by Jane Porter
“You have no children. What makes you an expert?”
“Because I know what it’s like to constantly play second fiddle to your parents’ romantic relationships. It hurts, Marcu.”
Her voice cracked and the sheen of tears in her eyes made him want to rage against the injustice of the universe, because fate was harsh and life could be brutal and the only way to survive was by being hard. “Can’t you see that I’m trying,” he said, wrapping an arm around her back, holding her securely.
She blinked as she looked at him, cheeks flushed, eyes brilliant with fierce tears. “Are you?” she demanded. “Or are you hiding from them?”
“What does that mean?”
“The children don’t even know you can play the piano. They don’t know you love music and art and beauty—”
“I did. I don’t anymore.”
“Pity, because everyone needs beauty and art in their life. Children need beauty—”
“Why? It’s just going to be snatched away.”
“Beauty helps us through times of pain. Beauty, like love, heals and redeems—”
“I am certain there is plenty more you’d like to say,” he growled, “but I’ve heard enough from you for one night.”
His head descended and his lips covered hers. Monet stiffened with surprise, and panic, but the panic faded the second his lips touched hers.
Monet felt yanked back in time the moment she’d felt his arm circle her, his body pressing against hers, his frame lean and hard and so very male.
The brush of his lips and scent of his skin overwhelmed her with longing, and memory, and she was eighteen again, and in Marcu’s spacious, luxurious bedroom suite at the Uberto palazzo. As the Uberto heir, he had the largest suite after his parents, gorgeous rooms that seemed to go on and on—living room, study, bedroom, en-suite bathroom, huge walk-in closet. He’d first kissed her in the doorway between his living room and study, and then they’d ended up on his bed, his large body pinning hers, their hands clasped, fingers entwined, her body arching against his, desperate for him.
This kiss eight years later flamed hot, and desperate. It was as if they had left off exactly where they’d stopped...the emotion, the need, the craving, so fierce, so insistent, and yet, so punishing. She had wanted him then, and she wanted him now, but want wasn’t an easy thing, not with their history. The want created pain and anger, because he didn’t care about her, not really. He desired her, the same way his father had desired her mother, but the Uberto men took different women to be their wives. They chose different women to be the mothers of their children. Rage and hurt welled within her, making her burn hot and cold. He’d make love to Monet tonight but then fly out tomorrow to propose to Vittoria.
She’d never be anything more than a side piece. Something used to satisfy one’s carnal desire. Heartsick, she pushed against Marcu’s chest, hard enough to free herself. He, too, was breathing heavily as his arms dropped, but he didn’t move away. She took a frantic step backward, pulse racing, body trembling, even as something inside of her urged her to return to his arms, return to his warmth.
My God, she was stupid. She hadn’t matured at all. He was still so dangerous and destructive, at least to her heart, never mind her self-control. She shot him a fierce look before leaving the study, fleeing for the privacy of her own room.
* * *
Marcu was as shocked as she was. He heard, rather than saw, Monet leave, even though his gaze followed her to the door, but he couldn’t see as much as feel.
He felt stunned, his body hot and cold, but also, strangely alive. Energy coursed through him, hot primitive desire pumped through his veins. His muscles contracted, his heart thudded.
He wanted her.
He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone.
Why?
Was it because she was forbidden? Was it because she represented youth and the last of his innocence?
Why did he crave her when he had never craved any other woman...ever?
His gaze lingered on the closed door, aware of how still everything had become. The room suddenly felt empty and cold without Monet.
He felt empty, and cold, but not as cold as he usually did. She’d lit a flame inside of him and the small flickering flame had the potential to burn brightly. If he let it.
He couldn’t let it.
He couldn’t give in to sensation, or emotion, or impulse. Not when he’d spent the past three years teaching his children that life wasn’t about fun or pleasure. It was about duty, and discipline. It was about reason and intellect.
The flame inside of him was the opposite of logic. The flame was passion and fire and hunger, and it couldn’t be allowed to burn. He had to snuff it out. He had to remember the lessons he’d been teaching the children. Order. Predictability. Self-control. These were the virtues and values he respected, and this is why he structured their world as he did. It was a conscious attempt to protect them from chaos. He believed that discipline and control would serve them well as they grew into adulthood. Discipline and control would allow them to make good decisions, logical decisions, so they wouldn’t be disappointed by life, or worse, hurt by it.
He’d been hurt, repeatedly, until he’d finally learned what life was trying to teach him: emotions were not to be trusted, whereas a cool head, and sharp intellect, prevailed. Which is why he didn’t teach his children about hope, or faith, and why he wasn’t looking for love in marriage. He’d been brought up to believe that love was somehow redemptive. It wasn’t. Everything he’d been taught was a lie. His childhood was one fabrication on top of another, and after Galeta’s death, Marcu had resolved to parent differently. His children would be guided by knowledge and truth, and that was all.
Kissing Monet had been a terrible mistake and it wouldn’t happen again.
CHAPTER SIX
GOOD GOD, WHAT had happened downstairs?
Monet frantically paced her private sitting room, her steps muffled by the thick peach-and-cream Persian rug, the peach and cream echoed in the glamorous Italian silk curtains at the windows and the apricot silk panels on the four-poster bed in the adjacent room.
She couldn’t believe she’d let him kiss her. She couldn’t believe she’d kissed him back, because she had, she most definitely had.
Horrified, she went into the bedroom to stare at her face in the Venetian mirror hanging above the dressing table. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked feverishly bright. Her full mouth looked plump and very kissed...because she had been very kissed.
She pressed a hand to her lips, feeling the warmth and sensitivity, thinking it had been forever since she’d felt anything so good, or felt so alive.
She’d wanted the kiss, too. How she’d wanted it. There was no way she could blame him for reaching for her because she’d spent the past few days wondering what it would be like to kiss him now...and if his kiss could wreck her the way it had upended her world eight years ago.
For the past eight years she’d wondered if his kiss had been as overwhelming and wonderful as she remembered, or if it had simply been the fact that it was her first real kiss, and in her inexperience she’d made it out to be more than it was.
Eight years ago his kiss had stripped her bare, stealing her heart, making her his, and all this time she’d wondered why he had so devastated her. And now she knew. It wasn’t inexperience. It wasn’t innocence. It was him. There was something powerful, something electric, in his touch.
His lips on hers just now had made her feel so many things, awakening the past, as well as jolting her from complacency. She wasn’t immune to him. She wasn’t in control of herself here. She wasn’t confident, either. From the time she arrived at the castello she’d been certain he was as aware of her as she was of him, and it wasn’t a casual awareness, but the taut, aching awareness of heat and memory and barely suppressed desire.
The kiss downstai
rs had burned with desire.
The kiss downstairs—
A firm knock sounded before the door to her outer room opened. Monet moved from the dressing table to the middle of her bedroom and Marcu was there, closing the door and holding a finger to his lips.
“Let’s not have the children in here as well,” he said tersely, his gaze sweeping her cozy sitting room with the beamed ceiling and stone fireplace.
“I don’t recall inviting you in,” she said.
“I wouldn’t have had to chase you down in here, if you had stayed downstairs so we could have had a conversation—”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Her teeth chattered slightly and she felt cold and hot all over again. She longed for a thick sweater, or blanket, to wrap herself in. She wanted to hide. She wanted to savor the kiss because she knew it would never happen again. It couldn’t happen again. “We both know it was inappropriate.”
“Yes. You’re right. The kiss was inappropriate, which is why we must talk, because I can’t propose to Vittoria, not if I’m kissing you.”
His words sent a shudder through her. She needed him to propose to Vittoria so she could escape Marcu and the castello. “I can forgive the kiss if it doesn’t happen again,” she said quietly.
“It was a mistake.”
“It absolutely was.”
His blue gaze skewered her, burning all the way through her. “And I won’t kiss you, or touch you again—”
“Good.”
“—while I’m pursuing another relationship.”
“Exactly.”
“But should I choose to pursue a relationship with you, it’s a different story.”
Monet froze, and blinked, dumbfounded. What had he just said? “You’re about to propose to Vittoria,” she said unsteadily. “Let’s not confuse things, shall we?”
“I’m looking for a mother for my children. That is my goal.”
“I understand that, and I also understand that when you’re in Rome Wednesday night, you’ll be with Vittoria, and then again with her on Friday, and I want you to go knowing that things will be calm and happy here. I can assure you the children will be safe with me.”
“I have no doubt. My children seem happy with you.”
“Good. So from now on focus on Vittoria and I will focus on the children and we won’t need to speak of this again as we both have agreed it’s a mistake.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re both agreeing now that it will not happen again. There will be no further contact between us, and no physical intimacy.” She hesitated. “Will you tell her what happened? Will you tell her about the kiss?”
He didn’t answer immediately, then he nodded abruptly. “I should, yes.” And then he walked out, leaving her even more shaken then before.
* * *
Kissing Marcu had been a horrendous mistake and the memory of his warmth and touch and taste haunted her all night, making sleep almost impossible. Every time she began dreaming, it was of him, and being in his arms and in his bed and completing what had begun between them so many years ago.
By the time morning came, Monet was exhausted and tense and wishing she was back in London, in the safety of her flat. She wasn’t safe here—not because Marcu would force himself on her, but because she didn’t trust herself anymore. Not with him.
That kiss last night...
That kiss had stirred something dark and dangerous and altogether too unpredictable awake within her, making her feel things she didn’t want to feel, things she’d only ever felt with Marcu.
He needed to go. He needed to leave Aosta as soon as possible and settle things with Vittoria so she could leave the Italian Alps, too. London had never been so appealing.
* * *
Midmorning, Monet and the children walked to Aosta village again, the children’s snow boots tramping snow and crunching ice as they talked about nothing and everything. Their chatter made Monet smile because it was sweet and they were so kind to each other. Marcu might be strict and distant but his children were definitely loving.
“Oh, there’s the Christmas market again,” Rocca said, pointing to the stands and booths in the middle of the Roman theater. “I really do wish we could visit it.”
“I’ll ask your father,” Monet answered.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Matteo said. “He will just say we can’t come to town anymore and I like coming here.”
“Why won’t he approve?” Monet persisted.
“Because he doesn’t like Christmas,” Rocca said bluntly. “It makes him mad. He thinks it’s better to not make such a fuss at this time of year, and focus instead on winter sports.”
Monet tugged on her gloves, pulling them higher. “Is that why the castello isn’t festive? I’ve noticed there are no decorations, no Christmas tree.”
“We don’t ever have a Christmas tree,” Rocca added.
“Not even in Palermo?” she clarified, and was dismayed when the children shook their heads. This didn’t make sense. In Palermo, at the palazzo, Christmas was important, special. In the six years she had spent in Sicily, the Uberto family celebrated Christmas in a big way, kicking off the season on December eighth when family and staff came together to decorate the house. The Uberto family celebrated both Italian and Sicilian traditions, and it was the highlight of the year.
“Since when?” she asked. “Because when I was living with your father’s family in Palermo we most definitely celebrated Christmas. Your grandfather Matteo adored Christmas. It was his favorite time of year.”
The children just shrugged and gave each other swift glances, but this time Monet saw the worry, and the secret they were keeping. “What are you not telling me? I can see it in your eyes, and your faces. You’re not very good liars—which I might add is a good thing—so come on, tell me. You can trust me. Remember, I’ve known your father for many, many years. Why don’t you have a tree and do festive things?”
“It’s because this is when my mamma died,” Rocca blurted.
Matteo nodded grimly. “She died December sixteenth.”
“After Antonio was born,” Rocca added.
“Me,” Antonio chimed in.
December sixteenth had been yesterday. Galeta had died three years ago yesterday.
Monet held her breath, overwhelmed. “Antonio, you must have just had a birthday,” she said.
“Last week,” Rocca answered for him, giving her brother a little pat.
Monet’s heart went out to the children. So much had happened in their lives. There had been so much loss and pain. And then she thought of Marcu, and their conversation last night, and she understood him a little better, understood his pain and desperation better. For three years he’d been grieving and he was desperate for the grief to end. He was desperate for some kind of normalcy for his children, even if he was going about it the wrong way.
“It’s cold,” Rocca said, clapping her hands.
“Let’s keep walking,” Monet said, “before you turn to icicles.”
Antonio laughed and took Monet’s hand but Matteo walked ahead, shoulders hunched. Monet let him walk ahead for a while and then stopped him as they neared the village. “What are you thinking about?”
“I remember when we did have a Christmas tree,” he said quietly. “We still do have a presepi, but it’s not out yet. Maybe we didn’t bring it from home.”
Monet knew the presepi, or Nativity, was the most important element of every Italian home at Christmas. The presepi at the palazzo was over a hundred years old, had been hand-carved in Naples, and the gorgeous figurines had filled her with wonder every year.
“What if we do a few festive things together? Just because your father doesn’t enjoy the holiday as much as he once did, doesn’t mean you can’t.” She was silent a moment, then added, “Maybe we just have to remind him h
ow beautiful Christmas really is.”
“He won’t like it,” Rocca answered quickly. “We tried once to decorate a little tree in the nursery at the palazzo and he threw it away.”
“Well, he can’t throw away something that I buy, not if it’s mine,” Monet answered.
“Papà will make you.”
“No, he can’t. He won’t. I might work for him, but he doesn’t own me.”
The children gave her a pitying look, which didn’t sit well with her at all, and not only because she wasn’t the least bit afraid of their father, but also because they didn’t realize that it was the Uberto family that had taught her how magical Christmas could be. And it would be magical for these children, even if she had to give them the magic in little bites.
“I understand your concerns,” Monet said cheerfully, “but what about me? What about my holiday? I can’t be expected to go through Christmas without fun, can I? In London everything is so festive and beautiful right now. There are gorgeous lights and decorations everywhere, and all the stores and restaurants have dressed up their windows. Even the store I worked in had Christmas trees and decorations on every floor. My department was silver and white, with a huge silver Christmas tree with thousands of white lights just across from my desk.”
“But that was London,” Matteo said regretfully. “And this is Italy.”
“And Italians love Christmas. Sicilians love Christmas.”
“But not Papà, and we really think you’d better ask our father.” Matteo glanced at his siblings and gave them a sad look, before looking back at her. “He hates surprises.”
“I will, because I hate being disappointed.”
* * *
Marcu made it on time for dinner and Monet really wished she could have been excused to let Marcu and his children eat together without her, but Marcu seemed to think a nanny’s presence was necessary for everything.
She did make a point of saying little during the meal so the conversation could be between the children and their father, but Marcu didn’t ask them very many questions and the children volunteered very little information and conversation petered out before it really began.
