Marco's Pride

by Jane Porter

  “You make me crazy.”

  Marco’s head dipped and his mouth covered hers in a kiss so hot, so fierce that it stole her breath, emptied her lungs and left her head spinning.

  Hot tears stung her eyes and, reaching up, Payton clasped his shirt, hanging on to him as her heart felt as if it were being wrenched in two.

  No one, but no one kissed like this. No one but Marco made her feel like this, and she wasn’t over him yet. Not by a long shot. Maybe not ever.

  A cry escaped her as his lips parted hers. She shouldn’t—couldn’t—let this happen, and yet it was heaven and hell and Payton knew this was how it had always been with Marco. Her response was pure instinct, impossible to control….

  Mama Mia!

  Harlequin Presents®

  They’re tall, dark…and ready to marry!

  If you love marriage-of-convenience stories that ignite into marriages of passion, then look no further. We’ve got the heroes you love to read about and the women who tame them.

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  His Inherited Bride

  by

  Jacqueline Baird

  #2385

  A Sicilian Husband

  by

  Kate Walker

  #2393

  Jane Porter

  MARCO’S PRIDE

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PROLOGUE

  “I WON’T let her ruin the wedding.” Marco d’Angelo’s deep voice rang out in the high ceiling Milan salon. He rarely raised his voice and the seamstress and models at the far end of the elegant salon briefly glanced his way before resuming the fitting.

  Princess Marilena placed a light hand on Marco’s arm. “She won’t ruin the wedding, darling. The ceremony isn’t for months.”

  “Two and a half months.” They were getting married less than a week after the Spring show previewing the new collection, and the new collection so far hadn’t come together.

  They were running out of time.

  “I don’t think you should worry yourself yet. Things always have a way of working out,” the princess added evenly.

  Marco wasn’t so sure. His angular jaw tightened, and his thick eyebrows lowered, becoming heavy black slashes above brooding eyes. His gaze narrowed, focused on Marilena’s pale hand where it rested on his coat sleeve, studying the opulent engagement ring he’d given her less than a month ago.

  He’d hunted the ring down, a three carat emerald cut diamond surrounded by sapphires in an eighteenth century gold setting. The ring had belonged to the royal Borgiano family for three centuries until Marilena’s father, Prince Stefano Borgiano, had been forced to sell it twenty-five years ago.

  The aristocratic Borgiano fortunes had fallen even as the d’Angelo’s had risen. But right now Marco didn’t feel very blessed. He was troubled, deeply troubled, aware that the new collection lacked imagination. Inspiration.

  It was, he thought irritably, boring. And that, in the fashion world, was a fate worse than death.

  Like his father before him, Marco had never needed an outsider to tell him when something worked or didn’t. He knew. He felt it in his gut. And his gut was telling him now that the Spring collection would be a disappointment if he didn’t find the spark soon. If he couldn’t make magic.

  But what was the special something?

  He didn’t know yet, and he certainly wouldn’t find the answers with his ex-wife here. “I don’t trust her,” he said after a moment, his voice low and rough. “Payton’s only ever been interested in herself.”

  “She said her visit was just for holiday, didn’t she?”

  Marco glanced up to meet Marilena’s steady gaze. She had remarkable eyes, the irises the color of caramels, the rich tawny color contrasting perfectly with her glossy black hair and lush black lashes.

  As the head of d’Angelo, Milan’s top fashion design house, Marco worked with stunning models every day, and had dressed many of the world’s most beautiful women for nearly two decades, but Princess Marilena Borgiano was a class apart.

  The hard press of his lips eased. “How can you be so understanding?” he asked, reaching into his coat pocket for a cigarette before remembering he’d promised her he’d quit smoking.

  Her slim shoulders shrugged in an ultrafeminine, ultra-Italian gesture. “Because Payton’s not a threat.”

  Marilena must have caught the arch of his eyebrows as she smiled, her full dark red mouth curving. “We’ve known each other a long time, Marco, you and me. We’ve been through a great deal together. We understand each other and we know what we want. It’s different from your first marriage, yes?”

  Completely different, he thought, biting down on his back teeth, his temper nearly flaring again. If pressed, he wouldn’t even call the brief twenty-one month arrangement a marriage. It was more like a disaster.

  No, a nightmare.

  Marilena stood on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. “Don’t look so angry, darling. She won’t be here long, and she’ll have the girls with her. I know you’ve wanted a relationship with them—”

  “That was a long time ago, before she held them hostage, before she used them against me. Maybe once they were my daughters, but they’re not mine anymore. Payton made sure of that.”

  Marilena clucked softly. “That’s not true. They’re still your children. You adore the girls. I know you’ve missed them terribly.”

  Marco swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He had missed them. He’d missed them so much he almost felt sick inside. “Payton knows I’ll sue for custody,” he said after a long moment. “She knows if she comes back, she’ll find it next to impossible to take them out of the country again.”

  Marilena cocked her head. “So, why is she bringing them here now?”

  Good question, Marco thought. A very good question indeed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  DEATH and taxes. The only two certainties in life. Death and taxes…

  The words went around and around Payton’s head like the unclaimed luggage on the airport baggage carousel.

  With a tired hand, she pushed the tangle of dark red curls from her forehead. She’d boarded the plane with her hair pinned up, but after fifteen hours traveling the curls had burst free from the French twist.

  A black suitcase came sliding out the luggage chute and Payton carefully stooped to check the tag without disturbing the toddler slumped against her shoulder.

  Wrong name. Not hers.

  As Payton straightened she cradled the back of Gia’s head and glanced down into her sleeping daughter’s face. Wet tears still streaked Gia’s swollen cheeks, a testament to the hours Gia had wailed inconsolably for the small fuzzy blankie lost somewhere between boarding in San Francisco and changing planes in New York’s La Guardia airport.

  It had not been an easy flight.

  It had not been an easy month.

  It had not been an easy life.

  Payton’s lips twisted as she suppressed the rise of emotion. She couldn’t start thinking now. Thinking would only make everything worse.

  She shot Livia a quick glance. “Are you okay, Liv?” she whispered, mustering a smile for Gia’s twin.

  The three-year-old sat perched on top of an up-ended car seat, her thumb popped in her mouth, her arm clutching her ow
n fuzzy blankie.

  Livia nodded solemnly, her dark blue eyes the same shade as Payton’s. The girls had inherited Payton’s heart-shaped face, small straight nose, and dark blue eyes, but their gorgeous coloring came from their father. Onyx curls, light olive skin, the longest, thickest black fringe of eyelash imaginable.

  Just thinking of Marco made Payton’s chest squeeze tight. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. When she’d left Milan two years ago she’d rashly vowed that nothing short of death would bring her back.

  And it had.

  Blinking, Payton concentrated on the moving carousel to keep the tears from forming. She wasn’t much of a crier anymore but she was exhausted and when she was overly tired tears welled more easily.

  The last year had been hard, but nothing like the last month. That had been hell. Four weeks endless fear. Endless worry. Endless soul-searching.

  And finally at last the truth came: if she were sick, the girls would need their father.

  Gia stirred in her arms, black lashes fluttering open. “I want my blankie,” she croaked, voice raspy from hours of crying.

  Payton cupped the back of her daughter’s head. “I know you do.”

  Brilliant tears welled in Gia’s eyes. “I want it now!”

  Gia’s forlorn cry knotted Payton’s heart. She felt like she’d failed Gia. The girls never went anywhere without their blankets. How could Payton lose track of Gia’s? It’d never happened before. It was unthinkable. “I know, I know, but we can’t get it right now—”

  “Noooo!”

  The wail filled the baggage claim area. Payton kissed Gia’s flushed cheek and rocked her. “We’ll get it back soon, I promise.”

  But Gia wasn’t comforted and Liv, hearing Gia’s distress, began to whimper, too.

  Suddenly the baggage carousel shut off.

  Payton stared at the now flat belt with a smattering of suitcases still on it. An airline employee began retrieving the remaining luggage, locking them together on a cart.

  Her suitcase hadn’t made it. The girls’ bag had arrived. The two car seats had made it. But not Payton’s own bag.

  No clean underwear, no nightgown, no comfortable shoes, nothing at all.

  A five-month audit from the Internal Revenue Service.

  A horrible biopsy.

  And now no clean underwear. Unbelievable.

  “Moommmmmy!” Gia wailed louder.

  Livia’s eyes filled with tears and she began to cry for Gia. “Get Gia’s blankie, Mommy! She needs her blankie.”

  “I know.” Payton crouched down, scooped up both girls in her arms and held them on her lap. “And I’ll try. I promise.”

  “Now!” Gia sobbed, pummeling her fist against Payton’s shoulder. “Get it now. Now. Now!”

  “She needs blankie,” Liv echoed, lower lip trembling.

  Gia’s wet gaze met her sister’s “Blankie misses me!”

  Now both girls were sobbing uncontrollably. Payton jiggled both in her arms, hushing them, even as she wondered how in God’s name she’d made it this far as a single mom.

  It hadn’t been easy.

  “I miss blankie, too,” Payton whispered. “Maybe we can find you a new one. I bet there are some beautiful blankets here and you can pick out the one you like best—”

  “Noooooo.” Gia sounded stricken and her cries grew louder, rose higher, nearing a feverish pitch.

  Suddenly a deep voice boomed, “Gianina Elettra Maria d’Angelo!” The reprimand immediately silenced Gia.

  The reprimand chilled Payton, too.

  Payton knew that voice. An icy shiver raced down her back. Marco.

  O God, she didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to be here. But she had no choice…

  Payton battled her own hysteria and slowly dragged her gaze up the imposing length of her ex-husband, a man she hadn’t seen in nearly a year.

  His dark eyes, the color of cocoa, met hers and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, the air bottled in her lungs, her heart constricting with anger and pain.

  She’d never thought she’d be back, never in a million years. And hadn’t she thrown something like that in Marco’s face on their last meeting? Nothing short of death would make me come back to you!

  Her head grew light. Her limbs felt heavy and brittle, as if coated with ice. Tiny black dots danced before her eyes and Payton forced herself to exhale, and then inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

  She could do this. She had to do this. It was for the girls.

  But looking at the girls—Gia’s small face almost white with shock, while huge tears filmed Liv’s dark blue eyes and clung to her lush black lashes—Payton felt a stab of utter despair.

  They didn’t even know him! How could she leave them with him? How could she think this—he—was the solution? How could he be the solution? She had to be out of her mind.

  Or out of options.

  Dammit, it wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Life had never given her a chance!

  “Hello, Marco,” she said, trying to sound natural and failing miserably. Seemed like she was failing at everything these days.

  “Hello, Payton.” He echoed her greeting and he sounded so coolly, casually composed. This was the Marco d’Angelo that faced the media, the Marco of a million magazine and newspaper stories, the Marco photographed a dozen times a week, the Marco that believed his own press.

  Her jaw ached and she realized she was smiling hard, smiling a tight fierce white toothy smile as though her life depended on it, and in a way, it did.

  No matter what happened to her, the girls would come first now. The girl’s future was all that mattered.

  She might hate Marco d’Angelo but he was the father of her children.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she answered, forcing more air through her lips, praying she’d find her footing fast. She felt ridiculously disheveled her eyes gritty and dry after the all-night flight.

  “You left word that you were arriving in Milan this morning.”

  She felt rather than saw the narrowing of his eyes, the press of his lips. He was irritated. Which didn’t surprise her. She’d always irritated him. He’d been so impatient during their brief painful marriage, so angry.

  “I left word so you wouldn’t be surprised when I rang you from the hotel—not to arrange a ride.”

  “You need a ride,” he answered simply.

  “There are taxis.”

  “My children are not staying in a hotel.”

  “I’ve already made reservations.”

  “I canceled them.” His gaze dropped to wide-eyed Livia who practically quaked on Payton’s lap, her small knees pulled to her chest and her inky ringlets intensifying the stunning blueness of her eyes.

  Marco’s hard jaw tightened. “She’s trembling like a mouse.”

  Payton heard the unspoken criticism in his voice, heard the reproach that was always there.

  In his book, Payton had failed as a wife, a woman and a mother many times over. An Italian woman would have never made the choices Payton had made.

  But she wasn’t Italian and he’d never given her a chance.

  Her chest burned. She felt like she’d swallowed fire. “She’s…overwhelmed,” Payton said even as she hugged Liv closer, letting her more timid twin hide her face from her father’s displeasure.

  Liv’s preschool teacher had nicknamed her Tender Heart, and it’d stuck. Gia was the fighter. Liv was the lover.

  “And this one?” Marco demanded, nodding at elf-like Gia who glared up at her father, her small mouth flattened, perfectly mimicking his dark expression.

  “Gia lost her blanket and she misses it very much.”

  “Her blanket,” he repeated flatly.

  “Yes.”

  “And she must have it?”

  “Yes,” Gia answered for herself. Her father was speaking English. She had no problem understanding. “I miss blankie. I want blankie back.”

  Marco’s and Gia’s gazes clashed and then held. Gia didn�
�t back down easily and she wasn’t going to be intimidated now.

  To think she was only three years old! Payton knew already these two were going to really butt heads, as Gia grew older.

  Marco looked at her. “They’re not too old for blankets?”

  “No,” Gia answered smartly, indignantly. “They’re our lovies. The doctor says we can have a lovie.”

  Again Marco’s gaze lifted and he stared at Payton rather incredulously. “You tell them this stuff?”

  “No,” Payton replied. “Their pediatrician told them. Dr. Crosby explained to the girls that they were too old for pacifiers, but understood that Gia and Liv still needed a lovie. The blankets became the lovie.” Payton’s chin rose. Things you’d know if you’d been part of their lives, she wanted to spit at him, but wouldn’t, not with the girls here, not when they were already so unsettled.

  The girls needed breakfast and a nap. They needed routine. They needed time and attention and lots of love, but Payton said none of these things, biting the inside of her lip so hard that she nearly drew blood.

  Wasn’t it ironic that at Calvanté Design in San Francisco, she had was known for her warmth, her skill, her compassionate approach in dealing with people and problems, yet the moment she came face-to-face with Marco she felt wildly out of control?

  “I’m not crazy about the word, lovie,” Marco said with a grimace, “but if she needs her blanket, we’ll get the blanket.”

  He lifted Gia out of Payton’s arms and into his. Gia stiffened, resisting him. She turned her small face away, giving him her fierce profile but she didn’t utter a word.

  Gia was scared. Gia, who wasn’t afraid of anyone, or anything, was afraid of her own father.

  Payton’s heart squeezed. It was never supposed to turn out like this. It was never supposed to come down to this. If it hadn’t been for that lab report she wouldn’t be here now, either.

  Marco reached into his elegant suit-coat and retrieved his phone. “When did you last have the blanket?”

  “Sometime between boarding in San Francisco and changing planes in New York.”