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Love... How had she not realised how dangerous this would be? How had she not seen how much a so-called fling would affect her?
‘And does having a fling mean we can’t sleep together?’ Marco bit out. ‘Does it mean you’ve got to hightail it from my bed as if you’ve been scalded?’
Sierra stared at him in surprise, understanding trickling through her. He was hurt. He’d taken her sprint to the bathroom as a personal slight. The realisation softened her, evened out the balance of power she’d felt so keenly had been in his favour.
‘Maybe you ought to tell me what the rules are. Since I’ve obviously never been in this situation before.’
‘I haven’t either, Sierra.’ Marco rubbed a hand across his jaw as he gazed at her starkly. ‘No other woman has made me feel the way you do.’
Sierra swallowed hard, a thousand feelings swarming her stomach like butterflies. Disbelief. Fear. Hope. Joy. ‘Marco...’
‘Don’t,’ he said roughly. ‘Like you said, we both know what this is. But you can still stay the night.’
‘Is that what you want?’
He hesitated, his jaw tight. ‘Yes,’ he finally bit out. ‘It is.’
‘It’s what I want, too,’ Sierra said softly.
‘Good.’ Marco held out his arms and she went to him easily. Suddenly it seemed like the simplest thing in the world to accept Marco’s embrace. Moments ago she’d wanted to escape, but now she felt there was no other place to be.
Sierra closed her eyes and snuggled against him, wondering how a supposed fling could be so confusing and make her feel so much.
* * *
Marco woke slowly, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the huge windows. Sierra lay curled up in his arms, her cheek resting against his bare chest. They’d slept in each other’s arms all night, and Marco had marvelled at how good it had felt, how much he didn’t want to move. Even if he should. No matter what he’d said last night, this felt like more than a fling...to him.
Now he eased slowly from Sierra’s sleepy embrace and stole downstairs to the living area; dawn was streaking across the city sky and the first rays of sunlight were touching the skyscrapers of midtown in gold.
He gazed out of the window at the beautiful summer morning, but his thoughts were with the woman he’d left upstairs in bed. Sierra was supposed to fly back to England this afternoon. He’d booked her ticket himself. A few weeks ago it hadn’t seemed an issue. He’d convinced himself that he wanted her only to open the hotel, not in his bed. In his life. Maybe even in his heart.
Marco let out a shuddering breath and pressed his fists to his eyes. He couldn’t be in love with Sierra. He’d written off that useless emotion. He’d seen how people who supposedly loved you were able to walk away. His father. His mother. And even Sierra, seven years ago, although at least no love had been involved then. No, then it had only been a lifetime commitment. And if Sierra had been able to walk away from him then, how much more easily could she do it now?
He should let her go. Kiss her goodbye, thank her for the memories and watch her walk onto the plane and out of his life. That would be the sensible thing. It also made him recoil with instinctive, overwhelming revulsion. He didn’t want to do that. He wasn’t going to do that.
So what was he going to do?
Marco turned away from the window and reached for his laptop. He’d leave the question of Sierra for a little while, at least until she woke up and he got a read on what she was feeling.
He clicked on his home news page, freezing when he saw one of the celebrity headlines: A Rocci Reunion ?
Quickly, he scanned the article, which covered the hotel opening yesterday. Very little was about the hotel; the journalist was far more interested in lurid speculation about the relationship between him and Sierra. There was even a blurry photo of him and Sierra slow-dancing last night, which infuriated him because no paparazzi had been invited to the private ball. It looked, he decided, like a snap someone had taken on their phone and then no doubt sold to the press.
Marco swore aloud.
‘Marco?’
He turned to see Sierra standing in the doorway, an uncertain look on her face. She was wearing that ridiculously huge dressing gown, her hair about her shoulders in tousled golden-brown waves. She looked delectable and yet also nervous.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, and she took a step towards him.
Marco glanced back at his laptop. ‘Not exactly,’ he hedged. He realised he had no idea what Sierra’s reaction to the news article would be. He didn’t even know what his was. Irritation that someone had so invaded his—their—privacy. And anger that someone was plundering their shared past for a sordid news story. And, underneath all that, Marco realised, he felt fear. Shameful, hateful fear, that Sierra would see this article and be the one to walk away first.
