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They worked in silence for a few minutes, concentrating on mundane things; Sierra found a large pot and filled it with water, plonking it on the huge state-of-the-art range as Marco retrieved a tin of crushed tomatoes and various herbs from the cupboards.
This was his home now, and yet it once had been hers. She glanced round the huge kitchen, the oak table in the dining nook where she’d eaten breakfast while her mother moped and drank espresso. Sierra had enjoyed a cautious happiness at the villa, but Violet had always been miserable away from Arturo.
Sierra shook her head at the memory, at the regret she still felt for her mother’s life, her mother’s choices.
Marco noticed the movement and stilled. ‘What is it?’
She turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re shaking your head. What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something, Sierra.’
‘I was just thinking about my mother. How I missed her.’
His eyebrows rose in obvious disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you ever come back, then?’
The question hung in the air, taunting her. She could tell him the truth, but she resisted instinctively. Sierra didn’t know if it was because she didn’t want to be pitied, or because she suspected he wouldn’t believe her. Or, worse, an innate loyalty to her father, a man who had shown her so much contempt and disgust.
She drew a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘My father would not want me back, after...everything.’
‘You’re wrong.’ She recoiled at the flatly spoken statement. He could be so sure? ‘You judge people so quickly, Sierra. Me and your father both. He would have welcomed you back with open arms, I know it. He told me as much, many times.’
She leaned against the counter, absorbing his statement. So her father had been feeding him lies all along, just as she’d suspected. She could tell Marco believed what he said, deeply and utterly. And he would never believe her.
‘I suppose I wasn’t prepared to risk it.’
‘You broke his heart,’ Marco told her flatly. ‘And your mother’s. Neither of them were ever the same.’
Guilt curdled her stomach like sour milk. She’d always known, even if she hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, that her leaving would cost her mother. It hurt to hear it now. ‘How do you know? Did you see my mother very much?’
‘Often enough. Arturo invited me to dinner many times. Your mother became reclusive—’
‘She was always reclusive,’ Sierra cut in sharply. She could not let every statement pass as gospel. ‘We lived here, at the villa, except when my father called us into action.’
‘A country life is better for children.’ He glanced round the huge kitchen, spreading one arm wide to encompass the luxurious villa and its endless gardens. ‘This would be a wonderful place to raise children.’ His voice had thickened, and with a jolt Sierra wondered if he was thinking about their children. The thought made her feel a strangely piquant sense of loss that she could not bear to consider too closely.
‘So how was she more reclusive?’
‘She didn’t always join us for meals. She didn’t come to as many social events. Her health began to fail...’
Tears stung Sierra’s eyes and she blinked rapidly to dispel them. She didn’t want Marco to see her cry. She could guess why her mother had retreated more. Her father must have been so angry with her leaving, and he would have taken it out on her mother. She’d have had no choice but to hide.
‘The truth hurts, does it?’ Marco said, his voice close to a sneer. He’d seen her tears and he wasn’t impressed. ‘I suppose it was easy to forget about them from afar.’
‘None of it was easy,’ Sierra choked out. She drew a deep breath and willed the grief back. Showing Marco how much she was affected would only make him more contemptuous. He’d judged her long ago and nothing she could do or say would change the way he felt about her. And it shouldn’t matter, because after today she would never see him again.
A prospect that caused her an absurd flash of pain; she forced herself to shrug it off.
‘It seemed easy from where I stood,’ Marco answered. His voice was sharp with bitterness.
‘Maybe it did,’ Sierra agreed. ‘But what good can it do now, to go over these things? What do you want from me, Marco?’
* * *
What did he want from her? Why was he pushing her, demanding answers she obviously couldn’t or didn’t want to give? Did it even matter which? It was seven years ago. She’d had cold feet, changed her mind, whatever. She’d treated both him and her parents callously, and he was glad to have escaped a lifetime sentence with a woman as cold as she was. They’d both moved on.
