by Caro LaFever
He let her go, but the smile grew wider. “I’ll take this to mean you wish to finish this in the penthouse.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. She’d lost her mind, her soul in his kiss. Was she ready for this? She was sure to disappoint him, wasn’t she? Her piddly little experience wouldn’t be a match for this man’s.
“No, you don’t.” He lunged over and drew her into his warm arms again. “You made the first move. I won’t let you back down now.”
His kiss was fierce, primeval, intense. It told her clearly she’d gone too far down the road and this powerful male was intent on convincing her to not run away.
The limo door opened and Marc let her go for only the time it took to step out into the underground parking lot. With one swift move, she was in his arms again. Marching to the elevator, he stared at her, his face stark and tight with passion. “Push the button.”
His gaze was full of challenge. If she pushed the button, his look told her, she was agreeing to finish what she started.
She stared at him. Stared at the smoky passion of his eyes, the curl of his hair, mussed by her hands. The wicked mouth beckoning to her desire.
Leaning down, she pushed the elevator button.
He groaned deep in his throat, an animal call to her female core.
Lifting her arms to twine around his neck, she kissed him, sweet and tender, giving him everything.
The elevator doors slid open. He stepped in with her in his grasp, their mouths locked.
The trip to the penthouse passed in a blur of kisses, growing more and more passionate. Heat poured from his body, and a trickle of sweat ran between her breasts. A fire deep inside pulsed an electric desire through her blood. It pooled between her legs. She felt the warm, wet welcome for him.
He breathed Italian words on her skin, his mouth skimming over her brows, her eyelids, her cheeks and ears.
The door slid open and somehow, they found themselves at his penthouse door. Nerves mixed with excitement as she told herself she could make him happy. In bed. In life. She should take this chance.
He finally got the door open. But then, he stopped cold, his grip on her tightening. “Blake?”
“Marcus.” A tall, blond man stood in the middle of the penthouse living room. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”
Chapter 8
The hospital smelled of bleach and dread.
Darcy sat on the edge of a vinyl couch, hands clasped on her lap. A cold cup of coffee held its droopy position on the table beside her. It had long ago given up any warmth or comfort. She’d barely sipped it before setting it down and forgetting it existed.
The only thing that existed was her father’s heart attack. Her father at death’s door.
The father she hated.
Her fingers turned white. She shouldn’t think like that. The bitter thought wasn’t sending out good vibes and her father needed all the luck he could get right now. It didn’t matter how he’d treated her when she’d been a kid. What mattered was he needed to get through this surgery and then recover.
So she could walk away from him for good.
“Darcy.” A dark voice slanted across the room from the open door of the waiting room. “Il mio piccolo uno, you appear as if a good strong wind will blow you away.”
He was calling her another one of his annoying nicknames, she thought vaguely. She glanced over, noticing his pristine perfection. How did the man continue to appear as if he’d stepped off the cover of a GQ magazine? His hair swept back from his forehead in impeccable precision. His white shirt lay smooth on his broad chest. His black linen slacks, with not a wrinkle to be found, highlighted the long length of his legs. The leather jacket he’d slipped on before they left the penthouse gave him a cosmopolitan, continental elegance.
She, on the other hand, still wore the ratty old jeans and scraggly jumper she’d put on more than twenty-four hours ago. Her hair probably stuck out like electric needles on top of her head. And she didn’t even want to think about the bags under her eyes from no sleep and constant worry.
Her, a wet rag. He, a crisp linen handkerchief.
The comparison came to her in stark clarity. Along with the memory of when she’d felt it before. A brief astonishment coursed through her. It seemed light years away, the time in the splendor of the Plaza. When she’d been afraid of his perfection, afraid of what he did to her. Another lifetime.
During the last few days, during the last twenty-four hours, he’d become something much more to her. She shied away from what exactly he’d become, still she knew it wasn’t fear she felt around him any longer.
“Piccolo.” He paced to her side, slid down on the ancient, uncomfortable couch beside her and gathered her into his warm arms. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. All right. She could define one thing he’d become to her during the last day: her rock. “I hope so.”
“I know so,” he said with authority. “I have been assured your father has the best surgeon. He will have the best care after the operation is done. On that, you have my word.”
Marc had taken immediate control as soon as they’d arrived at the hospital. In moments, the hospital staff was in a flurry. Her father was no longer waiting in a queue for the next available surgeon. As a substitute, a top flight doctor was flying in from Edinburgh to take charge. A private room instantly became available. Over a fussy nurse’s objections, Darcy had been allowed a few private moments with her father before he’d been wheeled into surgery.
Tough odds, the surgeon had intoned to Marc in her presence.
The Great Man had given him a frosty glare. Make it happen, he’d commanded.
Glancing at the clock, she sighed and shivered. “It’s been almost six hours.”
“These surgeries take time.” His arms tightened on her.
She peeked at him. His gaze was as clear as iced glass and filled with certain knowledge. Hope mixed with fear wrapping around her throat. “How do you know?”
“I had my staff do some research. I want to have all the facts before me going forward.”
“Why?” The haze of disbelief and fear surrounding her for these last hours blew aside. Why would he do this? It wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t his father.
Dark brows lowered. “I had to know what the possible outcomes were before I made plans for when your father comes out of surgery.”
The haze diminished some more. “But why? Why are you doing this? It isn’t part of our deal. It isn’t something you’re obligated to do.”
The big body beside her stiffened. “It is nothing.”
She creased her brow. “It’s going to cost thousands. Maybe more.”
“Carita.” His grey gaze turned silver in warning. “Leave it.”
“But—”
“I said, leave it.” Tugging her closer to his side, he slipped one hand into his jacket pocket and out came his most formidable weapon at ending any conversation he despised.
Darcy hid her affectionate grin by snuggling into his shoulder. For a moment, the worry for her father lifted. In its place came the memory of what had been happening right before the bad news hit her between the eyes.
She’d been about to make love to this man.
She’d been about to become his real mistress.
She’d been about to claim him as hers.
Glancing down, she admired the long length of his legs, the hardness of his thighs beneath the linen of his slacks. She allowed herself to sink into the lovely swamp of lust and relish the thought of actually being with him. The warm burn pulsed inside her and the agony of waiting and worrying diminished. For a moment.
He scrolled through his emails apparently oblivious to her presence.
Ha! The man didn’t have enough acting skills to carry it off.
Amazingly, astonishingly, she knew he was vitally aware of her beside him. The heat of his arm still wrapped around her back and side. One bold, m
asculine hand cupped her hip, keeping her close. She also knew, instinctively, he was hoping and praying she’d drop the conversation and sit beside him completely complacent and compliant.
Double ha! The man did not have a clue who he was dealing with.
“I’m not going to let you do it.” Her cheek rubbed on the warm leather of his jacket.
“Mmm.” He ignored her. Or appeared to. His thumb danced across the screen of his phone.
“Dismiss me. Ignore me.”
A dimple showed on the side of his mouth. Then he threw his head back and laughed. The rich, redolent sound swirled through her and she let herself relax in his comforting, warm presence.
The man could laugh.
Comforting. Warm.
Safe.
Something inside her stirred and shivered.
“Piccola carita.” Wry humor filled his words and his amused grey gaze swerved to her face. “There is not a second since we met that I have been able to get you out of my mind.”
His words touched her heart. The warm, comforting feeling blossomed inside her, blanketing the shiver in a blissful bath of happiness.
Then she looked at him.
His face abruptly tightened and his body went taut along her side. The amusement in his eyes faded, to be replaced with a cool chill.
The shiver sliced through the happiness, trailing a cold frost down her spine.
“Ms. Moran?”
She jerked her head around to stare at the surgeon hovering in the doorway. Jumping off the couch, she wrung her hands in front of her. “Yes?”
Marc stood more slowly at her side.
“Your father made it through surgery,” the surgeon announced, slipping a hand across his bald head. “He’s got a good shot at recovery.”
“Really?” Her voice trembled.
“The next twenty-four hours will be tricky.” He pushed his glasses up his long nose and peered at her.
“Okay.” Her heart dipped and dove, stuttered inside her chest.
“He will get the best care.” The dark growl of Marc’s voice steadied her emotions.
She took a deep breath in.
“I have no doubt you will make sure that will happen.” The surgeon’s wry smile lit his tired face.
“Si.”
“Well, then.” The older man smoothed his hands together. “I’ll be in touch with the nursing staff and will check in tomorrow morning to see how our patient is doing.”
Marc strode over to the man and ushered him out the door, their low voices uttering indistinguishable words.
Darcy slumped onto the couch.
Her pop was okay. He’d made it this far. It was a minor miracle. She knew that. She’d seen the look on the surgeon’s face before going into surgery. She’d heard the whispers of the nurses as they’d wheeled her pop from the room. She’d felt the deep, dark dread in the center of her stomach these past six hours. Knowing, hoping, worrying. Praying.
Another chill ran through her, zipping along her spine. It blended with the earlier chill, making her hands cold as ice. She shuddered.
“Carita.” His tone was harsh.
She wrenched her gaze up to meet the silver flash of his own.
“You are trembling.” His big hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her into his arms. “It’s not needed. Your father will be fine.”
A sob choked her throat. No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t allow herself to be such a wuss. A wimp in front of this man? No.
“If you say so.” She forced the words through the growing chill with a bit of her usual spirit.
He murmured an Italian word. One of his hands moved across her head, smoothing his fingers into her hair as he pressed her face to his chest.
Another sob escaped her control, breaking her determination to be strong.
He sighed. “Cry, carita. Let it go.”
She let herself go in his arms.
* * *
He held her until she finally ran out of her seemingly-endless supply of tears. The sprite appeared to have stored quite a lake of sorrow inside her tiny body. She quaked and quivered in his arms for what seemed like hours. Her hands clutched at his shirt as she burrowed deeper into his grasp. Somehow they’d ended up sitting once more, and she huddled by him, her slight body molding to his side.
Her touch did not arouse any thoughts of sex or lust.
Only concern. Only a fierce desire to console her.
Her weeping also did not inspire in him a need to run or ridicule. The tears did not elicit his usual response to attempted manipulation: a cynical putdown or mocking rejection. His mother used tears as a weapon, as had Juliana. He’d learned the lesson well. Learned to not be moved.
Yet this was very different. This time with this woman.
The realization shook him. However, now was not the time to dissect these emotions coursing through him. Now was the time to concentrate on comforting Darcy.
Her wet cheek nestled into the crook of his shoulder. She gulped another low cry.
The thing, the thing tied to her, twisted inside him.
He was absolutely positive the nymph didn’t even realize she had him in the palm of her dainty hand right at this moment. That she could ask him for anything, the moon, the stars and at this moment of time, he would move heaven and earth to get it for her. With every gulping gasp, his heart ached. With every warm tear falling on his neck, he tightened his grip on her, trying to pour reassurance into her soul.
Finally, finally, the sobs faded into small hiccups. Then silence.
He slid his palm along the fragile bones of her spine.
“How embarrassing,” she muttered, her words brushing on his skin.
A chuckle escaped him at the disgusted tone in her voice.
“Now you pour humiliation upon humiliation.” Her head popped up. The red rims of her eyes only highlighted the deep blue. A defiant sparkle lit the depths. “Laughing at me.”
“I am merely amused you would be embarrassed for crying. Every woman cries.”
“I don’t.”
“After the last few moments, this is clearly untrue.”
She wiped at the tears lingering on her face. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“It was not a problem.” His keen gaze never left her face. “I am used to womanly emotions.”
“Are you?” She cocked her head, the harsh light of the waiting room throwing blue-black highlights on the strands of her hair. “You’re used to your girlfriends crying all over you?”
More like having tantrums when he told them they were through. Which he ignored. “No, my mother.”
Her immediate reaction told him he’d revealed too much. The elfin creature before him sparked to attention, her gaze aflame with interest, her lithe body glowing with energy. “Tell me more.”
He cursed inside himself at his slip. “No.”
A frown of concentration crossed her delicate brow. “I’ll tell you something, if you tell me something.”
“This is not a time for games.”
“I’m not playing a game,” she said with breathless importance. “I’m serious.”
His phone buzzed. With relief, he reached into his pocket.
A tiny, pickpocketing hand beat him to it. “No, you don’t.”
“This is becoming a habit of yours I do not appreciate,” he snarled at her as he saw his mobile disappear into her jeans pocket.
“Tough.” Her blue gaze pierced him. “I’ll go first since you seem uncomfortable with sharing.”
“I don’t share.”
“Thus, the feeling of uncomfortable.” She gave him a moue of pity.
He glared at her, willing her to let this—whatever this was—go.
“I hate my father.” Her words fell like rocks before him.
The stony words tore into his memory. His own father stepped from the past, right into his present. He had purposefully put all thoughts of his papa behind him long ago. It was the past. Nothing could bring him back.
But now, in this moment, his father was back, if only in painful, bittersweet memory. His big, booming laugh. The happiness he exuded when he was with his friends, sitting at the corner café, enjoying the warm Italian sun. The joy on his papa’s face when, as a boy, he’d come home from school and leapt into his welcoming hug. “Marc,” his father would croon. “Marc.”
The old ache of loss echoed through him. Only his papa had ever called him Marc.
“Say something,” she whispered.
“I loved my father.” The words ripped out of him before he could stuff them down.
Her small hand caressed his cheek. “Tell me about him.”
“He was a good man.” He stood, needing space. Pacing to the doorway, he leaned on the frame, staring blankly at the long, bustling hospital hallway. Loud voices echoed through the corridor, yet it seemed to him as if a cocoon of stillness surrounded them. Isolating them.
“He’s dead?”
“Si.” He made himself turn to confront her.
“I’m sorry.” Her expression filled with sympathy.
Rolling back on his heels, he closed his eyes.
Sympathy. Something he’d never seen on a woman’s face before. He was used to, expected to see, calculation, greed, expectations. Over the years, he’d found a certain amount of relief in knowing he could easily satisfy any womanly desires by doling out the required funds to make her happy. It released him from any messy emotional demands.
Once, long ago, a woman had observed him with sympathy. Or that’s what he’d thought. But he’d soon understood it had been pity. Juliana’s deep-brown gaze had welled with fake tears as he’d poured forth his love and begged.
The pity in her gaze had destroyed him and enraged him.
Had driven him for years.
Marc took a long breath in and opened his eyes to stare at another woman’s expression. The emotion he saw was completely different. Soft, comforting and accepting. The awareness of the difference struck him deep inside, disconcerting him and making him restless. “No need to feel sorry. It happened a long time ago.”
“It still hurts though.” She stood, walked to his side and wrapped her arms around him before he could move away. “I can tell.”
