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Considering how they’d parted, he doubted Sierra Rocci was going to want to help him out in any fashion. He might not be angry with her any more, but she could very well still harbour a grudge for his ruthless semiseduction of her at the villa. Sighing, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, fighting off the tension headache that felt like a band of iron encircling his head.
He didn’t want to need Sierra. He certainly didn’t want to go begging for favours. But Rocci Enterprises meant everything to him. He couldn’t afford to risk its well-being.
‘Well?’ Paolo asked. ‘Do you think Sierra Rocci will agree? I know the two of you have a history...’ He paused delicately, and Marco opened his eyes.
‘I’ll make her agree,’ he stated flatly. Already his mind was racing through the possibilities. How could he get Sierra to come to New York? She’d accused him of being manipulative seven years ago, of engaging her affections so he could secure his position with Rocci Enterprises. She’d been wrong then, or at least that hadn’t been the whole truth. But now it would be.
Marco’s mouth curved coldly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told Paolo. ‘I know how to handle her.’
* * *
‘Play it again please, Chloe.’
Sierra shifted in her hard chair as her pupil sawed her way through ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ for the third time. Sierra tried not to wince. She loved her job tutoring children in music for a variety of after-school clubs, but it wasn’t always easy on the ears.
Her mind drifted, as it had these last few weeks, to Marco Ferranti. It irritated and unnerved her that he was so often in her thoughts; the passionate interlude in the music room had haunted her dreams and left her aching with both desire and shame.
There was so much she didn’t understand about Marco. He seemed like a tangle of unsettling contradictions: his anger at her abandonment of him seven years ago, and then the sudden moments of generosity and even tenderness that he’d shown her. Which was the real man? Which was the act? And why on earth was she still thinking about him?
‘Miss Rocci?’
Sierra’s unfocused gaze settled on the little girl in front of her. ‘Yes, Chloe?’
‘I finished.’
‘Yes, of course you did,’ Sierra murmured. ‘Well done.’ She leafed through the music she’d brought before selecting another piece. ‘Why don’t you try this one now that you’ve managed “Twinkle, Twinkle” so well?’
An hour later Sierra packed up her things and headed out of the school where she’d been running music lessons. It had taken a few years, but she’d managed to build up a regular business, offering lessons to schoolchildren across London’s schools.
After her tumultuous and panicked flight from Sicily, she’d found her mother’s friend Mary Bertram living in London; she’d moved house but, with the help of the internet, Sierra had managed to track her down. Mary had sheltered her, helped her find her feet along with her first job. She’d died three years ago, and Sierra had felt as if she’d lost another mother.
Outside the school, she started down the pavement towards the Tube station, the midsummer evening sultry and warm. People were spilling out of houses and offices, laughing as they slung bags over their shoulders and made plans for the pub.
Sierra regarded them with a slight pang of envy. She’d never been able to make friends easily; her isolated childhood and her innate quietness had made it difficult. Her job was isolated, too, although she’d become friendly with a few of the other extracurricular teachers at various schools. But in the seven years she’d lived in London, no one had got close. She’d never had a lover or even a boyfriend, nothing more than a handful of dates that had gone nowhere.
‘Hello, Sierra.’
Sierra came to a shocked halt as Marco Ferranti stepped out in front of her. Her mouth opened soundlessly; she felt as if she’d conjured him from thin air, from her lonely thoughts. He quirked an eyebrow, his mouth curving in the gentle quirk of a smile she recognised from seven years ago.
‘What...what are you doing here?’ she finally managed.
‘Looking for you.’
A thrill of illicit pleasure as well as of apprehension shivered through her. He’d come to London just for her? ‘How did you know where I was?’
He shrugged, the movement assured, elegant. ‘Information is always easy to find.’
And just like that she was unnerved again, realising once more how little she knew him, the real him. How powerful he was. ‘I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me, Marco.’
‘Is there somewhere private we could go?’
