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‘I’m sorry, it must be the heat. And the jet lag.’ And the memories. And her father’s ghost, hurting her from the grave. Marco still believing the best of him, and she could hardly fault him. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t thought it was necessary. And when she’d been planning never to see Marco again, it hadn’t been. But now? Now, when she was thinking of something actually happening between them?
‘Do you want to sit down?’ Marco asked. ‘Catch your breath?’
Sierra shook her head. ‘I’m fine, Marco. I came here for this, and I’ll see it through.’ She plucked a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray. She definitely needed some liquid courage. Guests were starting to stream into the foyer, chatting and taking pictures. ‘Let the party begin,’ she said, and raised her glass in a determined toast.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A FEW HOURS into the reception Sierra finally started to relax. The memories that had mocked her were starting to recede; her father’s grip not, thankfully, as tight as she’d feared it was. She avoided reporters with their difficult, probing questions and chatted with various guests and staff about innocuous things: New York, London, the latest films. She was actually having a good time.
The three glasses of champagne helped, too.
‘This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,’ she told a waiter as she studied the chocolate fountain with floating strawberries. He smiled politely and a firm hand touched her elbow. Even though Sierra couldn’t see who it was, she felt it through her marrow. Marco.
‘You’re not drunk, are you?’
‘Drunk? Thanks very much.’ She turned around, misjudging the distance, and nearly poured her half-full flute of champagne onto his front. Marco caught her hand and liberated her glass. ‘Slightly tipsy only,’ she amended at his wry look. ‘But this is a fun party.’
Marco drew her aside, away from the waiter and guests. ‘You seemed tense earlier. Even upset. Was it something I said?’ Concern drew his straight dark eyebrows together, his wonderful mouth drawn into a frowning line.
‘No,’ Sierra answered. ‘It wasn’t something you said.’
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded, knowing she couldn’t explain it to him here, and maybe not ever. The deeper things got with Marco, the harder it became to come clean about her past. She didn’t want to hurt him, and yet if they were to have any future at all she knew she needed to explain. He needed to understand.
But why was she even thinking about a future? They were just having a fling. And they hadn’t even had it yet.
‘When is the ball tonight?’
‘Not for a few hours. But if you’d like to retire upstairs and get ready, you can. You’ve shown your face here. You’ve done enough.’ He paused, and then rested a hand on her arm. ‘Thank you, Sierra.’
* * *
Marco watched Sierra head towards the lift, a frown on his face. She’d looked so pale and shaky when she’d first come to the opening, almost ill. Something was wrong and he had no idea what it was.
At least she’d rallied, smiling and talking with guests, her natural charm and friendliness coming to the fore. She’d maybe rallied a little too much, judging by the amount of champagne she’d imbibed. The thought made him smile.
He was looking forward to seeing Sierra tonight at the ball, and then after. Most definitely after.
‘Mr Ferranti, do you have anything to say about Sierra Rocci’s presence at the opening today?’
Marco turned to see one of the tabloid reporters smirking at him.
‘No, I do not.’
‘You were engaged to Sierra Rocci seven years ago, were you not?’ the weedy young man pressed. ‘And she broke off the engagement at the last moment? Left you standing at the altar?’ He smirked again and Marco stiffened, longing to wipe that smug look off the man’s face.
He hadn’t considered the press resurrecting that old story. His engagement to Sierra had been kept quiet back then; Arturo had wanted a quiet ceremony, not wanting to expose Sierra to media scrutiny. Marco had been glad to agree.
‘Well?’ The reporter smirked, eyebrows raised.
‘No comment,’ Marco bit out tersely, and stalked off.
* * *
‘You can look in the mirror now.’
‘Thank you.’ Sierra smiled at the stylist, Diana, whom Marco had arranged to do her hair and make-up for the ball. It had been a nice surprise to emerge from an hour-long soak in the sunken marble tub to find a woman ready to be her fairy godmother.
Now Sierra turned around and gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror, catching her breath on a gasp of surprise.
