by Tara Pammi
“Of working in a department store?”
“It’s actually something I enjoy so don’t you dare mock me!”
He rubbed his hands over his face and growled with frustration. “I’m not mocking you, I’m trying to understand how you could choose that life over one with me and the children?”
“I realize marriage for you is a business deal, but it’s not my idea of marriage, and I don’t need a man. I need independence. I need self-respect. I need my own path.”
“So what was this? What happened here?”
“I wanted you. I have wanted to be with you since I was eighteen. And so I slept with you, and I did it mostly for closure. I slept with you so that—” She broke off abruptly, unwilling to say what was burning in her heart.
So that I would always have this moment with you. So that I would always have this memory.
This was her secret, not his. Her memory for her to cherish, and she would cherish it, but he didn’t need to know that making love with him was bittersweet. He didn’t need to know that being so close to him had been heaven, and it would hurt like hell to walk away, but far better to leave and hurt and heal, then stay and be overlooked day in and day out.
“Finish your sentence,” he said curtly. “I’m hanging on your every word. I’m trying to understand.”
“There is nothing to understand. I wanted to be in your bed. I wanted to make love to you. I did. We did. And now I’m ready to go as soon as the storm lets up.”
He crossed his arms, and his jaw jutted. “I don’t like any of this.”
“I know you don’t, but you’ll be fine the moment I’m gone and you reach back out to Vittoria, or you set your sights on the next appropriate woman. I’m just convenient, Marcu. Don’t forget that.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“But true,” she said, tugging her sweater over her head, and crumpling the rest of her clothes into a ball. “This isn’t complicated between us. We both had an itch to scratch, and we scratched it, freeing you to find the next aristocratic young woman with the bloodline you desire.” And then she tried to put on her knit slacks but Marcu scooped her into his arms and carried her back to the bed.
“Then why isn’t my itch scratched?” he asked, pinning her to the bed. “Why do I just want even more of you?”
“Because you like what you can’t have.”
“But I can have you. I know if I told you how much I wanted you right now, and how much I ache to be inside of you, and how much I want to taste you, you’d welcome all of it.” He pressed her hands open, and placed his palm flat against hers in a slow caress. “And if I’m wrong, tell me right now, and I’ll let you go and we will be done with the itch and the scratch and all of it, because I do want you, but I want you to want me, too.”
There was so much heat and energy zinging between them. Just the press of his palm to hers made her want to arch up against him.
Was it bad that she loved being pinned to the bed like this? Was it bad that the sheer strength of him made her shivery and excited?
“I do want you,” she answered, throwing her head back, which resulted in him dropping his head, and kissing the side of her neck, his lips setting her on fire.
“Then stay,” he said huskily. “Because I want you here, la mia bella ragazza.”
His beautiful girl.
She closed her eyes as he kissed her, and gave him the rest of her heart because there was no one else she’d rather give it to. There was no one she’d rather be with. She’d never wanted anyone but him. But she just couldn’t let him know she loved him.
She couldn’t ever give him that power over her.
CHAPTER NINE
A FEW HOURS later Monet was woken by the most lovely sensation of his hand stroking her side, and then up her rib cage to cup her breast. Of course her nipple pebbled and he stroked that, too, all while she pretended to still be sleeping, wanting to just focus on how he made her body feel.
He made her body feel amazing.
But it was harder to feign sleep when he tugged on her nipple and flooded her with warmth, making her ache between her thighs, making her want him deep inside of her again.
And still, she kept her eyes closed, focusing on his warm palm against her breast, and the thick length of his erection against her backside.
Her body was waking everywhere and it was almost painful not responding. She wanted to turn over and give him all of her...well, all but her heart, because she didn’t trust him with that.
“I know you’re awake,” he murmured, his breath warm against her neck.
She smiled into her pillow. “Mmm...?”
“You’re a faker,” he answered, sliding his hand lower, down over her hip, the curve of her butt, before slipping between her thighs. “So wet,” he said, stroking her.
She gasped as he touched her; she was wet, and ready for him. She rolled onto her back and reached for him. He kissed her, and moved between her thighs but didn’t enter her. Instead he leaned back and reached for a condom and sheathed himself before burying himself inside of her.
Monet sighed with pleasure as he filled her. He was big and the fullness was somewhat overwhelming and then it was perfect.
She linked her hands behind his neck and pulled him down to her, so she could kiss him as he thrust into her. This was exactly what she needed—him, all of him. It wasn’t just sex, but joy at the deepest level. To finally know him, to finally be able to express her love for him...if not in words, then in actions. The climax was shattering, and even more bruising for her heart because the more she cared, the more the pleasure hurt.
Afterward she lay across his chest, in the hazy afterglow, thoughts drifting, emotions still not quite in control.
Leaving him would be so brutal.
Forgetting him would be impossible.
“This is why I came back,” he said quietly, playing with her hair, the long strands slipping through his fingers. “I came back for you.”
“Marcu,” she protested huskily, a lump forming in her throat. “Let’s not talk about that again.”
“Why not? It’s true. You’re here because I needed you, and not for the children, but for me. I didn’t see it before, but it hit me as I was leaving the castello yesterday. I didn’t even want to get in the car, and once I was driving away, I felt almost sick. I didn’t want to leave you, nor did I want to spend Christmas away from all of you. This was where I wanted to be—with you, and my children.”
She sat up to see his face. “Don’t mistake desire for love, or affection. It’s not the basis for commitment, nor will it provide stability for a family of young children.”
He said nothing for a moment. “Are you afraid of commitment?”
Her cheeks flamed with heat and her pulse thudded hard. Her body still felt treacherously warm, and aware. “No!”
“Then why can’t we discuss us?”
“Because that’s not why I slept with you!” She left the bed and reached for the soft cashmere throw on a chair near his hearth, and wrapped it around her. “I slept with you because I found you appealing, and yes, I was curious as to what making love with you would be like, and it was wonderful. But at the same time, I have no interest in pursuing this further. What we did together was lovely, and I have no regrets about losing my virginity to you, but once I leave, it’s over.”
“Why?”
“Why wouldn’t it be? I came to Aosta to take care of your children, not play the part of your mistress. I might be my mother’s daughter, but I have too much self-respect to go down that path.”
“Our parents loved each other.”
She let out a strangled laugh and pulled the fuzzy blanket closer to her bare shoulders. “I wouldn’t ever call it that,” she said hoarsely, remembering the inequality in their relationship. Matteo Uberto had all the power. Her mothe
r had none.
“My father proposed to her twice. She turned him down both times.”
She’d heard this before, from her mother, but she hadn’t believed her. Monet had thought her mother was telling her what she thought Monet wanted to hear. “And yet he replaced her with a younger model when she turned forty.”
Marcu sat up, the covers falling low to his hips, revealing his lean, muscular torso. “Because your mother was ill and she kept the news from my father, not wanting him to see her sick. She left him, not the other way around.”
“That’s not true!”
“But it is. My father loved your mother. And he didn’t replace her with a younger model. There was never anyone else for him, not after she died.”
His words caught her off guard and Monet stiffened, before turning away. Was that true? Or was Marcu twisting the past, changing facts into something less unsavory? She gave her head a shake, unsettled.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said after a moment, crossing the room to stand at Marcu’s bedroom window. He hadn’t closed the shutters last night and in the early morning light one could see the snow still falling, piling high on the stone ledge and coating the thick glass. “You brought me to Aosta so you could spend time alone with Vittoria before you proposed to her. That was our understanding. It’s why I dropped everything to come to Italy. I’m here expressly to manage the children, and that agreement has not changed.” She paused, and turned to look at Marcu, her gaze meeting his. “Nor do I want it to change. Despite the incredible lovemaking.”
“So what happens now?” he asked grimly.
“I shower and dress and prepare for a day with the children, and you do what you would ordinarily do.”
“I’d like to spend it with the children.”
Again, he’d caught her off guard. She nodded approvingly, even if she felt somewhat off balance. “Good. They’d love that.”
“And I’d like to spend the day with you, too...all of us together.”
“They need time with you, without me there.”
His mouth opened, then closed. He nodded. “You’re right. Take the day off.”
“You mean the morning, or the afternoon?”
“No, I mean the whole day.” He paused. “You do get days off at Bernard’s, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then enjoy having some time to yourself.”
She did enjoy having the morning to herself, but by early afternoon Monet was bored and restless. She couldn’t stop thinking about last night, and how she’d spent it in Marcu’s bed.
She might be conflicted about some things, but she had no confusion about how he made her feel, especially when she was in his arms, her body pressed to his. There was something magical about his skin against her skin and his mouth on hers. She loved his warmth and his strength, she loved the way he smelled and how incredible his touch made her feel. She came alive in his arms—everything within her screamed to life at the brush of his lips. There were moments when she thought she would give up everything for more of this, and more time with Marcu. She’d sacrifice future security for more happiness right now, but inevitably reason would intrude, and reality would return and she’d scold herself for being foolish. She couldn’t afford to be a romantic. Couldn’t afford to be stupid. She might want Marcu more than she’d ever wanted anyone, but he didn’t love her. He only wanted her, and when the physical desire eventually faded—and it always did, just look at her mother—what would she be left with? Nothing.
Marcu took the children outside after breakfast to build snowmen, and then they had a snowball fight, with Matteo and Antonio battling Marcu and Rocca. The snow had stopped falling for the present, but the storm wasn’t over and clouds hung low in the sky.
After the snowball fight they all took warm baths and changed into dry clothes before having lunch, and then relaxed in the music room, where the kids took turns playing the piano. Only Matteo had had lessons but the younger ones wanted to try to play, and Marcu sat down with Antonio and listened to him pound on the keys for a bit until Marcu said he wanted to play something. The children looked so shocked that it jolted Marcu’s complacency and it crossed his mind that Monet was right. His children didn’t really know him, not anymore.
“You know I play piano,” he said, playing a simple melody with his right hand.
The children all shook their heads.
“I used to play a lot,” he added. “I loved music. I wanted to study music but your grandfather said it wouldn’t pay the bills. So I gave up my music studies when I went to university.”
“Play us something then, Papà,” Antonio said, still perched on the piano bench next to him.
Marcu thought a moment and then began to play something he’d learned years ago, and even though he hadn’t touched the piano since before Galeta died, his fingers remembered the notes, and he just let himself play, lost in the song and the moment, because it was a special moment, having his three children with him, all riveted to the medieval Italian Christmas carol.
Marcu smiled at his children when he finished. “What did you think?”
“Beautiful,” said Rocca.
“I didn’t know you knew Christmas songs,” Matteo said.
“I’d forgotten that one,” Marcu answered truthfully, aware that once again Monet had been right. She was opening his eyes and he didn’t like what he was seeing. Despite his best intentions, he had failed his children.
“Can you play us something else?” Rocca asked.
He thought for a moment and then began to play an aria from Puccini. Monet had loved Puccini. She’d discovered a passion for opera when she’d lived at the palazzo, and Marcu had gone out and bought DVDs for her of all the great operas, but Puccini remained her favorite composer.
When he finished, the children begged for another song but he shook his head and stood up. “Maybe later. Now I think we go up to the nursery and let you have a short rest before dinner.”
“Will you read to us while we rest?” Rocca caught his hand and held it while they left the room. “Signorina Wilde always reads to us.”
“She’s been reading us The Nutcracker,” Antonio added. “I like the Mouse King.”
“And I like Clara. She’s lovely.” Rocca skipped next to him as they started up the stairs. “And she gets to have a Christmas ball. I wish we could have one.”
“A Christmas ball?” Marcu’s brow creased as he glanced down at his daughter. “You don’t even know what a ball is, do you?”
“It’s where everyone dresses up and they dance and have a huge party, and we have a ballroom here, so we could have one.”
“We do have a ballroom,” he agreed. “But who would we invite? We know no one here. Everyone in our family is in Palermo.”
“But there are lots of people in the village, and we have everyone who works here, and their families. Why don’t we invite them to come to our party?”
“It sounds like a lot of effort, and a lot of money,” Marcu answered, more to himself than her.
“But it would be fun, and you have a lot of money,” she retorted, giving his hand a squeeze. “And it would make everyone happy. Don’t you think it would make them happy to come here for a big party?”
He smoothed the tip of her ponytail. “I don’t know. That’s a good question.”
“Well, I think they’d be happy. Especially if we had a big tree like Clara had, and toys and lots of cookies and music.” She hesitated, then added in a rush, “And Signorina would like it, too. She said she loves Christmas and in London everything has lights and pretty decorations. Wouldn’t it be fun to surprise her and make it look like London here?”
Marcu choked back a laugh. “Well, we couldn’t make it look like London, but we could probably organize something in the ballroom and celebrate the holidays with our staff.”
�
�And everyone in the village.”
“A few people from the village.”
“And the farmer who brought you home.”
“Va bene, and the farmer who brought me home.”
Rocca smiled delightedly. “I can’t wait to tell Signorina!”
“What if we don’t tell her? What if we make it a surprise?”
Rocca frowned and looked at her brothers and then back at her father, a deep crease between her brows. “That’s a terrible idea, Papà. She has to be dressed up, too. How can she come to a ball without a special dress?”
He couldn’t stifle the laugh this time. “You make an excellent point, but let’s not say anything to her yet because I’m not sure if we can make this happen.”
“Why not?”
“We’d need the staff’s help and I’m sure they’re busy getting ready for their Christmas, too.”
“So let’s do it before Christmas Eve.”
“That’s only days from now.”
Rocca was not easily discouraged. “Or Christmas day?”
Marcu checked his smile. “Let me ask the staff. If they are to be our guests, shouldn’t we find out what day they’d like to come to a party?”
That evening Monet wasn’t able to hear what Marcu and the children were talking about in the nursery, but she knew he’d gone up with them to put them to bed and he’d stayed in the nursery for forty-five minutes. She wondered if the children said prayers, or if he’d told them a story. She was glad he was with them, though, and glad she’d decided to accept their invitation and join them for dinner as everyone had looked happy and relaxed, and the children had teased Marcu and he’d teased them right back.
She hadn’t stayed for dessert but went up to her room to take a bath and get ready for bed. She tried to read but couldn’t focus on the words, and then she took out a bottle of nail polish and touched up her toenails. Monet glanced at the clock on the wall every now and then, noting that a half hour had passed, and then an hour, since Marcu had left the nursery and gone down the stairs.
