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‘I am glad to welcome you into my family as a true son.’ Her father was at his best, charming and authoritative, a benevolent papà, brimming with good will.
‘And I am glad to be so welcomed.’
Sierra heard the sound of her father slapping Marco’s back and then his good-humoured chuckle. She knew that sound so well. She knew how false it was.
‘Bene, Marco. As long as you know how to handle Sierra. A woman needs a firm hand to guide her. Don’t be too gentle or they get notions. You can’t have that.’ The words were abhorrent and yet so terribly familiar, the tone gentle, almost amused, her father as assured as ever and completely in control.
Every muscle in Sierra’s body seemed to turn to iron as she waited for Marco’s response.
‘Don’t worry, signor,’ Marco said. ‘I know how to handle her.’
Sierra shrank back against the wall, horror and fear churning inside her. I know how to handle her. Did he really think that way, like her father did? That she was some beast to be guided and tamed into subservience?
‘Of course you do,’ Arturo Rocci said, his voice smug with satisfaction. ‘I’ve groomed you myself, chosen you as my son. This is what I wanted, and I could not be more pleased. I have no doubts about you, Marco.’
‘You honour me, signor.’
‘Papà, Marco. You may call me Papà.’
Sierra peeked around the edge of the landing and saw the two men embracing. Then her father gave Marco one more back slap before disappearing down the corridor, towards his study.
Sierra watched Marco, a faint smile curving that mobile mouth, the sharp angle of his jaw darkened with five o’clock shadow, his silvery-grey eyes hooded and sleepy. He’d loosened his tie and shed his suit jacket, and he looked rumpled and tired and overwhelmingly male. Sexy.
But there was nothing sexy about what he’d just said. Nothing romantic or loving or remotely attractive about a man who thought women needed to be handled. Her stomach clenched hard with fear and, underneath, anger. Anger at Marco Ferranti, for clearly thinking as her father did, and anger at herself for being so naïve to think she actually knew a man after just three months, a handful of arranged dates, all of them carefully orchestrated evenings where Marco was at his best, guiding her gently towards the inevitable conclusion. She’d thought she’d chosen him, but now she wondered how well she’d been manipulated. Handled. Perhaps her fiancé was as false as her father, presenting a front she wanted to see while disguising the true man underneath. Would she ever know? Yes, when it was too late. When she was married to him and had no way to escape.
‘Sierra?’ Marco’s silvery gaze flicked upwards, one eyebrow lifted as he gazed at her peeking around the landing, his faint smile deepening, revealing a dimple in one cheek. When Sierra had first seen that dimple it had made him seem friendlier. Kinder. She’d liked him more because of a dimple. She felt like such a child, naïve to the point of stupidity, thinking she’d wrested some control for herself when in fact she’d been the merest puppet.
‘What are you doing hiding up there?’ he asked, and he stretched one hand towards her.
‘I...’ Sierra licked dry lips as her mind spun. She could not think of a single thing to say. The only thing she could hear on an endless, awful reel was Marco’s assured, indulgent words. I know how to handle her.
Marco glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after midnight, so technically I suppose I shouldn’t see you. It’s our wedding day, after all.’
Wedding day. In just a few hours she would marry this man. She would promise to love him. To honour and obey him...
I know how to handle her.
‘Sierra?’ Marco asked, concern sharpening his voice. ‘Is something wrong?’
Everything was wrong. Everything had been wrong for ever, and she’d actually thought she’d been fixing it. She’d thought she was finally escaping, that she was choosing her own destiny. The thought seemed laughable now. How could she have fooled herself for so long? ‘Sierra?’ Impatience edged his voice now, and Sierra heard it. Heard how quickly the façade of concern fell away, revealed the true man underneath. Just as it did with her father.
‘I’m only tired,’ she whispered. Marco beckoned her towards him and on shaking legs she came down the stairs and stood before him, trying not to tremble. Not to show her fear. It was one small act of defiance she’d nurtured for most of her life, because she knew it infuriated her father. He wanted his women to cower and cringe. And Sierra had done her fair share of both, to her shame, over the years. But when she had the strength to stand tall, to act cool and composed, she did. Cloaking herself in numbness had been a way of coping since she was small. She was glad of it now.
