by Jane Porter
Payton felt a stab of envy. She shouldn’t be jealous. There was no reason to be jealous. She didn’t want a life with Marco—she’d had her chance two years ago—yet it felt peculiar seeing Marco so warm with the princess.
Not just warm, she corrected, but close. Comfortable. Payton had never been comfortable like that; she’d always felt nervous, on edge. But that was all in the past. Marco wasn’t her husband anymore and she wasn’t part of his future.
She forced herself to act, and she held her hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess Marilena. And congratulations, too.”
Princess Marilena inclined her head, but didn’t take Payton’s hand. “Thank you, Payton. We’re very much looking forward to the wedding. The ceremony will be at the Duomo,” she said, referring to the city’s famous Gothic cathedral. “The reception will probably be here.”
“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.” The words were beginning to stick in Payton’s throat and no one else said anything.
The silence grew weighted and Payton realized Marco and Princess Marilena were exchanging curious glances.
Marco straightened. “Payton was suggesting that the three of us have dinner together sometime—”
“A lovely idea,” Marilena charmingly agreed, her voice beautifully modulated. “We really should get to know each other.”
Marco’s heavy eyebrow lifted. “Unfortunately, getting acquainted will have to wait. Payton, you’ll forgive us if we sneak out? We have dinner reservations.”
As Marco assisted Marilena into the passenger seat of his Ferrari, a car he’d bought himself a month after Payton moved back to America, he found his thoughts returning to his ex-wife.
She was different, he thought. She even looked different. Something had happened. Something had changed. Was she having money trouble? Man trouble? Was it something with the girls?
And just like that he realized he’d just made another tactical error. She shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have allowed her into his house. She was trouble. She’d been trouble from the very get-go.
As he started the car, Marilena reached out to rest her hand on his thigh. “Don’t worry so much. Everything will be all right, Marco. Everything will be just fine.”
His eyes met hers and he lifted her hand and kissed it. Yet even as he kissed the back of her hand, his thoughts strayed once more to Payton. Payton had a way of getting under his skin, unsettling him. And she was doing a damn good job of it right now.
In an effort to keep her mind off Marco, Payton set to work emptying the girls’ knapsacks, sorting out the toys and chunky books from the tangled bits of clothes.
It was odd being back in this house, she thought, folding the tiny lilac and sky-blue cardigans and stacking the delicate sweaters on top of the matching striped cotton leggings.
Although Marco’s father had died two years before Payton met Marco, the villa still embodied the great late Franco d’Angelo. Which made it especially painful when Marco moved out and left her and girls behind in his family house.
For the first few months she was alone in the house, she tried to keep up the pretense that she and Marco were fine. She tried to keep it together for the girls, too. But theory and reality are two different things.
In the end, she couldn’t do it. After their volatile separation, she couldn’t manage to be in the same room with Marco and act casual. She couldn’t make polite conversation at one end of the salon while he stood at the other. She couldn’t bear to watch him talk, walk, work—couldn’t bear it when he touched another woman, even if he was just merely helping her with a coat.
He was so comfortable with everyone, so easy with all. Except with her.
She’d heard that time healed wounds but the pain inside her didn’t fade, it just grew worse. Seeing Marco, being near Marco, intensified the loss.
It rubbed her raw, rubbed away her protective reserve, rubbed away everything until she felt as if she were slowly cracking up, falling apart, dangerously close to losing it completely. Just a glimpse of Marco was enough to shatter her all over again. One glimpse of him and it felt as if someone had taken a serrated knife to her heart.
The months of stilted conversation and tense existence took its toll. Payton knew that everyone watched her. Some were curious, and pitied her. Some were puzzled, and blamed her. And for a long time she tried to continue, doing her best to make everything normal for the girls, trying to make everything okay. But on the inside, nothing was okay.
And maybe that’s what everyone knew.
She was trying to act normal and it was just an act.
Finally, nine months after he took separate quarters, she moved, leaving the villa, Milan, and Marco behind.
“You’re settling in then?”
Payton startled at the sound of Marco’s voice. She hadn’t heard him approach, and yet she’d left the door open in case the girls woke. “The girls haven’t stirred and I’ll be turning in soon.” She sat down on the edge of the bed near the stack of clothing. “You’re back early.”
“I have a seven o’clock breakfast meeting.”
So he wouldn’t have time for the girls in the morning. Payton bit her lip in disappointment.
“These meetings were planned weeks ago, Payton.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but I can see it in your eyes. You think I should be here. You think I should drop everything just because you’ve arrived.”
She felt his anger. It was tangible, a physical thing, black, heavy, threatening, and she stiffened. “I don’t expect you to drop everything.”
“Good, because I can’t. In September we’ll be celebrating the fifty-year anniversary of the House of d’Angelo. It’s a big deal, not just for me, but for Milan and the industry itself.”
She already knew about the anniversary. It was part of the fashion world buzz and she was as fascinated by Franco d’Angelo as the rest of the world. He’d been a genius. He’d dressed many of the world’s most famous and beautiful women. Queens, princesses, wives of presidents, international film stars, mistresses of sheikhs.
“A crew from England is here this week,” he continued. “They’re making a documentary on my father. I have fittings scheduled all morning and then they’re interviewing me in the afternoon.”
“Is there anything I could do?”
“You’re no longer with d’Angelo,” Marco rebuffed bluntly. “Besides, the girls need you here.”
Payton tensed, looked away. Why had she even bothered to offer? He’d never understood that she liked to contribute. Never realized it made her feel good to contribute.
“That came out wrong. I’m sorry.” Marco sighed heavily. “I’m tired. It’s been a difficult month.”
For both of them then. “I understand. The IRS has had a field day with my income tax. I’ve spent hours poring over my financial statements, making sure all of my expenses are accounted for.”
His expression eased. He actually looked sympathetic. “But that’s behind you now?”
“Fortunately.”
Looking at him, seeing him stand there and smile at her, she felt a rush of bittersweet memory. She’d loved Marco so much.
He’d been her world. Her stars. Her sky. He had taken her ordinary life and made it big, made her feel, made her love.
And then he’d brought it all down on her…the love, the want, the need…he’d let the world crash down, her dreams and heart breaking. He’d let it shatter and he hadn’t felt a damn thing. God help her, but it’d been the worst pain, the worst loss imaginable. She’d cried for months, cried in the shower, cried in her pillow, cried in the car on her way to the grocery store.
How to get over someone? How to stop wanting someone? How to stop needing someone?
The only way she’d finally survived the loss was to kill the love. She’d been forced to take all that need and want and passion and smother it.
No more tenderness.
No more desire.
No m
ore passion. Nothing but anger. Fierce, sharp unrelenting anger. He’d hurt her so badly she’d decided never to forgive him, never to forget him, never have contact again.
Of course it didn’t work out like that. The biopsy had forced Payton to confront not just her own mortality, but her pride.
“Fortunately,” she repeated softly, swallowing hard and pushing a loose tendril from her forehead. “And I hope I don’t have to deal with the tax man again for quite some time.”
He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. I have someone on a plane to New York trying to track down Gia’s blanket.”
“Thank you. It’d be a miracle if you find it, but it’d be a welcome miracle.”
His mouth tightened. “You don’t think I care about them, Payton, but you’re wrong. I love them. They’ve always been important to me.”
“Yet you haven’t visited very often.”
“You were the one that moved to America.”
He couldn’t reduce all their problems to the move. “It was the only thing I could do.”
“That’s absurd. I wanted you here. I knew it’d be difficult to see the girls once you were half way round the world and I was right.”
“You have business in the United States. You didn’t make many attempts to see us.” She pressed her nails into her hands, her voice taking on an edge. “I know for a fact you were in the Bay Area a number of times and yet you never came by the house.”
His voice sharpened, too. “I tried. Every time I phoned you had an excuse. You were heading out of town, or one of the girls was sick.”
“The time we were heading out of town, I was going to attend a funeral.” Her mother’s funeral. After a five-year battle with cancer her mother had finally lost the fight and Payton had been nearly incoherent with grief. “And children do get sick!”
“I sent gifts,” he defended tersely, but Marco knew it was a lame defense. He had stayed away. Not because he wanted to, but because visiting Payton and the girls hurt more than it helped. He felt like hell after each visit. Felt like a failure.
“A stuffed bear isn’t quite the same thing as a father.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he shouted, furious that she was right and that he’d lost control. God damn it, he hated that Payton could do this to him, hated that she made him feel like an absolute lunatic. “Don’t you think I struggle every day with the knowledge that my children are being raised halfway around the world and they view me as nothing more than a stranger?”
She took a step toward him. “You’re right. They do think of you as a stranger. And why shouldn’t they? You haven’t even tried to be part of their lives. And then last month, it was their birthday. I sent you an invitation. Why didn’t you come?”
He felt the blood drain from his face. “I couldn’t make it.”
“So call me. E-mail me. Tell me so your children won’t be disappointed!”
“They didn’t even notice I wasn’t there.”
He had no idea, she thought, seething. He had no idea how out of touch he was.
Her chest burned and her eyes felt gritty and she realized she was angry—not just with him, but with fate and life and everything. “Do you know they spent their party watching the door? Do you know they begged me not to cut the cake just in case you arrived late?”
“Payton, stop.”
“No, you stop. You stop treating the girls badly because you’re angry with me. They didn’t divorce you. They’re not to blame.”
His shoulders slumped. “I don’t blame them.”
“It seems like it.”
“Then why are you here?”
She dashed her fists beneath her eyes to keep the tears from falling. “My mother died earlier in the year. If anything should happen to me, the girls would come to you.” Her voice broke and she turned away. “It’s too late to save our marriage, but it’s not too late to make sure the girls have a loving relationship with you.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE girls woke early and crawled into bed with Payton. By the time the three of them threw back the covers to hunt for breakfast, Marco had gone. Except for Gia’s sassy comment about the “big bad wolf” going to work, the twins appeared oblivious to the fact that they were staying in their father’s house and hadn’t seen much of him yet.
Midmorning Payton herded the girls outside to get some air. They needed to do some running about to burn off their exuberant three-year-old energy and they raced off now, heading toward the garden they’d discovered yesterday. “Come on, Mommy! Hurry!”
Inside the walled garden the twins chased each other with shrieks of laughter. Shading her eyes, Payton watched Gia chase Liv around and around the walled garden. Gia might be more confident than Liv, and she might play the role of the aggressor, but Liv had speed. Payton suppressed a smile as Liv successfully dodged Gia’s tackle yet again.
“Not fair!” Gia cried loudly, frustrated.
But Liv just danced away, trying hard not to grin.
“They’re having a good time, aren’t they?” Marilena said, appearing at the garden’s little wrought iron gate.
Payton turned and mustered a smiled for the princess. “They love this little garden. It’s like something out of a storybook.”
Marilena’s gaze swept the stone walls lined by tall neatly trimmed hedges. “This was once the old palace’s herb garden. Marco and I are working to replant the original garden.” She looked at Payton. “Do you garden?”
“No. My mother and I lived in an apartment. We didn’t have a garden.” The princess didn’t say anything and Payton hastily added. “But I do sew. That’s how I fell in love with fashion design. My mom and I used to make all our own clothes.”
“And I bet you were quite good. I’m sure they didn’t look homemade.”
Payton glanced swiftly at the princess, wondering if she was making a jab at her poor past or not. But Marilena looked serene and Payton knew she had nothing to be ashamed of. Her mother had been a talented seamstress and had taught Payton how to sew at an early age. By the time Payton was fourteen she was poring over fashion magazines, copying popular European styles.
It’d always been her mother’s dream for Payton to study with the great designers in Europe. Payton knew they certainly couldn’t afford trips abroad and yet she indulged her mother’s fantasy. They discussed living in Milan, and Payton interning for one of the great Italian designers like Valentino, Prada, or d’Angelo.
Who would have ever thought such a dream would come true?
“They’re happy little girls,” Marilena commented, watching Liv and Cia play.
“They love all the sunshine,” Payton said. San Francisco was beautiful but the coastal fog and gray clouds meant cooler temperatures than the girls preferred. Gia suddenly scampered up the stone wall and Payton clapped her hands. “Gia, no! That’s dangerous. Down, please.”
Marilena laughed. “How did she climb so high so fast?”
“Gia can climb anything. I can’t take my eyes off the girls for a minute.”
“They’re certainly beautiful. I was telling Marco how absolutely ravishing I think they are.”
“They take after Marco.”
Marilena laughed huskily. “I don’t know about that. They have quite a bit of you. Their eyes are yours. The sweet shape of their faces, you again.” Marilena watched them stoop to examine a yellow winged butterfly that had landed on a rock. “They could have quite a modeling career. Have you talked to any agencies? I’m sure Marco could open doors.”
Just hearing the princess mention Marco’s name so casually sent flickers of fresh pain through her. Payton drew a deep breath and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think the girls are ready for modeling. I think they just need to be little girls.”
“As always, Mother knows best. And look, here’s Marco now. He’s come home to have lunch with us all.”
It was early June and lunch was being served in the garden. The housemaids had carried a large wooden
table into the sunshine and covered it with a fine linen cloth then set the table with large glazed ceramic plates and sparkling glassware.
The twins nibbled on olives as the adults talked. Marco opened a bottle of wine, a light red perfect for the weather and a midday meal. It seemed almost natural, Payton thought, the five of them sitting down to lunch together. Marilena was really lovely. She and Marco seemed so calm and easy together. They’d be good parents for the girls as well.
Payton looked at the girls, her gaze growing fond. They were dropping spoonfuls of buttery noodles into their mouth between whispers to each other. They loved pasta—had grown up on pasta—and she could tell it was a treat for them to be here, eating outside in the sun, wearing simple cotton sundresses that left their shoulders bare.
Her heart folded over just looking at them. She loved the girls so much it ached inside. Did all mothers feel this way? Did they all dread the day their babies grew up and would move away?
She felt eyes on her and turning, met Marco’s gaze. His expression was closed, and yet intense. He’d said virtually nothing to her all lunch, keeping his conversation directed at Marilena and the girls, and yet now they faced each other across a void as big as the Atlantic Ocean she’d just flown over.
Her heart seemed to fold once more and she drew in a small, shallow breath, hating that she felt absolutely confused by collision of past and present.
Being with Marco again made her realize that the love wasn’t dead after all. It was just buried. Deeply.
Buried so far below, packed so tightly down she’d tried to pretend that there’d been nothing there, nothing between them. No sparks, no chemistry, no emotions of any kind.
She’d managed to convince herself after one too many afternoons weeping in the shower that it was all a trick of her imagination, a projection of her loneliness.
He’d never loved her and the truth hurt so much she had to take her heart and break it open, empty the tenderness, the hope, the need and pretend she’d never felt anything. That she’d never wanted anything. That she’d never wanted him.
