by Jane Porter
His body felt taut and hard, his senses flooded with her scent and heat. Why was she the only one who made him feel this way? Why did she drive him mad? It made no sense. This desire wasn’t logical and yet it was the most compelling thing he’d felt in years.
Her cheeks already flushed, darkened to a luscious rose. She chewed on her lower lip. “You’re not abiding by the rules,” she whispered.
“What rules?”
She closed her eyes, and drew a slow, unsteady breath before exhaling just as slowly. “Exactly my point.”
Marcu’s body was so hard he ached. He pressed his knuckles to the wall. He craved her mouth. He craved her taste. It was all he could do to just hold his position. “This isn’t working, is it?” he muttered.
She gave her head a very slight shake.
“What do we do?” he asked.
She dragged in another unsteady breath. “One of us needs to leave.”
“Leave? Your room?”
“No. This place. The castello.” She opened her eyes, and looked straight into his. The gold-brown of her eyes was dark with emotion. She looked as if she was in pain, and it sent a lance of white-hot agony through him.
He flinched and ground his knuckles against the wall.
“We can’t both be here,” she whispered. “Nothing good will come of it. You know it.”
He did know it, and he hated what she was saying, but she was right. This wasn’t good for either of them. This was beyond torturous. He hated feeling so much. He hated feeling helpless. But to leave her...
To lose her...
Again.
And yet she wasn’t his. She’d never be his. Why couldn’t he accept it?
But no, he could. He did. He was an adult, a man who understood responsibility. He understood ramifications.
“You need to be here. I don’t,” he said brusquely, before peeling himself away from her and taking a step back. The effort had drained him. He felt almost beaten as he put space between them. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Good, because if you don’t, I will.”
* * *
Monet sagged as Marcu left her suite. Her heart was still racing so fast that she could barely cross to the chair by the fire before she collapsed into it.
She’d never wanted a kiss so badly.
She’d never wanted anything as much as she’d wanted him to throw caution to the wind and just kiss her...
And not a sweet, tentative kiss, but mad passion. Her hands itched for his, her body trembled with longing. If only he’d clasped her hands and pinned them over her head and held her there against that wall as he claimed her mouth, and then claimed her.
She’d wanted the weight of his body, and the heat and pressure. Her body felt so unbearably sensitive. Monet wrapped an arm over her chest, pressing against her breasts, against the tingling in her nipples.
She’d wanted his hands there, and she’d wanted his mouth on her skin, and she’d wanted him...
My God.
This was everything she’d felt in Palermo, and yet more, because she was older now and more confident and she didn’t want him because she had some big emotional hole inside of her, but rather she wanted him because he set her body on fire and torched her senses and she loved it.
Loved it.
And she wanted more.
Monet’s head fell back against the back of the chair and she sighed heavily. Obviously she wouldn’t be kissing Marcu, or taking him to her bed, but the desire burned within her and it wasn’t going to be easy to forget just how hungry and fierce he’d made her feel.
* * *
Marcu stood at his bedroom window watching the snow fall in white sheets beyond the thick beveled glass. It was after midnight and he hadn’t even tried to go to bed, knowing it would be impossible to sleep when his brain still raced, struggling to process everything said tonight.
All these years he’d thought Monet had left Palermo because she’d been disgusted by the kiss. He’d thought she’d wanted to escape, because she was filled with regret over what they’d done. He’d agonized over his actions, thinking he’d let her down, betrayed her trust. Had she viewed him as a surrogate brother, someone who would look after her instead? If that was the case, no wonder she’d given him a look of repulsion when he’d returned to his room after speaking to his father.
He’d misread the situation and violated her trust.
For years he couldn’t even think of her without self-hatred, disgusted with himself for taking advantage of her and making her feel unsafe in her own home.
But she hadn’t said any of that tonight. No, she’d flung different words at him instead...an altogether different accusation.
She’d been hurt by his father’s words, and devastated that Marcu hadn’t defended her.
He hadn’t known she could hear the conversation—a conversation he remembered quite differently.
His brow creased as he stared out at the swirling world of white.
Either way, it was problematic being under the same roof with her again. He wasn’t sure how he had thought this would play out. Had he imagined that he wouldn’t be attracted to her any longer? Had he hoped that by bringing her to Aosta, he would finally feel free of the past? Of her?
Except that he wasn’t free of the past, or her. Being near her now was even more difficult than before.
Being near her made him feel, and a dark dangerous hunger seemed to fill his veins and heat his skin. He wanted her. He wanted to possess her...to touch her and taste her, to take her, and know her, and make her shudder and come apart for him.
And yet despite the desire, and despite his body being hard and his pulse thudding with demanding need, he had a ring for Vittoria in his travel bag. He had a suitcase packed for his departure tomorrow. His head told him that Vittoria would be the right one. His head said he needed someone suitable, someone who didn’t threaten his calm, and control. He preferred a rational world, a world of order and reason. Not passion. Or hunger. Or volatile emotions that weren’t to be trusted.
Now if only his body would listen, and his pulse would slow, and his uncomfortable aching erection would ease.
He put a hand to the cold glass, pressing his palm against the chill, trying to freeze the heat within him.
Monet wasn’t for him. She was never meant to be his. But at the same time, there was no one he trusted more with his children. They’d be safe with her.
There was no one he wanted more...
But marriage wasn’t about passion, or desire. Marriage was duty, responsibility. He couldn’t confuse the two.
He’d leave first thing tomorrow. He’d leave before he did something rash, something illogical...something that might change all their lives forever.
* * *
The snow was falling thickly in the morning when Monet dragged herself from bed. Her head ached and her eyes felt dry and gritty. She’d tossed and turned all night, her dreams tormenting her almost as much as Marcu had tormented her with the promise of something he had no intention of delivering. He’d been pretty ruthless last night, and she’d been aroused by it, wanting him more than ever.
Monet wrapped herself in her thick robe and went to the sitting room, where a breakfast tray waited on one of the small tables. Even better, there was no note from Marcu.
She plugged in the lights on her little tree and sipped her caffe latte, and tore apart the warm fragrant roll, liberally spreading butter and jam on it. She’d forgotten how much she loved prima colazione. Even though she was in the Italian Alps, not Sicily, a part of her felt as if she’d come home.
She was just finishing the last of her breakfast when a knock sounded on her door. She closed her eyes, said a swift prayer—please don’t let it be Marcu—and then rose to open the door.
It was Marcu, dressed, in winter travel clothes.
; “I’ve said goodbye to the children,” he said flatly. “They’re just waking, but I didn’t want to leave without speaking to them.”
“It’s early,” she said, thinking that just moments ago she wanted him gone and now that he was leaving, she felt strangely deflated.
“If I have any hope of getting out of the valley, it’s now. It’s only going to get worse later.”
“You’re not trying to fly, are you?”
“No. The helicopter can’t land in these conditions. I’m driving. Once I reach Milan, I’ll be able to fly.”
She glanced out the window and couldn’t even see the massive pine trees for the thickly falling snow. “How will you be able to see? And won’t the roads be icy?”
“The roads won’t be icy yet. I agree it’s not ideal driving conditions, no. But if I don’t go now, I’m here all weekend. The storm is supposed to continue for the next couple of days.”
“Be safe then.”
“I will.” He hesitated. “There is something I need to say before I go. Something that I should have said years ago.” He hesitated again. “I helped you leave Palermo all those years ago because I thought you were...disgusted...by my attentions. I thought I had taken advantage of you, and—” he broke off and sucked in a breath “—forced myself on you. I thought that was why you were in tears when I returned to the bedroom after speaking with my father.” He dropped his head and stared at the floor. “I have hated myself for hurting you. I have always wanted to make amends. It’s why I came to see you after Galeta died. I thought perhaps God was cursing me—”
“No.”
He made a soft, rough sound under his breath. “I am sorry if I—”
“You didn’t.” She rushed toward him, hand outstretched to stop his words. She was just about to put her hand to his chest when she remembered herself, and curled her fingers into a ball instead. “God wasn’t cursing you, or punishing you. Nor did you take advantage of me. You did nothing improper, nothing that I didn’t want. I was upset that night, but for different reasons, reasons that had to do with my eighteen-year-old heart.” She struggled to smile. “I had a massive crush on you. I’d had a crush on you forever and my feelings were hurt that you didn’t feel the same way about me—”
“Obviously I had feelings for you. I wouldn’t have kissed you otherwise.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t the one you could keep, remember, and while I understand that now, it was...bruising...back then.”
“I wish I’d understood better.”
“It’s fine. I was eighteen, and a romantic. I took the kiss too seriously, imagining possibilities that weren’t there. I was wrong, and I survived.” She took a step back and did a little bow. “Look! I’m here. I’m fine.”
His head lifted and his gaze locked with hers. “One last thing, before I go.”
She swallowed hard and forced a smile. “You’re making it sound like this is the last time I’ll see you. You’re not intending on driving recklessly, are you?”
“Of course not. I have three children who need me.”
“Exactly right,” she retorted. “Don’t ever forget it.”
“I don’t.” He reached up to run his hand over his mouth, and jaw. “The favor I demanded of you. It wasn’t fair of me, seeing as I put you in that position in the first place.”
Monet flashed to Marcu’s bedroom suite and how she’d been virtually naked in his bed, her shirt off, her bra off, just her panties on when Marcu’s father had barged in. Marcu had covered her so his father hadn’t seen her, but it had been obvious that Monet had little on. “It is what it is, Marcu. No one grows up without getting a little emotionally banged up.”
“You were so angry with me,” Marcu said quietly. “You told me you never wanted to see me again.”
She nodded, remembering. “Yes.”
“You meant it, too.”
“I did.” Her shoulders twisted. “I needed a change. And I needed to figure out my life without the Ubertos in it.”
He turned to the window and looked out at the fat thick snowflakes falling steadily, relentlessly. “That’s why I made you promise me that you’d return the favor one day. I was worried you were cutting me off, and I wasn’t ready to lose you entirely. It was my way of letting you go, but not letting you go. The favor was my last tie to you. It represented one more conversation, one more visit, one last bit of connection.”
His words put a pang in her chest and she sucked in her lower lip, biting on it, to keep from making a sound.
He’d always known how to get to her.
He’d always known the right words to say...at least until she’d left and he’d married and become someone else, someone she didn’t like and didn’t want to know. But it seemed that the old Marcu was still in there. The Marcu she adored wasn’t entirely gone.
“I’m glad,” she said simply. “It would have been tragic for us to go the rest of our lives without speaking again. I’m glad I was able to help you with your children. They are such lovely little people. You are lucky to have them.”
The ache in her chest expanded, pressing into her throat, making it hard to talk and swallow. Life had a funny way of turning on itself, upending everything.
Last night she’d gone to bed, body on fire. This morning her heart felt as if it had broken free of her chest and was flopping around at her feet on the floor.
He nodded once. “I need to go.”
“Yes, you do.” She shot a glance out the window. “It doesn’t look good, though. I’m concerned about the drive.”
“Once I make it over the pass, I’ll be fine.”
“You mean, if you make it over the pass.”
Marcu suddenly smiled, one of the careless, self-deprecating smiles she knew from years past, a smile she’d thought she might never see again. “You have so little faith in me.”
“Not so, but with all that you have here, dependent on you, I don’t know why you’d want to tempt fate.”
He gave her a long look, his smile fading. “You might think I’m not listening, but I am. I have heard every word you’ve said.”
Her chest seized, burning. She blinked hard to keep her eyes from filling with tears. “We will miss you,” she said quietly. “Be careful.”
“Always,” he answered, after a moment’s silence, before turning and walking out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MONET AND THE children spent the morning playing card games and then helping the cook make pasta in the huge stone kitchen that had managed to marry medieval and modern.
The cook was showing the children how to gently fold the pasta and pinch the seams when the butler stepped into the kitchen and gestured for Monet to follow him.
“I just received a call from the police,” the butler said quietly. “Signor’s car was found. It went over the embankment—”
“Over the embankment?” Monet interrupted, heart faltering. “What do you mean?”
The butler frowned, as if not sure how to make it more clear. “Off the road, over the edge.”
Suddenly her grasp of Italian seemed inadequate. “Off the road, over the edge...of the mountain?”
“He wasn’t in the car. They don’t know where he is. But he wouldn’t be able to walk away if he wasn’t okay,” the butler reasoned.
Or, he was injured and concussed and wandered away from his car to freeze to death in some ravine. Monet swallowed hard. “Was there blood in the car? Had the air bag deployed?”
“The police didn’t say. They are looking for him now.”
She walked to the tall window overlooking the summer herb garden, a garden currently buried by three feet of snow. All you could see in the walled garden was white—white everywhere—and the snow just kept falling.
Where was Marcu?
Was he hurt? Or had he been plucked from the road and was right now trave
ling to Milan, courtesy of some kind stranger?
But if that was the case, wouldn’t he call? Send word?
She chewed on a knuckle, heartsick. He shouldn’t have gone. It was foolish...dangerous... Stupid man.
Rocca pushed the kitchen door open and peeked around the corner. “Signorina Wilde, you’re missing all the fun!”
Monet forced a smile. “I’ll be right there. Give me just a minute.”
The door closed and Monet turned to the butler. “How will the police track him in the snow? I’d think the snow would be covering up his footsteps.”
“I don’t know.”
She held her breath, scared for Marcu, scared for the children. “Do you have the phone number for someone leading the investigation?”
“No, I don’t, and I’m not certain it’s reached the investigation stage yet.”
“Even though Marcu Uberto’s car has been found down in an embankment and he’s not in it?”
“We’re in a very rural area. This isn’t the city.”
Monet bit her lip and looked over her shoulder to the kitchen door, thinking of the children inside making pasta. This was the last thing they needed.
The butler must have read her thoughts as he asked, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to say anything to the children.”
Monet was at least adamant about this and gave her head a firm shake. “No. Not until we know something conclusive.”
* * *
Monet was reading stories to the children when a snowplow could be heard outside, scraping the road leading to the castello.
She went to the window to watch the huge plow clearing snow. The children joined her at the window. The snowplow stopped not far from the entrance, and a door opened and the driver got out, and then the driver helped a passenger out.
“Papà!” Antonio cried, tapping the glass.
Monet watched as the snowplow driver aided Marcu to the front door. Staff were now spilling out of the house, rushing down the stairs to help.
