by Tara Pammi
It would be easier, sitting here, if she didn’t find him physically appealing. It would be easier if her heart didn’t jump every time he glanced her way.
She’d forgotten that she could even feel this kind of fear and anxiety flooding her. It was the fear she’d felt as a girl, the fear that made it hard to breathe properly and therefore her head would spin, feeling light and dizzy.
She felt dizzy now.
She felt angry, too, that he’d forced her into this job. She wasn’t a nanny anymore. She had a career. She had responsibility and work she enjoyed and yet he’d insisted she drop everything for this stupid “favor.”
She closed her hands, fingers curling into her palms, nails digging in sharply to try to contain her crippling anxiety. The tension was almost unbearable. This was such a terrible mistake and there was nothing she could do it about it.
“Did you find your customer’s missing wedding gown?” Marcu asked suddenly, his voice surprisingly close.
She opened her eyes and shuddered to see that he’d left his desk and was seated opposite her now in the pale cream leather chair that matched hers. He was by no means sprawled in his seat and yet his long legs seemed to fill up the space, and his imposing shoulders drew her attention up to his face, and those cool blue watchful eyes. He felt far too relaxed for her peace of mind. She hadn’t heard him approach or sit down. She should have. Her skin prickled with unease. She wasn’t afraid of him, but rather, was afraid of all he made her feel—the anger, the shame, the heartbreak. “I did, yes,” she answered. “It was in alterations, but had been mislabeled. Crisis averted.”
“Your customer must have been very relieved.”
“Not as much as I was. It was a very expensive gown.”
Marcu lowered his blind partway, blocking the glare from the setting sun. “I’m still trying to come to terms with you as a bridal consultant.”
“Is it really so shocking?” she asked, aware it had never been her goal or dream to work with brides, but it turned out she had a knack for finding the right dress for the right woman who wanted nothing less than spectacular for her wedding day. It seemed that Monet had somehow absorbed her actress mother’s knack for the theatrical, and coupled with her own artistic flair, as well as with the hefty measure of patience required when working with emotional, temperamental brides, Monet had worked her way up from fetching gowns from the back room to managing Bernard’s entire department.
“There is a great deal of theater in a wedding,” she added thoughtfully. “My mother was an actress. I understand what is needed and wanted—the wedding, like any great production, is to be magical and meaningful, and the show is to go off without a hitch. No one must know about the work involved. Fortunately those heavy red velvet curtains hide the stagehands and the frantic activity in the wings.”
“You’re the stage manager.”
“I understand this is not my play or my production. I am simply there to make people happy.”
“Very much like your mother then.”
She felt a hot lance of shame. “Except I don’t sleep with people to make them happy,” she flashed, voice hardening.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No? Then what did you mean?”
He regarded her from beneath heavy lids, his black lashes nearly concealing the piercing blue of his eyes. “I think you want to take offense. You’ve been harboring this resentment for years.”
If she’d been anywhere else she would have bolted from her seat and raced away, but seeing as they were thirty thousand feet in the air on a small private jet, there was nowhere to go. No way to escape. “Resentment against what, and whom? I am not a victim, Marcu. I am satisfied with my life, pleased by what I have accomplished. Everything I own, and everything I’ve achieved, has been through hard work, not gifts, or handouts.”
“I wasn’t implying that you’ve slept with anyone to get where you are—”
“Good, because I haven’t.”
“All I was saying was that your mother’s...success...was due to her ability to give people what they wanted.”
“Can we not discuss my mother? We don’t constantly reference your mother, and I know her absence wounded you.”
His broad shoulders shifted carelessly. “At least I knew her. The younger ones have no memories of her.”
“You were how old when she left?”
“Twelve.”
“The same age I was when I arrived at your family’s palazzo.”
“Do you remember being twelve?”
“I do,” she answered. “And you?”
“I do, too.” His long fingers casually drummed on the leather armrest. “Mothers are important. It’s why I must remarry.”
“Do your children like Vittoria?”
“They’ve only met her a few times, but there were no problems, and Vittoria seemed quite taken with Antonio.” He hesitated. “It’s easier to adapt when the children are very young, and Antonio is little more than a toddler.”
“How old are they?”
“Three, five, and nearly seven,” he answered. “Antonio is my youngest, Rocca, my only girl, is five, and Matteo will be seven just after the New Year.”
“Matteo, like your father.”
“Yes.”
She said nothing for a long moment, and it was then that Marcu filled the silence. “My father liked you, you know. He was always quite protective of you.”
She’d always thought so, too, until that last night when he’d said such terrible, hurtful things to Marcu about her. She is not the sort you get serious with. Remember her background. Remember who she is, and where she comes from. A dalliance is delightful, but she is not one you keep.
And then Marcu’s brutal reply: Of course I know. I do not need the reminder. When I marry it will be to someone suitable.
Marcu didn’t know she’d inadvertently overheard the conversation. He hadn’t even known he’d wounded her, and yet even then, he’d been more than happy to see her leave Palermo, buying her one-way airline ticket to London with startling alacrity before driving her to the airport himself.
She’d been numb on the flight to London, and she’d been numb as she collected her luggage at Heathrow. The only thought circling her exhausted brain was that he couldn’t wait to see her gone, and he hadn’t been able to get rid of her fast enough. Their passionate night wasn’t meaningful at all to him. Instead it was a mistake. A colossal embarrassment.
As she searched for a place to live, Monet consoled herself with the fact that at least they hadn’t consummated their lovemaking. At least she’d only given him her heart, and not her innocence. It wasn’t that she cherished her virginity, but she certainly didn’t need to give Marcu more than she already had.
Monet gave her head a faint shake and forced her attention to the present. The next three weeks would be difficult. She wasn’t worried about the children, as she’d cared for children in the past, but she dreaded even a few hours in close proximity to Marcu, never mind a few days, because memories were flooding her and the memories created pain. “He really gave your sisters pink robes for Christmas one year?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think it was inappropriate for him to give me a satin bathrobe?”
“I am certain he didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Knowing him, I’m positive he meant well.”
She bit the inside of her lower lip to keep from contradicting him because if Matteo had meant well, he wouldn’t have poisoned Marcu against her. He wouldn’t have talked about her as if she was little more than garbage.
Marcu shot her a narrowed glance. “You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” she answered simply, and that was the truth.
Their private jet landed twenty-five minutes later at the executive airport in Milan, where Marcu’
s gleaming black Maserati was waiting. A steward stowed the luggage in the boot of the car and Marcu opened the passenger door for Monet. The interior of the new car was as sleekly designed as the exterior, the black leather plush, and still smelling new. They left the airport immediately for the drive to the castello, a drive that should take less than two hours if the weather was good, and the weather was good.
She and Marcu were mostly silent as he drove them up into the mountains. Snow blanketed the hills but the road was clear and free of ice. Monet struggled to relax but it was difficult in the close confines of the luxurious sports car. Everything about Marcu overwhelmed her—he was both familiar and not, changed by time and yet even more ruggedly appealing than before. She wanted to be indifferent to him but everything in her felt far too sensitive and aware of the way he sat, and the way his hand rested on the stick shift, and how his other hand looked against the black leather steering wheel. He had strong hands, beautiful hands. Just like his profile was strong, and beautiful. More chiseled and beautiful than it had been eight years ago.
“Do you have snow tires on the car?” she asked as Marcu took another sharp curve with ease.
“I do, and I also have chains if needed.” He shot her a mocking glance from beneath dense black lashes. “Nervous?”
“No,” she lied, crossing her legs.
“You’re wringing your hands.”
She unknotted her hands and smoothed her heather-gray skirt, then made a conscious decision to at least fake appearing relaxed, even if she didn’t feel it on the inside.
Marcu wouldn’t be around much longer. He’d be leaving for his holiday with Vittoria soon. It would just be her and the children by the end of the week, and she’d be fine with the kids. Even if they were little beasts, she’d be fine. She could manage just about anything...except her reaction to Marcu it seemed.
“I’m sorry we’re arriving so late,” he said. “It’s a beautiful drive in daylight.”
She turned her head to look out the window, the soaring peaks of the Alps hidden now by darkness. “I would imagine you have good views from your castello?”
“Breathtaking,” he agreed.
And that was the end of their conversation until they reached the Aosta Valley, where Marcu’s castello sat just outside the village of Aosta. She’d been many places in her life, but she’d never been to the Italian Alps and she was looking forward to exploring someplace new. Hopefully the children would have a sense of adventure, too.
“Here,” Marcu said abruptly as they left the highway to turn off the main road, passing through huge iron gates and stone walls into a groomed winter wonderland. The road cut through the middle of an ancient park filled with soaring trees frosted with snow and just when Monet was certain they’d be driving through woods forever, the trees cleared and before them rose a castle. It could be called nothing else with its stone-and-stucco facade, and soaring towers and turrets.
“This isn’t a new construction,” she said under her breath.
His lips curved faintly. “It was built at the end of the twelfth century.”
“So I’m sure it’s warm and cozy inside.”
“Fortunately, Galeta’s family updated the heating. We don’t just rely on drafty fireplaces. And should you be cold at night, there are small space heaters you can plug in as well.”
Marcu slowed as they traveled up a narrow cobbled road and then parked in front of the entrance to the castello. Staff appeared on the front steps. Men in dark gray suits claimed the luggage while a woman in an austere black dress nodded her head as Marcu ushered Monet through the front door. “Welcome back, Signor Uberto,” the woman said.
“Thank you,” Marcu answered. “Are the children still up?”
“No, signor, they are already in bed and asleep. The housemaid, Elise, took them for a walk to help them burn off their energy earlier and they were ready for bed tonight.”
Monet heard the wryness in the housekeeper’s voice and glanced from the housekeeper to Marcu to see how he’d interpret her words, but Marcu’s stern features revealed nothing.
“Were they difficult to manage without Miss Sheldon?” he asked.
“Not at all, sir. Elise enjoys spending time with them.”
“Tell her I’m grateful for her help,” Marcu instructed, tugging off his leather gloves and then his coat.
“She knows, signor. Do not worry.”
The butler was there to take Marcu’s coat, and then he turned to Monet, ready to collect hers, but she smiled and shook her head. “I’d like to keep mine, if I could,” she said.
“Of course.” Marcu glanced up the stairwell to the floors above. “I’ll give you a quick tour now and then tomorrow you can have a proper look around.”
“That’s all right,” Monet said quickly. “I don’t need a tour tonight. It’s been a long day and I’m happy to just call it a night. But I do look forward to meeting the children in the morning.”
“Your suite of rooms is next to the nursery on the third floor,” Marcu answered. “I’ll walk you there.”
They climbed three flights of stairs before Marcu opened the door on the third floor to a sitting room with a dark beamed ceiling.
The walls were a creamy plaster over stone. The pale stone floors were covered with plush Persian rugs, and a rich burgundy velvet couch faced the fireplace, with a pair of peach brocade upholstered chairs on either side. There were small tables scattered about, one round table topped with hand-painted burgundy-and-gold tiles, while another had a hammered silver tray that reminded her of a table they’d once had in Morocco. A Venetian glass mirror hung on one of the smooth plaster walls while an antique peach, green and gold tapestry hung on another.
“The children are next door,” Marcu said. “Their nursery and bedrooms take up the rest of the floor. They have a playroom, and two bedrooms. Matteo and Antonio share a room, and Rocca has her own. Miss Sheldon used to sleep in the nursery in Palermo to be near them, but once Antonio turned three, we moved the boys in together and now Miss Sheldon has a bedroom adjacent to the nursery like here.”
“If they have a bad dream, what do they do?”
“They know you’re here, next door.”
“They don’t come to you?”
“You are closer. I’m on a floor below and the stairs are steep.”
“I see,” she said, careful to keep the judgment from her voice as she crossed the living-room carpet to peek through the open door to the bedroom. The apricot-and-burgundy color scheme was repeated. The bed was a four-poster with apricot fabric panels. Wooden shutters were at the windows but heavy curtains framed the shutters, adding an extra layer of protection against the frigid night temperature.
Marcu gestured to a large wardrobe in the corner. “You’ll find a mini kitchen outfitted in the wardrobe with a coffeemaker, teakettle, and a small refrigerator. I believe housekeeping has stocked it with milk and some fruit and snacks. I know we had dinner on the plane, but if you’re hungry for something more substantial—”
“I’m not,” she said, cutting him off. “But thank you. I think I’ll have a cup of tea and call it a night. I imagine the children will wake early and be ready to go.”
“Elise will look after them until you’re settled.”
“I’m settled now,” she said firmly.
“I’ll send for you once they are up and dressed and fed. There is an intercom button inside the wardrobe, and another on the wall near your bedroom light switch. You can call the butler at any time—we have a night attendant available—and request food, drink, or anything else you might need.”
“The children have one in their room, too?”
“Yes. But they don’t use it. Normally they get Miss Sheldon and then she handles their requests.”
A light knock sounded at the bedroom door. Marcu crossed to open her door. A castle steward was on t
he doorstep with Monet’s luggage and silently entered the room, carrying her suitcase and smaller bag into the bedroom.
Marcu looked at her. “Any other questions?”
“No.” She suddenly felt exhausted and disoriented. What was she doing here? “I’ll wait for you to send for me tomorrow.”
It took Marcu hours to fall asleep. He was too keyed up, too restless to switch his thoughts off so he could sleep.
Now that Monet was here he could focus on his trip with Vittoria. He’d already looked at rings in Milan and his assistant at the Palermo office had booked the top floor of the resort Altapura for him and Vittoria, as well as making several reservations at the best restaurants. Vittoria was far more extroverted than Galeta had been and she enjoyed the social scene. It was one of the reasons he was taking her to the Alps. She loved showing off her prowess on the slopes during the day, and she enjoyed dressing up at night. Christmas for her was about parties and people, and he was trying to muster enthusiasm for a holiday that sounded dreadful.
He didn’t want to be away from the children. He didn’t want to be in some damn hotel. And he didn’t want to propose over Christmas—he hated this time of year—but Vittoria had made it clear that she wanted a commitment from him, and she wanted it by the New Year.
Vittoria wasn’t the perfect solution to his wife problem, but she came from a well-respected family, an old, powerful, wealthy Sicilian family, and she was beautiful and outgoing, which he thought would be good for the children. Proposing to Vittoria wasn’t an impulsive decision. They’d been seeing each other for the past year and she’d handled herself well when she’d been with his children. Of course the children were a little standoffish because they didn’t yet know her, but they would grow to care for her, and Vittoria would care for them. With time, everything would fall into place.
The hard part was done. Details had been organized, and everything problematic was sorted. It hadn’t been easy, but Monet was here now and she’d take care of things for the next few weeks while he was gone. The children would be fine. Vittoria would accept his proposal. There was no reason to worry.
