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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.”
Her gaze met his. “Or sooner if you and Vittoria return sooner. I’ve no interest in being present while you integrate Vittoria into your household.”
“Understood.”
“And one more stipulation,” she said after a long pause. “I need to go to work in the morning. I must find a missing wedding gown—”
“We need to return to Italy.”
“You need to return to Italy. I don’t.” Her eyebrows lifted as her brown eyes flashed indignant fire. “I need to find Mrs. Wilkerson’s daughter’s missing gown, and then I can go with you. Give me until noon. I’ve made Mrs. Wilkerson a promise and a promise is a promise.”
He digested her words for a moment before brusquely nodding. “Fine. My car will be at Bernard’s at noon. We will leave straight for the airport.”
The corner of her mouth curled up. “You’re not worried that I’ll try to run away and escape you?”
His body went hard at that saucy curl of her lips. Thank God he wasn’t going to be spending much time with Monet. Thank God he was taking her to the castello and leaving promptly. Monet had always tested his control. She still tested his control.
“No,” he answered roughly. “Because a promise is a promise.”
CHAPTER THREE
MONET KEPT HER eyes closed during the flight over the jagged peaks of southeastern France lit by the setting sun. She wasn’t afraid of flying, but this afternoon her stomach thumped, queasy with anxiety and dread.
She couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
Christmas in the Italian Alps. Christmas with Marcu—correction, Christmas with Marcu’s children, as Marcu would be elsewhere, wooing his future wife.
As a girl she’d dreaded the Christmas holidays. There had been years where she and her mother didn’t celebrate Christmas at all, and then there were years where they celebrated someone else’s holiday traditions, and when she was little Monet had found it confusing. So many people seemed to love Christmas but for her it was often incredibly painful.
She didn’t really experience a proper Christmas until she and her mother moved to Palermo. Her best Christmas memories had been with the Uberto family at their palazzo. The Ubertos celebrated Christmas in a grand way, their December filled with music and food, gifts and sweets. But even in Palermo, Christmas had been about the Uberto children and their father and their aristocratic Sicilian heritage. Monet had merely been that odd French-English girl who kept to the background to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to herself. It was better for her, and better for her mother, who didn’t really want to be a mother but loved Monet just enough to keep her daughter with her, but not enough to do what was right for her.
Uneasy with the memories, Monet stirred and opened her eyes to glance out the window. As she looked up her gaze briefly met Marcu’s. He was s
till at his table, working on some pile of paperwork. Obviously he wasn’t so engrossed in his work that he was oblivious to her, and Monet wasn’t sure how that made her feel.
“This is a terrible idea,” she said huskily. “We will both regret this.”
“I won’t regret it. I need help, and I know my children will be in good hands with you.”
Monet regarded him from beneath her lashes. He was so arrogant and self-assured. As well as shockingly handsome. He had been incredibly good-looking as a young adult, but now as a mature man, his face was all strong angles and planes, slashing cheekbones, broad, strong brow, firm mouth, firmer chin. His thick black hair was swept back from his face, framing piercing blue eyes, and a counterbalance to straight white teeth. His face alone would turn heads, but paired with his tall, lithe, muscular frame, he was beautiful indeed.
It would be easier, sitting here, if she didn’t find him physically appealing. It would be easier if her heart didn’t jump every time he glanced her way.
She’d forgotten that she could even feel this kind of fear and anxiety flooding her. It was the fear she’d felt as a girl, the fear that made it hard to breathe properly and therefore her head would spin, feeling light and dizzy.
She felt dizzy now.
She felt angry, too, that he’d forced her into this job. She wasn’t a nanny anymore. She had a career. She had responsibility and work she enjoyed and yet he’d insisted she drop everything for this stupid “favor.”
She closed her hands, fingers curling into her palms, nails digging in sharply to try to contain her crippling anxiety. The tension was almost unbearable. This was such a terrible mistake and there was nothing she could do it about it.
“Did you find your customer’s missing wedding gown?” Marcu asked suddenly, his voice surprisingly close.
She opened her eyes and shuddered to see that he’d left his desk and was seated opposite her now in the pale cream leather chair that matched hers. He was by no means sprawled in his seat and yet his long legs seemed to fill up the space, and his imposing shoulders drew her attention up to his face, and those cool blue watchful eyes. He felt far too relaxed for her peace of mind. She hadn’t heard him approach or sit down. She should have. Her skin prickled with unease. She wasn’t afraid of him, but rather, was afraid of all he made her feel—the anger, the shame, the heartbreak. “I did, yes,” she answered. “It was in alterations, but had been mislabeled. Crisis averted.”
