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‘My mother had me, and my father set her up in a dingy flat in one of Palermo’s slums. Gave her enough to live on—just. He’d visit us on occasion, a few times a year, perhaps. He’d bring some cheap trinkets, things guests left behind.’ He shook his head, remembrance twisting his features. ‘I don’t think he was a truly bad man. But he was weak. He didn’t like being with us. I could see that, even as a small child. He always looked guilty, miserable. He kept checking his watch, the whole time he was there.’ Marco sighed and drained his flute of champagne. ‘The visits became less frequent, as did the times he sent money. Eventually he stopped coming altogether.’
Sierra’s mouth was dry, her heart pounding strangely. Marco had never told her any of this before. She’d had no idea he’d had such a childhood; he’d suffered loss and sorrow, just as she had, albeit in a different way. ‘He never said goodbye?’
Marco shook his head. ‘No, he just stopped coming. My mother struggled on as best as she could.’ He shrugged. ‘Sicily, especially back in those days, wasn’t an easy place to be a single mother. But she did her best.’ His mouth firmed as his gaze became distant. ‘She did her best,’ he repeated, and he almost sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sierra said quietly. ‘That must have been incredibly difficult.’
He shrugged and shook his head. ‘It was a long time ago. I left that life behind when I was sixteen and I never looked back.’
Just like she had, except he would never understand her reasons for leaving, for needing to escape. Not unless she told him.
Considering all he’d just told her, Sierra felt, for the first time, that she could tell Marco the truth of her childhood. She wanted to. She opened her mouth to begin, searching for the right words, but he spoke first.
‘That’s why I’m so grateful to your father for giving me a chance all those years ago. For believing in me when no one else did. For treating me more like a son than my own father did.’ He shook his head, his expression shadowed with grief. ‘I miss him,’ he said quietly, his tone utterly heartfelt.
Bile churned in her stomach and she nodded mechanically. The memories Marco spoke of were so far from her own reality of a man who had only shown her kindness in public. He’d chuck her under the chin, heft her onto his shoulders, tell the world she was his little bellissima. And everyone had believed it. Marco had believed it. Why shouldn’t he?
And in that moment she knew she could never tell him the truth. Not when his own family life had been so sadly lacking, not when her father had provided the love and support he’d needed. She’d had her own illusions ripped away once. She wouldn’t do the same to him, to anyone, and for what purpose? In three days she’d be back in London, and she and Marco need never see each other again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BY THE TIME they were settled in the first-class compartment on the flight to New York, Sierra had restored her equilibrium. Mostly. She felt as if she were discovering a whole new side to Marco, deeper and intriguing layers, now that they’d laid aside the resentment and hostility about the past.
She was remembering how kind and thoughtful he could be, how he saw to her small comforts discreetly, how he cocked his head, his mouth quirking in a smile as he listened to her, making her feel as if he really cared what she said.
She didn’t think it was an act this time. She hoped it wasn’t. The truth was she still didn’t trust herself. Didn’t trust anyone. But the more time she spent with Marco, the more her guard began to lower.
And she was enjoying simply chatting to him over an amazingly decadent three-course meal, complete with fine crystal and china and a bottle of very good wine. She liked feeling important and interesting to him, and she was curious about his life and ambitions and interests. More curious than she’d been seven years ago, when she’d seen him as little more than a means to an end—to escape. Now she saw him as a man.
‘It was your idea to bring Rocci Hotels to North America?’ she asked as she spooned the last of the dark chocolate mousse they’d been served for dessert.
He hadn’t said as much, but she’d guessed it from the way he’d been describing the New York project. He’d clearly been leading the charge.
‘The board wasn’t interested in expansion,’ Marco answered with a shrug. ‘They’ve never liked risk.’
‘So it’s even more important that this succeeds.’
‘It will. Especially since you’ve agreed.’ His warm gaze rested on her, and Sierra felt her insides tingle in response. It would be so easy to fall under Marco’s charm again, especially since this time it felt real. But where would any of it lead? They had no future. She knew that. But she still enjoyed talking to him, being with him. She even enjoyed that tingle, dangerous as it was.
