Christmas.”
For a moment there was just silence and then she shook her head, making her long hair dance. “Fine. Have your way. They don’t need it. You don’t need it. But I do. I need my Christmas. You called in a favor, but that favor did not include stripping me of all the things that give my life meaning, and I want to celebrate Christmas. I want to have magic and fizz and joy. So if you don’t like it, please send me away now. I would love to return to London and my friends and my life there. Let me leave right now, because I am not going to battle with you on this. I think you are wrong, I think you are actually dreadful—”
“Dreadful?” he practically roared.
