by Tara Pammi
He’d been so preoccupied with her even last night when he’d taken Vittoria to dinner. He hadn’t wanted to be at dinner with Vittoria. He sat across the table from her thinking that maybe Monet was right, maybe he was making a mistake, and not because he needed a warm wife, but the children needed a warm, tender mother. Only as he listened to Vittoria discuss the ski trip, and the people who would be there, and the parties they’d been invited to, his chest tightened, the air bottling in his lungs. Not once did she ask about his children. Not once did she express concern that it might be difficult for the children to be left behind for the holiday.
What if she was as cold and hard as he was?
What if the children suffered more if he married her?
“I have to tell you something,” he’d said, putting down his fork. “I kissed Monet, the woman who is staying with the children while Miss Sheldon is gone. It shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t happen again. I’m sorry—”
“If it was a one-off, and it won’t happen again, why are you telling me?” she asked, coolly. “Was there a reason for me to know?”
“I feel badly about it.”
She gave him a long level look before shrugging. “I have never imagined you to be a saint. You will do what you want—”
“But I don’t, and I wouldn’t when we marry.” If we marry, he silently added, before wondering where that came from.
He wasn’t having serious doubts, was he?
He couldn’t let Monet turn everything inside out.
“Men have affairs,” Vittoria answered matter-of-factly. “Women do, too. It’s human nature.”
“I never cheated on Galeta. If we married, I wouldn’t cheat on you,” he said grimly.
“If,” she said, head tipping, long hair spilling over her shoulder. “You are not so sure now, are you? A few days with this nanny from your childhood, and you kiss her, and then question our relationship. Perhaps you have feelings for her.”
“I did,” he said, “when I was younger, before I married Galeta.”
“Perhaps you still do now.”
Dinner ended soon after that, and he drove Vittoria back to her apartment, and he left her after seeing her to her door.
Back in his car he’d felt wildly out of sorts. Kissing Monet had changed everything. It shouldn’t have because the kiss was brief. It had lasted less than a minute. There had been no touching, no exploration of skin or curves...and yet he might as well have stripped her bare because her body was so imprinted on his mind and imagination.
He’d felt her soft breasts against his chest. He’d felt the shape of her hips, and the indentation of her waist. He’d felt the heat of her slim body and the vanilla-and-orange-blossom scent of her hair and skin.
She’d smelled like summer and her fragrance had stayed with him long after he’d gone to bed, making him think of home, and a past that was long gone.
On the one hand she was vastly different from the girl she’d been, and on the other, she was exactly the same girl—strong, smart, authentic, original.
He’d never met anyone like Monet. She was so opposite him in every way and yet somehow it had once felt right.
Now...
Now...
But there was no now, he told himself tersely, tension weighting his limbs. He still needed a wife, and Vittoria had met the children and it could be a good marriage. He hadn’t married Galeta because he’d loved her, but he’d respected her, and he respected Vittoria. Love was inconsequential. Security mattered. Stability mattered. He wasn’t going to risk the future—or his children’s mental health—on something as temporary, and unstable, as romantic love.
Not that he’d ever loved Monet, either. But there had been desire. Fierce desire. Desire that had destroyed a six-year relationship and created a serious chasm between him and his father.
He had to smash the desire now. He had to get control of himself immediately. There was no way he’d allow an impulse to wreck his plans. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he didn’t want and his decision had been made.
Exhaling, Marcu turned the windshield wipers on higher, needing the increased speed to clear the falling snow from the windshield. The snow was coming down harder. The wind was blowing sheets of snow across the road, turning the world beyond his car a blinding white. It was going to be a long drive to the castello tonight.
By the time he arrived home, the children were in bed, asleep—he knew, because he checked in on them and they were all in their beds, tucked in against the night’s chill. Marcu went to Monet’s room and knocked on the door, wanting to see how things had gone while he’d been away.
It took her a few moments to come to the door and he wondered if she’d also gone to bed. He was just turning away when her door opened and she peeked out, her long dark hair tumbling free over her shoulders, her eyes lovely and luminous in her pale oval face.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, feeling guilty for disturbing her, and yet it wasn’t that late, not even quite nine.
“No, I was just in bed reading.”
“How was everything here? I didn’t hear from you so I hope things went smoothly.”
“Very smoothly,” she answered. “We get along very well. So well, that the time just flies by.”
There was something in her cheerful answer that sounded a little forced. “What did you do to pass the time?” he asked.
“We made cookies, and played in the snow.” She smiled brightly up at him, still holding the door close so that all he could see of her was her head and part of her shoulder. “We had lots of fresh air. I’ve put your winter coats and boots to good use.”
“You’re making me suspicious,” he said.
“Why?”
“You seem determined to be happy—”
“But I am happy,” she interrupted. “I really enjoy your children. We have a lot of fun together.”
And that’s when he spotted a bit of sparkle behind her shoulder. It was a gleam of light, reflecting off something silver and shiny and then he took a breath and smelled fragrant pine.
Marcu reached above her head and gave the door a push, forcing it open. In her sitting room on the table near her hearth stood a shimmering tree with white lights and colorful glass ornaments. It was small but beautifully decorated and the fresh smell filled her room, making him immediately feel nostalgic.
For a moment he couldn’t speak, and then he drew a slow, measured breath, fighting to remain in control. “I thought we agreed there would be no decorations, no tree, none of this nonsense—”
“I didn’t agree,” she interrupted hotly, arms crossing over her chest. “I never agreed, because I completely disagree with you—”
“That doesn’t matter. Your opinion doesn’t matter. You’re here to do what I tell you.”
“Wrong. You’re here because you trust me to take care of your children, and I am.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas, Monet.”
“Fine, but must you deprive the children? Are they no longer allowed to experience the beauty of it? I understand you are grieving, and they also continue to grieve, but you are turning their loss into a greater punishment. You are taking the loss of their mother and turning it into the loss of all hope and beauty—”
“Rubbish!” he snapped, silencing her again, his voice growing louder, his temper hotter. She was trying his patience and he didn’t like it. Marcu stepped all the way into her room and closed the door behind him.
“You have spent too much time in England now,” he added, stalking toward the hearth, which glowed with red embers. He circled the table with the tree, feeling emotions he didn’t welcome. “You have bought in to this very commercialized idea of Christmas,” he said, looking back at her. “In Sicily, Christmas was never about trees and decorations and presents. I give my children presents on Epiphany. You will see that my ch
ildren eagerly await for the arrival of Le Befana and the sweets they’ve hoped for. They will receive little toys and treats if they have been good, and that’s our heritage, our tradition, and they don’t need your British Christmas.”
For a moment there was just silence and then she shook her head, making her long hair dance. “Fine. Have your way. They don’t need it. You don’t need it. But I do. I need my Christmas. You called in a favor, but that favor did not include stripping me of all the things that give my life meaning, and I want to celebrate Christmas. I want to have magic and fizz and joy. So if you don’t like it, please send me away now. I would love to return to London and my friends and my life there. Let me leave right now, because I am not going to battle with you on this. I think you are wrong, I think you are actually dreadful—”
“Dreadful?” he practically roared.
“Yes, dreadful,” she repeated, stepping close and jabbing a finger in the air, “and hurtful.”
He took a step back, affronted. “I am neither.”
“Yes, you are, and you enjoy being a beast, too. Now I realize you were left with three children and a broken heart, but face life, and face the pain and let your heart heal. Let your children’s hearts heal. Move forward without this anger, because right now I feel sorry for Vittoria. I pity any woman you want to bring into this family because you are not ready. You are not ready for a new wife, and you are not ready to let go of the past.”
“The children—”
“This isn’t about the children! This is about you. This is about you being angry at God, and angry with yourself, because you are not God and you couldn’t be there and you couldn’t save Galeta. Heavens, you have serious issues and you need to deal with them.”
Rage swept through him. His hands balled at his sides. “How dare you talk to me this way?”
She threw her head back, her eyes flashing fire, not in the least bit intimidated by his roar. “How dare others not talk to you this way? They do you no favors. They’re hurting you by keeping the truth from you.”
“I’ve had enough. In the morning you will remove the tree—”
“No. That will not happen.”
“If you don’t dispose of it, I will.”
“If you touch my tree, I am gone. And if you choose to fire me, that’s fine, too, because I never wanted to be in your employ in the first place. I came here to do you a favor, and whether you like it or not, I am your equal in every way.”
“You’re being paid. That makes you my employee.”
“Keep your awful money. I don’t want it. I never wanted it. The only thing I ever wanted from you was respect, and it was the one thing you have refused to give me.”
“You’re hysterical!”
“Not hysterical, just honest. I’m done holding back. I’m done worrying about your ego. You have far too much ego. Marcu, you are a man, not a god, or a demigod. You are a human being, and because you’re human you make mistakes, and you are making mistakes right now, and that would be okay if you could recognize it and work on it but you won’t.”
“Are you finished?” he gritted.
“No. I’m not going to tiptoe around you, and I’m not going to pretend that you are right, when you’re not. I’m not afraid of you, and I don’t care what you think of me. It’s not as if I’m going to lose your good opinion. Marcu, I know what you think of me. I know exactly what you and your father have always thought of me. It’s why I left Palermo. It’s why I left all of you. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t worthy.”
The words came faster and faster and he sensed she’d been keeping them bottled up for years, and now she could no longer hold them back.
“I know that I was kind of woman you’d take to your bed,” she added, “but you’d never respect enough to marry. I was the kind of woman who’d fulfil your physical desires but never win your heart—”
“You’re talking nonsense now,” he snapped, his own patience tested, his own control threatened.
“No. I heard you. I heard you and your father the night he found us in your bedroom. I heard what he said when he pulled you out into the hallway. He asked if you were being careful, and if you’d used protection, because you couldn’t be stupid and fall for my schemes as I was not the kind of woman you’d ever marry.” Monet’s voice quavered and she reached up to press a trembling hand to her forehead. After a moment she continued. “I heard every word he said, just as I’m sure he intended me to. He wanted me to know that I was not the kind of woman you could take out socially. He wanted me to hear that I was a whore like my mother—”
“He did not use the word whore,” Marcu interrupted gruffly, stunned that she’d heard the conversation in the hall all those years ago. He hadn’t known she’d heard what his father had said, hadn’t realized that his father’s voice had carried so clearly. No wonder she was so hurt and angry. She’d bottled up the pain for years and now it was spilling out of her in a torrent of words.
“You’re right. He used a different word, a Sicilian swear word that implied almost the same thing, but what it boils down to is that I wasn’t acceptable due to being a bastard.”
“My father wasn’t trying to hurt you, he was trying to protect me as I was the oldest, and his heir.”
“He was your father. He was doing what he thought was best,” she said, lips curving up, contradicting the bright sheen of tears in her eyes. “I guess it was a blessing in disguise. It proved beneficial to hear his thoughts—and yours—clarifying many things for me, and allowing me to make a break from you.”
“He hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
“You hurt me, and you’re not sorry.” Her chin jerked up and tears clung to her lower lashes. “But in hindsight, I’m glad you didn’t defend me. It was important to hear that conversation and discover you had no feelings for me. It was a giant wake-up call, one that I desperately needed as it was time for me to stop living my life to please the Ubertos. That conversation freed me, which is why I can stand here and look at you and not feel inferior.”
Marcu didn’t know what to do with her. He didn’t know how to stop these words because they were barbed and brutal and coming at him so fast. Is this why she’d left first thing in the morning? Is this truly the reason she’d fled the palazzo?
“You should have told me you’d heard him,” he said tautly. “You should have confronted me—”
“And what would you have done? Denied it? Told me I’d misheard? That I didn’t understand? Marcu, I understood perfectly then, and I understand now, but none of that matters. What matters is the family here, in this castello. It’s time for you to deal with your grief so you can take care of your children. You need to love them. You need to love them so well that you don’t need a woman to come in and fix things for you. Because you don’t need a wife. You don’t need a new mother for them. You just need to forgive yourself for not being there when Galeta died. And you could be an amazing father if you stopped looking back and just focused on the present. Your children are adorable. They’re smart and kind and funny. They are perfect. And they are still so young. All they need is someone to love them and laugh with them. Why can’t that be you?”
Her words were relentless, sharp and heavy, and they were piercing the armor he wore to keep from feeling too much. “I think you’ve said enough for one night,” he growled.
“Then leave. This is my room. You’re free to go at any time.”
“You’re trying to provoke me.”
“You’re refusing to see what’s in front of your face!”
He stalked toward her. “You, you mean?”
Every time he took a step forward, she took a step back. “No, your children,” she snapped.
She was skirting the furniture now, and moving closer to the wall, but he wasn’t about to let her escape. “You’re making this about the children, but it’s not,” he answered. “You’re an
gry with me, angry that I didn’t defend you to my father that night—”
“I was angry then, and hurt, but that’s behind us. I’m here trying to help you now. It’s what you wanted. It’s why you insisted I come.”
“To follow my instructions,” he said, finally cornering her. There was nowhere for her to run and she stood facing him, her back to the plaster wall, her expression mutinous. “Not challenge me at every turn.”
“That’s because you’ve become lazy, and soft—”
“Soft?” he repeated incredulously.
Her golden-brown eyes flashed at him, her lips twisting scornfully. “Yes, soft. You don’t want to do the hard work. You want an easy fix, but you’re going to be disappointed. You’re going to regret this down the road.”
“I’m already regretting having you here.”
“Send me home in the morning then. We’ll both be happier.”
She was tiny, barely reaching his shoulder, and she practically vibrated with fury and emotion and he, who avoided emotion, felt drawn to her light and heat just as a moth was drawn to a flame.
He wanted to touch her...kiss her...possess her...and yet he’d promised her he wouldn’t. He’d promised her that as long as he was pursuing another woman, he wouldn’t touch her, and he was determined to keep that vow. But that didn’t stop him from moving closer, and leaning in, his hands against the wall over her head, and his body angling over hers. There was space between them. A sliver of space. Just enough to honor his promise, but not enough to give either of them peace of mind.
There was no peace of mind with her here.
There was no peace of mind since she’d left him all those years ago.
“You promised you wouldn’t touch me,” she said breathlessly.
He heard the catch in her voice, as well as the quick rise and fall of her breasts. She wasn’t immune to him. No, she was just as aware of him as he was of her.
“Not going to touch you,” he said, dropping his head a quarter inch, her mouth so close now that he could feel the heat shimmering between them. The heat was intoxicating. She was intoxicating. He felt almost drugged. “Just standing here.”
