by Jane Porter
Gia turned her head slightly to look at Marco.
“So it’s on the first plane,” he said.
Payton’s shoulders lifted. “Or in La Guardia’s terminal.” It was difficult changing planes in the middle of the night with two sleepy little girls, a tangle of carry-on bags, and a fistful of boarding passes. Payton could have sworn she’d double-checked the girl’s tiny backpacks for the blankets but obviously she’d overlooked Gia’s.
Marco punched in a number and rattled off directions in Italian. Payton hadn’t spoken Italian in a couple of years but she had no problem following his rapid speech.
He’d called his assistant, the one that handled his travel, and he was telling her to track down the lost blanket. If his assistant couldn’t locate it from her desk in Milan, he wanted her on the last flight out that day to try to retrieve it in person.
Marco hung up the phone and put it away. Payton felt reluctant admiration. She didn’t always like his tactics but they worked. He usually got what he wanted.
Except he hadn’t wanted her, and he’d gotten her anyway.
Payton’s faint smile faded. “Thank you,” she said, hating the tangle of emotion inside her chest. She’d told herself she was going to handle this calmly, told herself that she wasn’t going to let the past influence this reconciliation but that was easier said than done.
Marco nodded. “Do you have everything?”
Payton remembered her suitcase. “My bag never made it.”
He bit back a sigh and his flash of irritation stung her.
He never minded helping the girls but he objected to helping her. The distinction had been made years ago. The girls might be d’Angelo, but she wasn’t, and she’d never be.
Payton filled the necessary forms for tracking her lost suitcase, felt Marco’s close scrutiny. He still held Gia but Liv clung to Payton’s leg, trying to put as much distance between her and that man.
That man. Their father. Payton realized it had all begun. The changes. The choices. The courage.
The limousine ride was quiet. The girls dozed. The tires of the car hummed on the road. Payton noted that Marco kept his distance, sitting as far from her in the back of the car as possible, and for that she was thankful.
As the tall stone house with the late Baroque facade came into view, her stomach tightened. Once she’d been so in awe of the elegant house with the high windows, perfectly painted shutters, curved iron balustrade. But now she felt fear.
Inside the house, Payton settled the girls into the bright, airy nursery, the plaster painted a warm yellow and the low shelves in the room filled with toys and dolls. Then with the girls happily playing, she knew it was time to face Marco.
Marco waited for her in the salon downstairs. His suit jacket disappeared. He wore a thin dark brown sweater that hugged the hard planes of his chest, the expensive leather belt at his waist emphasizing his lean, muscular build. He’d always been athletic. He looked dangerous now.
“You’re back,” he said tautly, reaching for the espresso a maid had carried in.
His voice sounded cool and hard just like the rest of him and it sliced through Payton’s exhaustion, sliced through the jumble of thoughts in her head and brought her the focus she needed.
Payton stiffened slightly, helplessly. “Not by choice.”
He laughed low, the sound harsh and grating. “I find that hard to believe.”
Thank God she didn’t feel anything.
She hadn’t been sure if she would. She’d worried about this moment for weeks, anticipating the moment she finally came face-to-face and heard his voice again, saw his face again and the fierce fire in his eyes.
Now the moment had come and her heart didn’t lurch and her stomach didn’t fall. No racing pulse, no ache of emotion. Nothing.
Absolutely nothing. Thank God.
She couldn’t have handed over her babies knowing that they—she and Marco—could have been a perfect family. She couldn’t have walked away if there’d been a chance for real happiness.
Now that she was here, now that she stood just a foot from Marco d’Angelo she realized that they’d never been in love. They’d never been really together, despite the vows and the ring and the children. They’d been just an accidental meeting.
She cleared her throat. “I didn’t want to argue in front of the girls, but I booked a hotel because I prefer to stay in a hotel—”
“You came all this way to see me but you want a hotel?”
God, she didn’t want to fight. She was swaying on her feet. Exhausted out of her mind. A fight was the last thing she could handle now. “I came so the girls could spend time with you—”
“And how do you propose they’ll spend time with me if they’re sequestered away in a city hotel?”
Payton drew another breath, trying desperately to stay calm. “They’ll spend the day with you, of course—”
“I work during the day. In fact, I need to leave to return to the office in just a moment.”
“You’re going back already?”
“It’s only eleven in the morning. It’s a work day, Payton.”
“But the girls—”
“Are sleeping right now, as they should be. They’re exhausted and obviously need the rest.” Payton didn’t say anything and his shoulders shifted impatiently. “You were the one that insisted on coming now. You didn’t ask my opinion, didn’t check with my schedule. Don’t blame me if I have work to do.”
She dug her nails into her palms. “I realize it’s short notice. I’m sorry about that. But I was hoping you could take some time off. Really get to know the girls better.”
“I’m getting married in a couple of months. I will be taking three weeks honeymoon then. It’s impossible to take more time now. But that doesn’t mean I won’t spend any time with the girls. I’ll make sure we have time together.”
Yes, just as he’d made sure he visited them often in California.
Payton felt a wave of anger roll through her. He’d always said she’d been selfish with the children that she’d turned them against him, but it wasn’t true. He’d never even tried to get to know them. He’d visited them less than a half dozen times in two years. What kind of relationship was that? “Your children are here for the first time in nearly two years—”
“And whose fault is that?” he bristled.
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe they were arguing already. It was all they’d ever done during their last twelve months together. The fighting had become unbearable. The tension impossible. “We’ll see you later this afternoon then.”
Marco’s thoughts weren’t on business when he arrived at the d’Angelo headquarters on Via Borgospesso in the elegant fashion district. He was thinking about the girls, and he made a mental note to follow up with his secretary on Gia’s lost blanket. It was imperative that the blanket be found quickly. Traveling was hard enough on young children without the loss of a favorite possession.
Yet on arriving at the office he was mobbed by a half dozen of his senior staff members, each with a pressing problem. They followed them into his office, talking at once. The men’s designer, his creative director, the vice president in charge of textiles and home collection—they were all crowding through the door, shouting over each other.
Marco shut the door, waved them toward the stylish modern couches against the wall. “I gather we have a couple problems,” he said dryly.
“A couple?” Jacopo rolled his eyes. He was the brainchild behind d’Angelo’s successful men’s collection. The House of d’Angelo had catered exclusively to women during Marco’s father’s time, but since taking over the business ten years ago Marco had entered new markets and Jacopo was the first new designer Marco had brought on board.
“Our number one mill closed their doors this morning,” Jacopo continued bitterly. “They’ve nothing for us. They fulfilled nothing in our order. We won’t have a single new textile for the show.”
“We didn’t contract
with anyone else this year.” Fabrizio, the creative director, dropped onto the low black leather sofa, and threw an arm behind his head. “We’d decided this was the year we were going to go small. Work with one mill. We screwed ourselves.”
That was putting it bluntly, Marco thought, rubbing his temple, but it did seem to fit.
The closing of the mill impacted the women’s collection more than menswear. It would cripple womenswear and the fledgling home collection. “They can’t close their doors without fulfilling our contract. They’d open themselves to a horrendous lawsuit.”
No one said anything and Marco glanced at Maria, the director of fragrance. She hadn’t spoken yet. “What? I can tell something’s bothering you, and I can guarantee it’s not the mill.”
Maria’s dark eyebrows winged higher. “I’d say so.” She folded her arms over the leather clipboard. “It’s the new ad campaign. They shot the first print ad yesterday.”
“And?”
“It’s not the ad we agreed on. It’s not the new ad campaign that we’ve planned.”
“But is it any good?” The ad was scheduled to run in two dozen fashion publications around the globe.
“No.”
There were days Marco wished he hadn’t gotten out of bed. Today was one of them. “That bad?”
“You’d hate it.”
“Okay. Get the ad agency on the phone. Jacopo, make an appointment with our friends at the mill. Let them know we’re coming, along with our legal counsel. Looks like we’re going to have a busy day everyone.”
It would be busy, he thought, giving his creative team a chance to file out before reaching for his phone. But it wasn’t so busy he’d forgotten the twins. Leaning across his desk, he punched in the number for his travel coordinator. “Marco here,” he said. “Any success locating my daughter’s blanket?”
No luck. That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, and his travel coordinator’s solution irritated him. “I know I could buy her a new blanket, but that’s not the point. Gia doesn’t love a new blanket. She loves the old one. Make sure you’re on the last flight out tonight. I want her favorite blanket.”
CHAPTER TWO
HE GOT home far later than he intended and by the time he’d arrived, the house was dark and quiet, only a few lights glowing downstairs.
Marco followed the light to the grand salon where he heard Payton talking in a hushed voice. The doors were slightly ajar and he could see Payton curled on the love seat speaking on her cell phone. She was wearing slim hunter-green slacks, a black turtleneck, and a suede green blazer. She knew color, he thought. That shade of green she was wearing—forest with a hint of moss—set off her fiery hair and accented her pale complexion.
She’d always had a good eye for color and design and that was exactly what she was discussing now. Business. She must be talking to someone at work in San Francisco.
For a moment he felt a strange spark of emotion, part anger, part resentment. He and Payton had had their problems but he only had respect for her talent. She was a natural when it came to design. It was almost as if she could see how fabric would drape in her mind’s eye, picture the texture, the color, the cut and with just a few pencil sketches, she’d come up with brilliant ideas.
He’d admired her work. He’d wanted her on his team, producing for him. But once their relationship fell apart, Payton headed back to America and went to work for an Italian designer there.
Payton’s fingers were beginning to cramp from holding the little cell phone so long. She’d called the office just to check in but her assistant wouldn’t let her off the phone.
“When are you coming back?” her assistant demanded, already sounding rattled for eleven o’clock in the morning. “I swear, you’re the only one who knows what’s going on.”
“Well, somebody else better figure it out soon,” Payton answered lightly, thinking that if her being gone two days was a problem for Calvanti Design, then they were really going to be thrown for a loop when she announced that she was taking a leave of absence on her return.
She was just hanging up when she heard the wooden floor creak. Turning, Payton spotted Marco standing outside the tall gilded salon doors. “When did you get home?”
“A few minutes ago.” He gestured to the phone. “I didn’t overhear anything I wasn’t supposed to hear, did I?”
“No.”
He walked toward her, shedding his coat en route. “I heard you design for Calvanti under your own label now.”
“Yes.” Payton warily watched him approach.
He’d been livid when she took the position with Calvanti on returning to San Francisco two years ago. Calvanti was a small Italian-American design firm that had shown stunning poise and creativity for a small upstart fashion house. Payton had been thrilled at the prospect of having her own label and yet Marco had said they’d only hired her to capitalize on the d’Angelo name.
“You’ve given up working on menswear then?” he asked, dropping his coat on the back on a chair.
She felt a muscle pull in her jaw. He’d never thought much of her as a designer. Early in their marriage she’d shyly shown him her work and he’d been less than impressed. Actually he’d been far more blunt than that. “I still collaborate on menswear and the sportswear collection, but in the future I’ll be focusing more exclusively on my label.”
“You’ve been successful.”
“Surprisingly so, yes.”
“I guess it doesn’t hurt being a d’Angelo after all.”
She felt her face grow hot. She couldn’t speak for a moment, formulating silent protests, wanting instinctively to defend herself but it would do no good. Marco wouldn’t believe she’d kept his name for the girls’ sake. All Payton had wanted was to keep Gia and Liv’s lives simple. Uncomplicated. As free from tension as possible.
“You’ll be meeting Princess Marilena tonight. She’ll be here in a half hour. I expect you’ll treat her with nothing but kindness and respect.”
Payton felt as if he’d tossed a sandbag at her middle. She drew a quick breath, the air nearly knocked out of her. “Of course.”
“I ask that you’ll keep your distance.”
Her cheeks burned. “I understand, Marco. We’re speaking English.”
“Yes, but you’re famous for selective listening. You hear only what you want to hear and I’m telling you now that you can not, will not, come between Marilena and me.”
“Good, because I have no desire to come between you and the princess. If anything, I want to ensure the stability of your relationship—”
“Why?”
He could have been a surgeon with his cold precision. She struggled about, searching for the right words. It wasn’t easy. “If anything happened to me, the girls would…” her voice faded for a moment. Her mind swept the future, saw only a great blankness and shied away. “They’d go to you.”
“I thought you’d always intended they’d go to your mom—” Marco broke off, realizing he’d just erred. Her mother had died in the past year. Payton and her mother had been very close. “I’m sorry. I’d forgotten.”
She nodded painfully. “Thank you.”
Damn her, Marco thought. She looked so guileless standing there, long hair loose, the soft auburn curls flattering her high cheekbones, softening her firm chin. But he knew her. Knew the tricks in her heart. She was no Botticelli angel. She had a goal when she traveled to Milan four years ago. She wanted an internship with a prominent fashion house and she wanted to snare a prominent man. She’d done both.
And yet…yet she looked so tired, so vulnerable just now and it weighed on him. She’d been raising the twins on her own for two years now, and God knows, that couldn’t have been easy.
“I didn’t bring the girls to create friction,” Payton added after a moment. “I thought it’d be good for them to meet the princess before the wedding. I thought it’d help them adjust.”
He looked at her long and hard. Was she telling the truth? Could he
possibly trust her?
“Have the girls been in bed long?” he asked, changing the subject, not knowing where to go with any of this. Seeing Payton again wasn’t easy. Nothing with Payton had ever been easy. “I wanted to get back earlier but I had a meeting that turned nasty.”
“They fell asleep a couple hours ago. They’re exhausted. The traveling and the time change.”
Payton saw the new lines at Marco’s eyes and the tightness at his mouth. Those lines hadn’t been there two years ago. He seemed to be feeling so much pressure and she wondered at the stress he was under.
“I was thinking,” she said, “that perhaps we—you, Princess Marilena, and I—could have dinner tonight.”
He tensed. “Tonight?”
“Yes. The three of us. But you might already have other plans—”
“We do.”
She heard the reproach in his voice. He hated things being thrown at him last minute. “It’s not a problem. We can do dinner another time. Or lunch, too, if that’s better.”
The double salon doors suddenly opened and Princess Marilena stood there, a hand on each handle, her tall slender figure elegant in a trim suit, navy silk the color of midnight, that accented her narrow waist and long legs. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, her English flawless, just like the rest of her.
Marco stood up, a warm smile easing his tight features. “Not at all, darling. Come in. We were just talking about you.”
Her lips twisted. “No wonder my ears were burning. Tell me, was it good?”
She was crossing the grand salon, her heels tapping against the marble parquet and yet she only had eyes for Marco and he only had eyes for her.
“It’s always good,” he answered, his voice dropping, husky and intimate as Marilena reached his side.
His arm reached out, circled her waist, hand resting lightly on her hip. “Everything all right?” he whispered, the question clearly meant for Marilena but loud enough for Payton to hear.
Marilena nodded, smiled faintly. “Yes, darling, thank you.” Then she turned to Payton who had risen when Marilena entered the room. “You must be Payton.”
