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‘So.’ He turned back to her with a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’ll see you later tonight. And tomorrow we’ll go to LA.’
‘I haven’t even dealt with my plane ticket...’
‘I cancelled it.’
She jerked back a little. ‘You did?’
Marco was sliding on his jacket and checking his watch. ‘Why should you worry about it?’
‘But I need to book an alternative return flight...’
He gave her a wolfish smile. ‘We don’t need to think about that now.’ Then he was dropping a distracted kiss on her forehead and hurrying out of the suite, all while she lay curled up in a crumpled duvet and wondered what she’d got herself into.
‘A fling,’ she said aloud. Her voice sounded small in the huge empty suite. ‘You know very well what this is. A fling. You’re here for sex.’ What had seemed simple and safe now only felt sordid.
She got out of bed, trying to shake off her uncertain and grey mood, and dressed. She didn’t feel like ordering takeaway and eating it alone upstairs; she’d go out, explore the city on her own for a bit.
Twenty minutes later Sierra headed downstairs and out of the modern glass doors of the hotel. The foyer was buzzing with guests; clearly the opening had been a success. A few people clearly recognised her, but Sierra ignored their speculative looks. She wasn’t going to care about the tabloid article that had come out this morning. It would be forgotten by tomorrow, no doubt.
She strolled down Central Park West towards Columbus Circle, enjoying the way twilight settled on the city and the traffic started to die down. She found a little French bistro tucked onto a side street and went inside. As she sat down and glanced at the menu she realised she was ravenous. She supposed that was what making love all day did to you, and the thought made her smile. She ordered a steak and chips and ate it all and was just heading back outside, feeling replete and happy, when a reporter accosted her.
‘Excuse me... Sierra Rocci?’
‘Yes?’ she answered automatically, before the flashbulb popped in her face, making her momentarily blind, and the reporter started firing questions.
‘Why are you out alone? Have you and Marco Ferranti had a lovers’ tiff? Is it true you’re staying in the same suite? Why did you jilt him seven years ago—’
‘No comment,’ Sierra gasped out and hurried away. The reporter kept yelling his awful questions at her, each one sounding like a horrible taunt.
‘Did Ferranti cheat on you? Did you cheat on him? Are you together now merely as a business arrangement?’
Finally Sierra rounded the corner and the reporter’s questions died away. She kept up a brisk pace all the way to the hotel, only slowing when she came to the front steps. Her heart was thudding and she felt clammy with sweat. She’d thought she could handle the press, but she hadn’t been prepared for that.
She’d managed to restore her composure by the time she got into the penthouse lift, and she felt almost normal when the doors opened.
That was until she stepped out and Marco loomed in front of her, his face thunderous, his voice a harsh demand.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MARCO COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d felt so furious—and so afraid. He’d come up to the penthouse suite expecting to see Sierra still lounging in bed, waiting for him. Instead, the place had been echoing and empty, and when he’d called downstairs the concierge had said she’d left hours ago.
He’d paced the penthouse for a quarter of an hour, trying to stifle his panic and anger, but rational thought was hard when so many memories kept crowding in. He told himself she hadn’t taken her clothes and that she wouldn’t just leave.
But she’d taken hardly anything when she’d left the night before his wedding. And the possibility that she might have skipped out on him again made everything in him clench. Damn it, he would be the one to say when they were done. And it wasn’t yet.
‘Well?’ he demanded while she simply stared at him. ‘Do you have an answer?’
‘No,’ Sierra stated clearly, her voice so very cold, and she stalked past him.
Marco whirled around, disbelieving. ‘No? You’re gone for hours and you can’t even tell me where you went?’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything, Marco,’ Sierra tossed over her shoulder. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’
‘How about an explanation?’
She walked up the spiral stairs, one hand on the railing, her head held high. ‘Not even that.’
Marco followed her up the stairs and into the bedroom and then watched in disbelief as she took out her suitcase and started putting clothes into it.
