Inherited by Ferranti

by Kate Hewitt

  ‘The truth hurts, does it?’ Marco said, his voice close to a sneer. He’d seen her tears and he wasn’t impressed. ‘I suppose it was easy to forget about them from afar.’

  ‘None of it was easy,’ Sierra choked out. She drew a deep breath and willed the grief back. Showing Marco how much she was affected would only make him more contemptuous. He’d judged her long ago and nothing she could do or say would change the way he felt about her. And it shouldn’t matter, because after today she would never see him again.

  A prospect that caused her an absurd flash of pain; she forced herself to shrug it off.

  ‘It seemed easy from where I stood,’ Marco answered. His voice was sharp with bitterness.

  ‘Maybe it did,’ Sierra agreed. ‘But what good can it do now, to go over these things? What do you want from me, Marco?’

  * * *

  What did he want from her? Why was he pushing her, demanding answers she obviously couldn’t or didn’t want to give? Did it even matter which? It was seven years ago. She’d had cold feet, changed her mind, whatever. She’d treated both him and her parents callously, and he was glad to have escaped a lifetime sentence with a woman as cold as she was. They’d both moved on.

  Except when he’d seen her standing in the doorway of di Santis’s office, when he’d remembered how she’d tasted and felt and even more, how he’d enjoyed being with her, seeing her shy smile, the way those blue-grey eyes had warmed with surprised laughter...when he’d been looking forward to the life they would build together... It didn’t feel as if he’d moved on. At all. And that realisation infuriated him.

  Marco swung away from her, bracing his hands against the counter. ‘I don’t want anything from you. Not any more.’ He busied himself with opening the tin of tomatoes and pouring the contents into a pan. ‘Seeing you again has made me ask some questions,’ he answered, his voice thankfully cool. ‘And want some answers. Since I never had any.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ She sounded sad.

  ‘Can you?’ Then why...? But he wouldn’t ask her anything more. He wouldn’t beg. Wordlessly, he turned back to their makeshift meal. Sierra watched him, saying nothing, but Marco felt the tension ease slightly. The anger that had been propelling him along had left in a defeated rush, leaving him feeling more sad than anything else. And he didn’t want to feel sad. God help him, he was over Sierra. He’d never loved her, after all—he’d desired her, yes. He’d wanted her very much.

  But love? No. He’d never felt that and he had no intention of feeling it for anyone.

  He slid his gaze towards her, saw the way her chest rose and fell under the baggy T-shirt. He could see the peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric, and desire arced through him. He still wanted her.

  And did she want him? The question intrigued him and, even though he knew nothing would happen between them now, he realised he wanted to know the answer—very much.

  There was only one way to find out. He reached for the salt, letting his arm brush across her breasts for one tantalising second. He heard her draw her breath in sharply and step back. When he glanced at her, he saw the colour flare into her face, her eyes widen before she quickly looked away.

  Marco only just suppressed his smile as satisfaction surged through him. She wanted him. Seducing her would be easy...and such sweet revenge. But was that all he wanted from Sierra now? A moment’s pleasure? The proof that she’d missed out? It felt petty and small, and more exposing of him than her.

  And yet it would be so satisfying.

  ‘What will you do with the estate?’ She cleared her throat, her gaze flicking away from his as she stirred the pasta. ‘Will you live here? Or sell it?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’ His thoughts of revenge were replaced by an uncomfortable flicker of guilt for taking Sierra’s inheritance from her. Not that he’d actually wanted to; Arturo had insisted, claiming Marco had been far more of a son to him than Sierra had ever been a daughter. And, in his self-righteous anger and hurt, Marco had relented. Sierra had walked away from the family that had embraced him. He’d believed she deserved what she’d got: nothing.

  ‘Is there anything you want from the villa?’ he asked. ‘Or the palazzo in Palermo? Some heirlooms or pictures?’

  She shook her head, her certainty shocking him even though he knew it shouldn’t. She’d turned her back on all of it seven years ago. ‘No. I don’t want anything.’

  ‘There’s nothing?’ he pressed. ‘What about a photograph of your parents? There’s a wedding picture in the front hall of the palazzo. It’s lovely.’ He watched her, searching for some sign of softness, some relenting towards her family, towards him.

  ‘No,’ she said, and her voice was firm. ‘I don’t want anything.’

  They worked in silent tandem, preparing the simple meal, and it wasn’t until they were seated at the table in the alcove with steaming plates of pasta that Sierra spoke again.

  ‘I always liked this spot. I ate breakfast here. The cook was an old battleaxe who thought I should eat in the dining room but I couldn’t bear it, with all the stuffy portraits staring down at me so disapprovingly. I much preferred it here.’ She smiled, the gesture touched with sorrowful whimsy.

  Marco imagined her as a child sitting at the table, her feet not even touching the floor. He imagined their daughter doing the same, and then abruptly banished the thought. Dreams he’d once had of a proper family, a real life, and now they were nothing but ashes and smoke. He’d never live here with Sierra or anyone.

  ‘You can have the villa.’ His voice came out abrupt, ungracious. Marco cleared his throat. ‘I won’t be using it. And it was your family home.’

  She stared at him, her eyes wide. ‘You’re offering me the villa?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I? I didn’t need any of your inheritance. The only thing I wanted was your father’s shares in Rocci Enterprises.’ Which gave him control of the empire he’d helped to build.

  ‘Of course.’ Her mouth curved in a mocking smile. ‘That’s why you wanted to marry me, after all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He stared at her in surprise, shocked by her assumption. ‘Is that what you think? That I wanted to marry you only for personal gain?’

  ‘Can you really deny it? What better way to move through the ranks than marry the boss’s daughter?’ She held his gaze and even though her voice was cool he saw pain in her eyes. Old, unforgotten pain, a remnant of long past emotion, and strangely it gratified him. So this was why she’d left—because she’d assumed he had been using her?

  ‘I won’t deny that there were some advantages to marrying you,’ he began, and she let out a hard laugh.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly. You wouldn’t have looked twice at me if my last name hadn’t been Rocci.’

  ‘That’s not necessarily true. But I was introduced to you by your father. I always knew you were a Rocci.’

  ‘And he stage-managed it all, didn’t he? The whole reason he introduced you to me was to marry me off.’

  Marco heard the bitterness in her voice and wondered at it. ‘But surely you knew that.’

  ‘Yes, I knew.’ She shook her head, regret etched on her fine-boned features. Marco laid down his knife and fork and stared at her hard.

  ‘Then how can you object? Your father was concerned for your welfare. It made sense, assuming we got along, for him to encourage the match. He’d provide for his daughter and secure his business.’

  ‘Which sounds positively medieval—’

  ‘Not medieval,’ Marco interjected. ‘Sicilian, perhaps. He was an old-fashioned man, this is an old-fashioned country, with outdated ideas about some things. Trust me, I know.’

  She looked up, the bitterness and regret sliding from her face, replaced by curiosity. ‘Why do you say that? Why should you know better than another?’
<
br />   He shouldn’t have said that at all. He had no intention of telling Sierra about the shame of his parentage, the sorrow of his childhood. The past was best left forgotten, and he knew he could not stomach her pity. ‘We’ve both encountered it, in different ways,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘But if you knew your father intended for us to marry, why do you fault me for it now?’

  Sierra sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘I don’t, not really.’

  ‘But...’ He shook his head, mystified and more than a little annoyed. ‘I don’t understand you, Sierra. Perhaps I never did.’

  ‘I know.’ She was quiet then, her face drawn in sorrowful lines. ‘If it helps, I’m truly sorry for the way it all happened. If I’d had more courage, more clarity, I would have never let it get as far as it did. I would have never agreed to your proposal.’

  And that was supposed to make him feel better? Marco’s chest hurt with the pressure of holding back his anger and hurt. He was not going to show Sierra how her words wounded him. She saw their entire relationship as a mistake, an error of judgement. Until she hadn’t come down the aisle, he’d been intending to spend the rest of his life with her. The difference in their experiences, their feelings, was too marked and painful for him to remark on it.

  ‘I didn’t intend to marry you simply because it was good business,’ he finally managed, his voice level. He would not have her accuse him of being mercenary.

  ‘I suppose it helped that I didn’t have a face like an old boot,’ Sierra returned before he could continue. ‘And I was so biddable, wasn’t I? So eager to please, practically fawning over you.’ She shook her head in self-derision.

  Marco cocked his head, surprise sweeping over him. ‘Is that how you saw it?’

  ‘That’s how it was.’

  He knew there was truth in what she said, but it hadn’t been the whole truth. Yes, she’d been pretty and he’d been physically attracted to her. Overwhelmingly physically attracted to her, so his palms had itched to touch her softness, to feel her body yield to his. And they still did.

  And yes, he’d liked how much she’d seemed to like him, how eager and admiring she’d been. What man wouldn’t?

  She’d been young and isolated, but so had he, even though he’d been almost thirty. Back then he hadn’t had many, if any, people who looked up to him. He’d been a street rat from the dusty gutters of Palermo, a virtual orphan who had worked through half a dozen foster homes before he’d finally left at sixteen. No one had missed him.

  Seeing Sierra Rocci look at him with stars in her eyes had felt good. Had made him feel part of something bigger than himself, and he’d craved that desperately. But Sierra made it sound as if he’d been calculating and cold, and it had never been like that for him.

  ‘You are painting only part of the picture,’ Marco finally said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you felt an affection for me,’ Sierra cut in. ‘An amused tolerance, no doubt. But eventually you would have tired of me and I would have resented you. It would have been a disaster, like I said.’

  He opened his mouth to object, to tell her what he’d hoped would have happened. That maybe they would have liked each other, grown closer. No, he hadn’t loved her, hadn’t wanted to love her. Hadn’t wanted that much emotional risk. But he’d hoped for a good marriage. A real family.

  She stared at him with challenge in her eyes and he closed his mouth. Why would he say all that now? Admit so much pathetic need? There was nothing between them now, no hope of any kind of future. Nothing but an intense physical awareness, and one he could use to his own ruthless advantage. Why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he have Sierra Rocci in bed? Surely she wasn’t the innocent she’d once been, and he could tell she desired him. Even if she didn’t want to.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said tonelessly. ‘In any case, you never gave us the opportunity to discover what might have happened. And, as you’ve said, it’s all in the past.’

  Sierra’s breath left in a rush. ‘Yes.’ She sounded wary, as if she didn’t trust his words, that he could be so forgiving.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve realised that,’ she said, her voice cool, and Marco inclined his head. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’ She rose gracefully and took her plate to the sink. Marco watched her go. ‘It’s been a long day and I have to get up early tomorrow for my flight.’

  ‘Very well.’

  She turned to him, uncertainty flashing in her eyes. ‘Goodnight.’

  Marco smiled fleetingly, letting his gaze rest on hers with intent, watching with satisfaction as her pupils flared and her breath hitched. ‘Let me show you to your room.’

  ‘It’s not necessary—’

  He rose from the table and strode towards her, his steps eating up the space in a few long strides. ‘Oh,’ he assured her with a smile that had become feral, predatory, ‘but it is.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE COULDN’T SLEEP. Sierra lay in the double bed in the guest room Marco had shown her to a few hours ago and stared up at the ceiling. The rain drummed against the roof and the wind battered the shutters. And inside her a tangle of fear and desire left her feeling restless, uncertain.

  She didn’t think she’d been imagining the heightened sense of expectation as Marco had led her from the kitchen and up the sweeping marble staircase to the wing of guest bedrooms. She certainly hadn’t been imagining the pulse of excitement she’d felt low in her belly when he’d taken her hand to guide her down the darkened corridor.

  She hated how immediate and overwhelming her response to him was, and yet she told herself it was natural. Understandable. He was an attractive, virile man, and she’d responded to him before. She couldn’t control the way he made her body feel, but she could certainly control her actions.

  And so with effort she’d pulled her hand from his. The gesture seemed only to amuse him; he’d glanced back at her with a knowing smile, and Sierra had had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking—and feeling.

  But he hadn’t acted on it. He’d shown her into the bedroom and she’d stood there, clearly waiting, while he’d turned on lights and checked that the shutters were bolted.

  For an exquisite, excruciating second Sierra had thought he was going to do something. Kiss her. He’d stood in front of her, the lamplight creating a warm golden pool that bathed them both, and had looked at her. And she’d waited, ready, expectant...

  If he’d kissed her then, she wouldn’t have been able to resist. The realisation should have been shaming but she’d felt too much desire for that.

  But Marco hadn’t kissed her. His features had twisted in some emotion she couldn’t discern, and then he’d simply said goodnight and left her alone. Thank God.

  There was absolutely no reason whatsoever to feel disappointed about that.

  Now Sierra rose from the bed, swinging her legs over so her bare feet hit the cold tiles. Music. Music was what she needed now. Music had always been both her solace and her inspiration. When she was playing the violin, she could soar far above all the petty worries and cruelties of her day-to-day life. But she didn’t have her violin here; she’d left it in London.

  Still, the villa had a music room with a piano. It was better than nothing. And she needed to escape from the din inside her own head, if only for a few minutes. Quietly, she crept from her bedroom and down the long darkened hallway. The house was silent save for the steady patter of rain, the distant rumble of thunder as the storm thankfully moved off.

  Sierra tiptoed down the stairs, feeling her way through the dark, the moonless night not offering even a sliver of light. Finally, she found her way to the small music room with its French windows opening onto the terrace that was now awash in puddles.

  She flicked on a single lamp, its warm glow creating a pool of light across the dusty ebony of grand piano. Gently she
eased up the lid; the instrument was no doubt woefully out of tune. She quietly pressed a key and winced at the discordant sound.

  Never mind. She sat at the piano and softly played the opening bars to Debussy’s Sarabande, not wanting to wake Marco in one of the rooms above. Even with the piano out of tune, the music filled her, swept away her worries and regrets and left only light and sound in their wake. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the piece, to the feeling. Forgetting, for a few needful moments, about her parents, her past, Marco.

  She didn’t know when she became aware that she wasn’t alone. A prickling along her scalp, the nape of her neck. A shivery awareness that rippled through her and caused her to open her eyes.

  Marco stood in the doorway of the music room, wearing only a pair of pyjama bottoms, his glorious chest bare, his gaze trained on her. Sierra’s fingers stilled on the piano, plunging the room into an expectant silence.

  ‘I didn’t know you played piano.’ His voice was low, husky with sleep, and it wove its sensual threads around her, ensnaring her.

  ‘I don’t, not really.’ She put her hands in her lap, self-conscious and all too aware of Marco standing so near her, so bare and so beautiful. Every muscle of his chest was bronzed and perfectly sculpted; he looked like an ad for cologne or clothes or cars. Looking the way he did, she thought he could sell anyone anything. ‘I had a few lessons,’ Sierra continued stiltedly, ‘but I’m mostly self-taught.’

  ‘That’s impressive.’

  She shrugged, his surprising praise unnerving her. Having Marco standing here, wearing next to nothing, acting almost as if he admired her, sent her senses into hyperdrive and left her speechless.

  ‘I never even knew you were musical.’ He’d taken a step closer to her and she could feel the heat from his body. When she took a breath the musky male scent of him hit her nostrils and made her stomach clench. Hard.