by Jane Porter
He was wearing a tuxedo without a bow tie and his white shirt was open at the throat. His dark hair was rather long, he always wore it long, and brushed the collar of his starched shirt, fell rakishly across the brow.
As he turned his head to look at her, one dark eyebrow arched ever so slightly and there was a glint in his eye. He looked very sexy…and a bit wicked…and when his dark eyes met hers she felt as if she’d glimpsed life itself.
There was time, she thought, and then there was time in Marco d’Angelo’s eyes.
She remembered how the bell sounded in the opera house, signaling the end of intermission and he and his circle of beautiful people moved on. Payton stood transfixed, legs shaking, watching him walk away. But she knew in a strange sixth sense sort of way that they weren’t finished yet.
Marco took a tight corner, his black Ferrari hugging the turn and Payton gripped the door handle to keep from falling sideways in her seat. No, they hadn’t been finished that night at La Scala. They hadn’t even begun yet.
Marco pulled into his parking garage. “About earlier, at the photo shoot,” he said, breaking the silence. “Your suggestions were dead-on. I don’t know how you do it, but you were wonderful. I couldn’t have asked for better. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He hesitated for a moment and then turned off the ignition. “Marilena is good with children,” he said in a flat voice. “She thinks our daughters are precious, and as you might have guessed, we hope to have our own someday.”
Payton didn’t know why he had to do this now, tonight, after such a wonderful day. “I see.”
“Marilena will be a wonderful mother.”
“I’m sure she will,” Payton answered faintly.
“I know we’ll have at least one or two babies, but she assures me that the twins will never play second fiddle. They’ll always be important.”
If he’d hoped to reassure her, he was failing, Payton thought, glancing at her hands. “Where do you plan to live?”
“Here, of course.”
His house. Their house. Their former house. Pain suffused her chest, a rush of memory. “Great.” She looked up at him, eyes burning and praying he couldn’t see the sheen of tears. “Anything else?”
“No.”
The girls were still up and Payton read them a story before Marco appeared in the nursery to help tuck them in. Payton stepped back to give Marco room and she watched from the doorway as he said prayers with them and then blessed each and kissed Gia, and then Liv good-night.
Her heart ached as she saw Liv slip her arms around Marco’s neck and hold him close for an extra moment. “I love you, Papa,” Liv whispered shyly.
“I love you, too,” he answered, kissing her. He stood and looked down at his daughters and lightly touched each child’s head. “Buonanotte, bambini.”
It was time to tell him. It was time to tell him the truth. This wasn’t going to be easy, but then she didn’t think it would ever be.
Payton followed Marco from the girls bedroom. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked, as they reached the head of the stairs.
“Thank you.”
They entered his private sitting room, the creamy plaster walls lined in places with pale floor to ceiling bookshelves, although only half the shelves held books. The rest of the shelves were devoted to art—bronzes, miniatures, relics of past civilizations.
“Have you thought any more about coming to work for me? I’m serious, you know,” Marco said, calmly pouring her a generous glass of sweet after dinner wine.
“I’ll find you a place to live near the fashion district. In fact, I know of a great house coming on the market on Via della Spiga,” he said, naming a street just a few blocks from his headquarters. “It has a beautiful courtyard garden, the rooms are large and bright. The house gets excellent light.”
His words rushed over her in a river of sound and feeling. “I can’t,” she said at last. “At least not now.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated, but trust me when I say I can’t move here for a while. Six months…a year…at least.”
“You’re going to take the girls away for another year?”
“No. I won’t take them away. I—” She broke off, swallowed, and pressed on, “I thought I’d leave them here.”
“Leave them?”
Payton half-closed her eyes, unwilling to go where her emotions were leading her. The girls, she reminded herself, think of the girls. If nothing else, think of their innocence. They don’t know that bad things can happen to their mommy and daddy yet.
That bad things will happen.
Her eyes felt gritty. They burned and Payton turned as if to go but realized she had nowhere to go. There was no one she could turn to anymore.
There was just Marco.
The stark reality made her head swim. Her legs felt as if they’d give way any minute and she turned away, fighting the tears, fighting all that she was trying so hard to handle on her own.
“Payton, what is it?”
The intensity in his voice nearly undid her. Part of her longed to tell him everything and yet another part of her was still so afraid. It was that old fear of naming something…of giving something of substance…existence…power.
She couldn’t give the disease power. She knew the power it had. She knew what had happened to her mother and aunt.
“Payton, talk to me.”
“I don’t think I can.”
He swiftly moved toward her, his hands circling her upper arms. “Why not? You can talk to everyone else. Why can’t you talk to me?”
When she didn’t answer, he clasped her chin, lifted her face to his. “You know me, Payton. You know me better than anyone.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
His intense expression pierced her, driving holes of hurt into her heart.
“God forgive me, but you make me crazy.” He swore softly just before his head dipped and his mouth covered hers in a kiss so hot, so fierce that it stole her breath, emptied her lungs, 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 God in heaven, she wasn’t over him yet. Not by a long shot. Maybe not ever.
A cry escaped her as his lips parted hers. She felt wildly divergent emotions—pain, pleasure, denial. What on earth was she doing? The last time he’d kissed her like this it’d been in the gardens of the Trussardi family palazzo. They’d both lost control then and they both knew what had happened since.
There were consequences, her brain shouted, there are always consequences.
She shouldn’t—couldn’t—let this happen and yet it was heaven and hell and Payton knew this was how it’d always been with Marco. Her response was pure instinct and it was impossible to control.
Her whimper seemed to push him to the edge. Marco’s thumb stroked close to the corner of her mouth, lighting fire beneath her skin, making her crave more and she shifted beneath him, the pressure of his mouth parting hers and she felt open and naked as his tongue caressed the inside of her lower lip.
Her hands were knotted in his shirt, her breasts pressed to his hard chest, her body straining and it was still not enough, she thought dimly, body hot, tingling, feverish, this kiss and this limited touch wasn’t enough. She arched closer, felt his hand shift from her arm to her hip as he dragged her even closer, and battling a groan she felt him press against her, his body hard, tense, barely controlled.
He’ll hate himself later. She heard the warning, knew the warning as the voice of reality. Sanity and gasping for air, she broke free, using her palms to push him away.
His dark eyes glittered, his cheekbones glowed red. “You.”
His voice was deep, thick, accent pronounced. She’d wanted the kiss to continue, hadn’t wanted to end it but she knew Marco
, knew he’d resent the loss of control—no matter how brief.
There would be consequences—no, make that hell to pay.
She was right. He drew another shallow breath.
“Maledizione!” He swore bitterly, battling to control his breathing. “Why do I do this? What is the matter with me?”
“Marco—”
“No. Don’t say anything. You’ll only make it worse.”
Payton’s gaze searched the taut planes of his face, his features hard, his mouth pinched.
He took a menacing step toward her, his finger pointed. “I nearly broke her heart once. I nearly crushed her, and she’s fragile, Payton, she’s not like you. She can’t handle the rejection.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t, because I want you to go. I want you to get your things, your luggage, your children and go. Now.”
Payton’s heart rose. “My children?”
“It’s what you wanted. It’s why you kept them from me.”
“Marco.” He was angry and he was lashing out at her, she understood that much, but to be cruel about the children? That just wasn’t fair.
“You moved halfway around the world. You turned me into a stranger. This is your doing, Payton!”
She had to stay calm, had to keep control. “I’m trying to make amends—”
“How?” he interrupted fiercely. “By destroying my relationship with Marilena?”
“Nothing’s destroyed, Marco. Nothing’s changed. Don’t blow this out of proportion. It was just a kiss—”
“Just a kiss? How can you say that? I’m engaged. I’m about to marry Marilena in two months and you say, you have the gall to say, it’s just a kiss?”
He’d paled, blood draining, intensifying the hard slash of cheekbone and broad jaw.
“Maybe a kiss is nothing to you,” he continued bitterly, “but I am loyal. I am faithful. I do not do things like this. I do not make love to one woman when promised to another and yet twice now I’ve done the unthinkable and both times it was with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What is it about you, Payton?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either, but this…this—” He broke off, lips twisting, filled with loathing and self-disgust. “This is wrong. I am ashamed.”
He was. She didn’t doubt him, or his sincerity for a moment. “I’ll go to my room. I’ll give you some space.”
“That’s not what I asked you to do.” He was standing over her, shoulders dwarfing her. “I said get your suitcases and go.”
“Marco, please—”
“No! I am done talking. I am sick inside, I am sick that we are back to where we were three years ago. I don’t know what you do to me, I don’t understand the effect you have on me but this time I know exactly what to do. Get rid of you.” Tiny beads of sweat formed on his brow. Tendons popped on his neck. “Fast.”
They were standing so close she could feel his warmth, feel rather than see the rise and fall of his chest. He was insisting she, demanding she leave, but she could not.
She would not.
Yet.
He cursed beneath his breath. “If you will not leave, than I shall.” He stepped around her as if she were foul. Tainted. “Marilena and I will stay at my country house at the lake until you’re gone.”
Payton struggled to find her voice as he reached the tall, painted salon doors with the whirl of pale turquoise against faded gold.
Stop him. Stop him. You can’t let him leave. “You don’t have to go.”
He stopped, his wide back filling the doorway, but he didn’t turn around nor glance behind.
She drew a shaky breath. “I will go. I’ll pack my things immediately.” She forced herself to speak, to keep the words coming even though she felt horribly disorganized, her emotions colliding with her reason. “But I shall not be taking the girls back with me.”
Ah. She had his attention now. He hadn’t turned around, but his head lowered and she caught sight of his profile.
“What nonsense is this?” His low voice throbbed with fury.
“It’s not nonsense. It’s true. I can’t take them home. I won’t have them watch me go through chemo.”
He said nothing. He hadn’t moved. She pushed herself on. “I know what the treatment looks like, Marco. I know how it ravages the body. I don’t want the girls exposed to that.”
He stood frozen in place. “Chemo?”
His voice came out rough. Payton touched her tongue to her upper lip and took a deep breath. Damn but this was hard. One minute she was kissing, feeling, wanting and the next she was an ice maiden again, frozen on the inside.
“I…” She looked up at him, wondered how she’d get the words out. She hadn’t spoken them aloud yet. Hadn’t told anyone. “I have cancer.”
He turned toward her. She didn’t just say what he thought she said, did she?
He did a slow double-take as he faced her and yet Payton didn’t look hysterical. She looked calm. Astonishingly calm. She couldn’t have said what he thought she’d said. It was crazy, but for a split-second he actually thought she’d said she had cancer.
“Mommy!” The cry sounded outside the study, at the top of the stairs.
Payton quickly opened the door and headed for the stairs.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” Gia was standing on the stairs in her nightgown. “I have to go bad but I’m scared.”
It took Payton awhile to get Gia settled back into bed and by the time she’d closed the door to the girls’ bedroom, Marco was no longer in his study.
She found him outside, leaning against a column in the courtyard. He didn’t turn around but he must have heard her. “This is true?” he asked, staring up at the sky.
“Yes.”
“You’ve gone for a second opinion?”
“Yes. I’m waiting on the results, but the first diagnosis came from the specialist who treated my mother.” She stepped past him to stand in the middle of the courtyard in a small pool of moonlight. “I’m lucky they picked it up when they did. The earlier it’s detected the better my chances.”
“You haven’t told the girls.”
“No.” Payton felt a welling of fear. “I love them, Marco. They’re everything to me.”
His expression didn’t change. “So you did have an ulterior motive in coming to see me. It’s not just that the girls are older and easier to travel with. And it’s not about the girls missing me. It’s about you.”
She didn’t say anything and he swore softly, bitterly and shook his head.
“Maledizione,” he cursed beneath his breath. “I should have known better. You’d never come to me on your own. You only came because you were desperate.”
CHAPTER SIX
PAYTON swallowed the hurt protest. He was right. She wouldn’t have come to see him if she weren’t desperate.
Her mother’s death had left her without options. With her gone, she had no other living family member left, no one who could help her with the children while she underwent treatment.
So she came here, back to Marco’s home and in a painful, bittersweet paradox—it was exactly the right thing to do. Fate and circumstance forced her to do what her pride wouldn’t allow her. Fate and circumstance required humility and she had no other choice but to throw herself at Marco’s feet.
Beg for help, if not mercy.
“You smile,” he said tersely.
“A little.” A headache was forming and she pulled the elastic from her hair, letting the long curls fall loose. “But only because you’re right. You know how I hate to be wrong, especially if it means you’re right.”
His hard chiseled face gave away nothing. “Pride.”
“Pride’s always been a problem for me. Maybe growing up poor caused that. Maybe it’s because everyone knew my dad had left my mom—” She broke off, swallowed the sour taste in her mouth.
She was in kindergarten when her fath
er finally left for good. Her parents had been fighting for months and the fighting escalated until everything seemed to be flying in perpetual motion across the living room—books, purses, shoes, car keys, telephones. Then one day the shouting stopped. Nothing was thrown anymore. No one ever slammed a door again. Dad had gone. And everyone knew.
Absolutely everyone.
Payton slowly sank down on a garden seat. “Everyone knew you married me because I’d gotten pregnant.” She consciously forced herself to relax, to take a deep breath. Inhale, exhale, inhale—nothing bad was going to happen. “I hated it. I hated that people—” she felt his gaze and she looked up at him “—pitied you.”
“Pitied me?”
She nodded, her neck stiff, her body sore. She felt as if she’d been through the spin cycle on a washing machine. “You were Marco d’Angelo. You could have married anyone, and you’d intended to marry a princess. Instead you got stuck with me.”
“So you went home.”
She felt her cheeks burn. “Home to hide.”
Marco looked at her for a long moment before moving away, walking to the far end of the courtyard toward the house. “Pride,” he repeated slowly, softly, as if experimenting with the word. His scrutiny was hard. There was nothing gentle in his expression.
“If there’s any irony,” she said to fill the strained silence. “It’s that I’m at the end of my rope. I’ve no pride left. Nothing holding me back anymore. I am desperate. I need you. I need your help.”
He stared at her but didn’t speak. Yet he didn’t need words to communicate. She felt his anger, and his frustration. It was happening all over again. They were back to the awful sense of being trapped…cornered. It was what forced them to marry in the first place and now they were confronted by a reality bigger than either of them once again.
“Please, Marco, please help me make this transition work for them,” she continued softly, urgently, her hands knotted as if in prayer. “Help me feel like I’ve done something right in my life.”
“Of course you’ve done something right in life,” he answered sharply, unable to bear all the words, so much sound, when he felt so utterly confused by it all.
