Inherited by Ferranti

by Kate Hewitt

  ‘We’re taking them all,’ Marco informed her blithely. ‘The assistant will have them wrapped and sent to the hotel. It’s all taken care of.’

  ‘Taking all of the evening gowns? But I didn’t even try them on.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll look fabulous in them. And if you don’t like any of them, I’ll arrange for them to be returned.’ Marco took her elbow. ‘Now, the limo is waiting.’

  Sierra let herself be ushered out of the store, amazed by the whole experience, from the sheer number of clothes Marco had bought her to the exciting interlude in the dressing room.

  ‘You make everything seem so easy,’ she commented as she slid into the limo. ‘Like the world is at your fingertips, or even your feet.’

  Marco gave her a quick smile as he checked his phone. ‘I’ve worked hard to have it be so.’

  ‘I know you have. But do you ever...do you ever feel like pinching yourself, that this is your reality?’

  For a second Marco’s gaze became distant, shuttered. Then he turned back to his phone. ‘Money doesn’t buy everything,’ he said, his voice clipped. ‘No matter how many people think so, it can’t make you happy.’

  The honest statement, delivered as it was so matter-of-factly, both surprised and moved her. ‘Are you happy, Marco?’

  He glanced up with a wolfish grin. ‘I was very happy with you in the dressing room. And I intend to be even happier before the day is done.’

  She felt a flush spread across her body as her insides tingled. She knew Marco was deliberately avoiding a serious conversation, but she wanted him too much to care. ‘I hope you do mean that.’

  He paused, lowering his phone. ‘I do mean it, Sierra. I want you very badly. So badly I almost lost control in a dressing room, which is something I’ve never done before.’

  ‘You haven’t?’ she teased, trying to ignore the jealousy that spiked through her. ‘I imagine you’ve got quite a lot of experience under your belt.’

  ‘Not as much as you probably think, but I know my way around.’ Her face heated even more and she looked away. Yes, he most certainly did. ‘What about you?’ he asked abruptly. ‘You must have had lovers over the last seven years.’ She opened her mouth to admit the truth but before she could he held up a hand. ‘Never mind. I don’t want to know.’ His face had hardened into implacable lines, and his eyes blazed. ‘But make no mistake, Sierra. I want you. Tonight.’

  ‘I want you, too,’ she whispered.

  His gaze swept over her, searching, assessing. ‘We’re not who we were seven years ago. Things are different now.’

  ‘I know.’ She lifted her chin and met his gaze directly. ‘I know what this is, Marco. We’re in an amazing city for a short period of time and we happen to be attracted to each other. Very attracted. So why shouldn’t we act on it?’ She smiled, raising her eyebrows, making it sound so simple. As if she had had this kind of experience before. ‘It’s a fling.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marco said slowly. ‘That’s exactly what it is.’

  Back in the hotel, Marco disappeared into the office to deal with some business before the opening while Sierra headed upstairs to the penthouse. The elegant lobby was bustling with staff as they prepared for the champagne and chocolate reception that would immediately follow the opening. And then, tonight, the ball...

  Staff hurried and worked around her as she walked towards the private penthouse lift. One middle-aged man caught her eye and executed a stiff bow. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Rocci. I hope you find everything to your satisfaction.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Sierra nearly stammered. She was shaken by the way the man knew her, knew she was a Rocci. She hadn’t truly been a Rocci in seven years. She’d turned her back on it all, and in that moment the memories came back in a sickening rush—the hotel openings so different from the modern elegance of The Rocci New York and yet so frighteningly familiar.

  ‘Miss Rocci? Are you all right?’ The man who had spoken to her before touched her elbow cautiously and Sierra realised she must have looked unwell. She felt sick and faint, and she reached out a hand to the lift door to steady herself.

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you. I just haven’t eaten today.’

  ‘I’ll have something sent up to your room.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sierra murmured. ‘I appreciate it.’

  The lift doors opened and she stepped inside, grateful for the privacy. For a few seconds she’d heard her father’s voice, felt his hand pinch her in warning as they mounted the steps of one hotel or another.

  Be a good girl, Sierra. Smile for everyone.

  She could hear the implied threat in his voice, the promise of punishment if she didn’t behave, all against the background of a crowd’s expectant murmurings, the clink of crystal...

  The lift doors opened and Sierra stumbled out into the penthouse’s living area, the city stretching all around her, one hand clamped to her mouth. She swallowed down the bile and then hurried upstairs to the freestanding kitchen units and poured herself a glass of water. Dear heaven, she couldn’t fall apart now. Not when the opening was about to start, everyone was waiting for her. Marco was depending on her.

  Sierra closed her eyes, memory and regret and fear coursing through her in unrelenting waves. She didn’t want to let Marco down. How much had changed in such a short time—six weeks ago she’d been hoping never to see him again.

  And now...now she was hoping he’d make love to her tonight. She wanted to stand by his side at the opening and make him proud. She was halfway to falling in love with him.

  Sierra’s eyes snapped open. What? How could she be? She’d always avoided and disdained love, seen how her mother had prostrated herself at its altar and lost her soul. And now she was poised to fall in love with a man she still didn’t entirely trust? Or maybe it was herself she didn’t trust. She didn’t trust herself to keep her head straight and her heart safe.

  She was inexperienced when it came to romance or sex, and here she was, contemplating a fling? For a second Sierra wondered what on earth she was doing. And then she remembered the feel of Marco’s hands on her, his body behind her, and a shiver of sheer longing went through her. She knew what she was doing—and she needed to do it.

  And as for the opening... She glanced at the clock above the sink and saw with a lurch of alarm that the opening was in less than an hour. An hour until she had to face Marco and the crowds of people who would be watching her, knowing she was a Rocci who had fallen from grace. Her stomach clenched and she half wished she could cry off, even as she acknowledged that she would never leave Marco in the lurch, publicly humiliated and alone. It would be almost as bad as leaving him at the altar.

  She took a deep breath and willed her nerves back. Lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. Show no fear. She could do this.

  * * *

  Marco paced the foyer of the hotel as the reporters, celebrities and guests attending the opening of The Rocci New York waited outside the frosted glass doors. It was three minutes past two o’clock and Sierra was meant to be down here. He’d already sent a staff member upstairs to check on her; she’d promised to be down shortly. He’d thought of going up himself, but some sense, or perhaps just an innate sense of caution, had stopped him. What if she didn’t want to see him now?

  ‘We should start...’ Antony, the head of the hotel, looked nervously at the waiting crowds.

  ‘We can’t start without a Rocci,’ Marco snapped. He felt his ‘less than’ status as the non-Rocci CEO keenly then, but worse, he felt it as a man. Sierra’s lateness was too powerful a reminder of another time he’d been kept waiting.

  Another time he’d felt the blood drain from his head and the hope from his heart as he’d realised once again someone wasn’t coming back. Wasn’t coming at all.

  He blinked back the memories, willed back the hurt and fear. Thi
s was different. He and Sierra were both different now.

  Then the lift doors opened and she stepped out, looking ethereally lovely in a mint-green shift dress—and very pale. Her gaze darted round the empty foyer and then to the front doors where the crowd gathered, waiting; she took a deep breath and threw her shoulders back. Marco frowned and started forward.

  Sierra saw his frown and faltered and Marco caught her hands in his; they were icy.

  ‘Sierra, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘You look ill.’

  ‘Jet lag.’ She didn’t quite meet his gaze. ‘Everything has been such a whirlwind.’

  But he knew it couldn’t just be jet lag. As beautiful as she was and always would be to him, she looked awful. ‘Sierra, if you’re not up for it...’ he began, only to stop. She had to be up for it. The security of the company and his place at its head rested on having a Rocci at this opening.

  And yet in that moment he knew if she said she wasn’t, he would accept her word.

  ‘I’m fine, Marco.’ She squeezed his hands lightly and gave him what he suspected was meant to be a smile. ‘Really, I am. Let’s do this.’

  * * *

  Sierra watched as Marco scanned her face like a doctor looking for broken bones. She knew she must look truly awful for him to seem so worried and she tried to dredge up some confidence and composure. It was just the memories. So many of them, crowding her in like jeering ghosts. She wanted to drown out the babble of their voices but it was hard. She hadn’t been at an opening like this since she was a teenager, her father’s hand hard on her elbow, his voice in her ear.

  Be good, Sierra. With the awful implied or else.

  Finally Marco nodded and let go of her hands. ‘All right. The crowd is waiting.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ She’d been trying not to be sick.

  ‘It’s fine.’ He strode towards the front doors and resolutely, holding her head high, Sierra followed.

  A staff member opened the doors and Sierra stepped out into the shimmering heat and the snap and flash of dozens of cameras. She recoiled instinctively before she forced herself to stop and straighten. Foolishly, perhaps, she hadn’t realised quite how big a deal the hotel opening would be, bigger than any of the ones her father had arranged, but then she hadn’t considered Marco’s ambition and drive.

  Marco had stepped up to a microphone and was welcoming the guests and media, his voice smooth and urbane, his English flawless. Sierra stood stiffly, trying to smile, until Marco’s words began to penetrate.

  ‘I know Arturo Rocci, my mentor and greatest friend, would be so proud to be here with us, and to see his daughter cutting the ribbon today. Arturo believed passionately in the values that gird every Rocci hotel. He valued hard work, excellent service and, of course, family ties.’ He glanced at Sierra, who stood frozen, her stomach churning. She hadn’t expected Marco to mention her father. She couldn’t keep his words from washing over her like an acid rain, corroding everything.

  The crowd clapped and someone pressed an overlarge pair of gilded scissors into her hand. The silver satin ribbon that stretched across the steps glinted in the sunlight.

  ‘Sierra?’ Marco asked, his voice low.

  Somehow she moved forward and snipped the ribbon. As it fell away the crowd cheered and then Marco took her elbow and led her inside to the cool sanctuary of the foyer.

  ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘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.

  ‘Oh, my goodness...’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ Diana agreed cheerfully.

  Sierra raised one hand to touch the curls that were piled on top of her head, a few trailing down to rest beguilingly on her shoulder. Diamond clips sparkled from the honeyed mass and when she turned her head they caught the light. Her make-up was understated and yet somehow transformed her face; she had smoky eyes, endless lashes, sculpted cheekbones and lush pink lips.

  ‘I had no idea make-up could do so much,’ she exclaimed and leaned forward to peer at herself more closely.

  Diana laughed. ‘I didn’t use that much make-up. Just enough to enhance what was already there.’

  ‘Even so.’ Sierra shook her head, marvelling. She had never worn make-up as a teenager, and she hadn’t changed much during her years in London. Now, however, she could see the advantages.

  Her gaze dropped from her face to her dress. She’d chosen the dress Marco had seen her in, the silvery-blue column of silk with the diamanté belt around her waist. Looking at herself in the dress made her face warm and her blood heat as she remembered how Marco had unzipped it. How he’d put his hands on her hips and pulled her towards him and she’d gone, craving the feel of him, desperately wanting more.

  ‘I wonder if I put a bit too much blusher on,’ Diana mused and, with a suppressed laugh, Sierra turned away from the mirror.

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

  Marco was getting ready just across the hall, and she couldn’t wait to see him. She couldn’t wait for him to see her, and for this wonderful, enchanted evening to begin. No matter what had happened before or might lie ahead, she wanted to truly be Cinderella and enjoy this one magical night. The clock wasn’t going to strike just yet.

  Marco knocked softly on her bedroom door and, with a conspiratorial grin, Diana went to answer it. ‘I’ll tell him you’re coming in a moment. You’re going to knock his socks off, you know.’