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“Your customer must have been very relieved.”
“Not as much as I was. It was a very expensive gown.”
Marcu lowered his blind partway, blocking the glare from the setting sun. “I’m still trying to come to terms with you as a bridal consultant.”
“Is it really so shocking?” she asked, aware it had never been her goal or dream to work with brides, but it turned out she had a knack for finding the right dress for the right woman who wanted nothing less than spectacular for her wedding day. It seemed that Monet had somehow absorbed her actress mother’s knack for the theatrical, and coupled with her own artistic flair, as well as with the hefty measure of patience required when working with emotional, temperamental brides, Monet had worked her way up from fetching gowns from the back room to managing Bernard’s entire department.
“There is a great deal of theater in a wedding,” she added thoughtfully. “My mother was an actress. I understand what is needed and wanted—the wedding, like any great production, is to be magical and meaningful, and the show is to go off without a hitch. No one must know about the work involved. Fortunately those heavy red velvet curtains hide the stagehands and the frantic activity in the wings.”
“You’re the stage manager.”
“I understand this is not my play or my production. I am simply there to make people happy.”
“Very much like your mother then.”
She felt a hot lance of shame. “Except I don’t sleep with people to make them happy,” she flashed, voice hardening.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No? Then what did you mean?”
He regarded her from beneath heavy lids, his black lashes nearly concealing the piercing blue of his eyes. “I think you want to take offense. You’ve been harboring this resentment for years.”
If she’d been anywhere else she would have bolted from her seat and raced away, but seeing as they were thirty thousand feet in the air on a small private jet, there was nowhere to go. No way to escape. “Resentment against what, and whom? I am not a victim, Marcu. I am satisfied with my life, pleased by what I have accomplished. Everything I own, and everything I’ve achieved, has been through hard work, not gifts, or handouts.”
“I wasn’t implying that you’ve slept with anyone to get where you are—”
“Good, because I haven’t.”
“All I was saying was that your mother’s...success...was due to her ability to give people what they wanted.”
“Can we not discuss my mother? We don’t constantly reference your mother, and I know her absence wounded you.”
His broad shoulders shifted carelessly. “At least I knew her. The younger ones have no memories of her.”
“You were how old when she left?”
“Twelve.”
“The same age I was when I arrived at your family’s palazzo.”
“Do you remember being twelve?”
“I do,” she answered. “And you?”
“I do, too.” His long fingers casually drummed on the leather armrest. “Mothers are important. It’s why I must remarry.”
“Do your children like Vittoria?”
“They’ve only met her a few times, but there were no problems, and Vittoria seemed quite taken with Antonio.” He hesitated. “It’s easier to adapt when the children are very young, and Antonio is little more than a toddler.”
“How old are they?”
“Three, five, and nearly seven,” he answered. “Antonio is my youngest, Rocca, my only girl, is five, and Matteo will be seven just after the New Year.”
“Matteo, like your father.”
“Yes.”
She said nothing for a long moment, and it was then that Marcu filled the silence. “My father liked you, you know. He was always quite protective of you.”
She’d always thought so, too, until that last night when he’d said such terrible, hurtful things to Marcu about her. She is not the sort you get serious with. Remember her background. Remember who she is, and where she comes from. A dalliance is delightful, but she is not one you keep.
And then Marcu’s brutal reply: Of course I know. I do not need the reminder. When I marry it will be to someone suitable.
Marcu didn’t know she’d inadvertently overheard the conversation. He hadn’t even known he’d wounded her, and yet even then, he’d been more than happy to see her leave Palermo, buying her one-way airline ticket to London with startling alacrity before driving her to the airport himself.
She’d been numb on the flight to London, and she’d been numb as she collected her luggage at Heathrow. The only thought circling her exhausted brain was that he couldn’t wait to see her gone, and he hadn’t been able to get rid of her fast enough. Their passionate night wasn’t meaningful at all to him. Instead it was a mistake. A colossal embarrassment.
As she searched for a place to live, Monet consoled herself with the fact that at least they hadn’t consummated their lovemaking. At least she’d only given him her heart, and not her innocence. It wasn’t that she cherished her virginity, but she certainly didn’t need to give Marcu more than she already had.
Monet gave her head a faint shake and forced her attention to the present. The next three weeks would be difficult. She wasn’t worried about the children, as she’d cared for children in the past, but she dreaded even a few hours in close proximity to Marcu, never mind a few days, because memories were flooding her and the memories created pain. “He really gave your sisters pink robes for Christmas one year?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think it was inappropriate for him to give me a satin bathrobe?”
“I am certain he didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Knowing him, I’m positive he meant well.”
She bit the inside of her lower lip to keep from contradicting him because if Matteo had meant well, he wouldn’t have poisoned Marcu against her. He wouldn’t have talked about her as if she was little more than garbage.
Marcu shot her a narrowed glance. “You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” she answered simply, and that was the truth.
* * *
Their private jet landed twenty-five minutes later at the executive airport in Milan, where Marcu’s gleaming black Maserati was waiting. A steward stowed the luggage in the boot of the car and Marcu opened the passenger door for Monet. The interior of the new car was as sleekly designed as the exterior, the black leather plush, and still smelling new. They left the airport immediately for the drive to the castello, a drive that should take less than two hours if the weather was good, and the weather was good.
She and Marcu were mostly silent as he drove them up into the mountains. Snow blanketed the hills but the road was clear and free of ice. Monet struggled to relax but it was difficult in the close confines of the luxurious sports car. Everything about Marcu overwhelmed her—he was both familiar and not, changed by time and yet even more ruggedly appealing than before. She wanted to be indifferent to him but everything in her felt far too sensitive and aware of the way he sat, and the way his hand rested on the stick shift, and how his other hand looked against the black leather steering wheel. He had strong hands, beautiful hands. Just like his profile was strong, and beautiful. More chiseled and beautiful than it had been eight years ago.
“Do you have snow tires on the car?” she asked as Marcu took another sharp curve with ease.
