Inherited By Ferranti. Кейт Хьюит
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‘Why did you come back here, to this villa?’ Marco asked abruptly, and Sierra looked up from her contemplation of the fire.
‘I told you—’
‘To pay your respects. To what? To whom?’
‘To my mother. Her grave is in the family plot on the estate.’
He cocked his head, his silvery gaze sweeping coldly over her. ‘And yet you didn’t return when your mother was ill. You didn’t even send a letter.’
Because she hadn’t known. But would she have come back, even if she had known? Could she have risked her father’s wrath, being under his hand once more? Sierra swallowed and looked away.
‘No answer?’ Marco jibed softly.
‘You know the answer. And anyway, it wasn’t a question.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘You are certainly living up—or should I say down—to my expectations.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘For seven years I’ve wondered just how cold a bitch I almost married. Now I know.’
The words felt like a slap, sending her reeling. She blinked past the pain, told herself it didn’t matter. ‘You can think what you like.’
‘Of course I can. It’s not as if you’ve ever given me any answers, have you? Any possible justification for what you did, not just in leaving me, but in deserting your family?’
She didn’t reply. She didn’t want to argue with Marco, and in any case he hadn’t really been asking her a question. He’d been stating a fact, making a judgement. He’d made his mind up about her years ago, and nothing she could say would change it now, not even the truth. Besides, he’d been her father’s right-hand man for over a decade. Either he knew how her father had treated his family, or he’d chosen not to know.
‘You have nothing to say, Sierra?’
It was the first time he’d called her by her first name and it sent a shiver of apprehensive awareness rippling through her. He sounded so cold. For one brief blazing second she remembered the feel of his lips on hers when he’d kissed her in the garden. His hands on her body, sliding so knowingly up to cup her breasts; the electric tingle of excitement low in her belly, kindling a spark she hadn’t even known existed, because no man had ever touched her that way. No man had ever made her feel so desired.
Mentally, Sierra shrugged away the memory. So the man could kiss. Marco Ferranti no doubt had unimaginable sexual prowess. He’d probably been with dozens—hundreds—of women. It didn’t change facts.
‘No,’ she told him flatly. ‘I have nothing to say.’
* * *
Marco stared at Sierra, at the cool hauteur on her lovely face, and felt another blaze of anger go off like a firework in his gut. How could she be so cold?
‘You know, I admired how cool you were, all those years ago,’ he told her. Thankfully, his voice sounded as flat as hers, almost disinterested. He’d given away too much already, too much anger, too much emotion. He’d had seven years to get over Sierra. In any case, it wasn’t as if he’d ever loved her.
‘Cool?’ Sierra repeated. She looked startled, wary.
‘Yes, you were so self-possessed, so calm. I liked that about you.’ She didn’t reply, just watched him guardedly. ‘I didn’t realise,’ Marco continued, his tone clipped as he bit off each word precisely, ‘that it was because you had no heart. You were all ice underneath.’ Except she hadn’t been ice in his arms.
Still she said nothing, and Marco could feel the anger boiling inside him, threatening to spill out. ‘Damn it, Sierra, didn’t you ever think that I deserved an explanation?’
Her gaze flicked away from his and her tongue darted out to touch her lips. Just that tiny gesture set lust ricocheting through him. He felt dizzy from the excess of emotion, anger and desire twined together. He didn’t want to feel so much. After seven years of cutting himself off from such feelings, the force of their return was overwhelming and unwelcome.
‘Well?’ Marco demanded. Now that he’d asked the question, he realised he wanted an answer.
‘I thought it was explanation enough that I left,’ Sierra said coolly.
Marco stared at her, his jaw dropping before he had the presence of mind to snap it shut, the bones aching. ‘How on earth could you think that?’
Her gaze moved to his and then away again. ‘Because it was obvious I’d changed my mind.’
‘Yes, I do realise. But I’ve never understood why, and your father didn’t, either. He was devastated when you left, you know. Utterly bereft.’ He still remembered how Arturo had wept and embraced him when he’d told him, outside the church, that Sierra was gone. Marco had been numb, disbelieving; he’d wanted to send search parties until the truth of what Arturo was saying slammed home. She wasn’t missing. She’d left. She’d left him, and for a second he wasn’t even surprised. His marriage to Sierra, his acceptance into the Rocci family, it had all been too good—too wonderful—to be true.
Now Sierra’s mouth firmed and she folded her arms, her blue-grey eyes turning as cold as the Atlantic on a winter’s day. ‘Why did you want to marry me, Marco, if we’re going to rake through the past? I never quite understood that.’ She paused, her cool gaze trained on him now, unflinching and direct, offering an unspoken challenge. ‘It’s not because you loved me.’
‘No.’ He could admit that much. He hadn’t known her well enough to love her, and in any case he’d never been interested in love. Love meant opening yourself up to emotional risk, spreading your arms wide and inviting someone to take a shot. In his mother’s case, she’d sustained a direct hit. Not something he’d ever be so foolish or desperate to do.
‘So?’ Sierra arched an eyebrow, and it disconcerted him how quickly and neatly she’d flipped the conversation. He was no longer the one on the attack. How dare she put him on the defensive—she, who’d walked away without a word?
‘I could ask the same of you,’ he said. ‘Why did you agree to marry me?’ And then change your mind?
Sierra’s mouth firmed. ‘I’d convinced myself I could be happy with you. I was wrong.’
‘And what made you decide that?’ Marco demanded.
She sighed, shrugging her slim shoulders. ‘Do we really want to go through all this?’ she asked. ‘Do you think it will help? So much has happened. Seven years, Marco. Maybe we should just agree to—’
‘Disagree? We’re not talking about a little spat we had, Sierra. Some petty argument.’ His voice came out harshly—too harsh, ragged and revealing with the force of his emotion. Even so, he couldn’t keep himself from continuing. ‘We’re talking about marriage. We were a few hours away from pledging our lives to one another.’
‘I know.’ Her lips formed the words but he could barely hear her whisper. Her face had gone pale, her eyes huge and dark. Still she stood tall, chin held high. She had strength—more strength than he’d ever realised—but right now it only made him angry.
‘Then why...?’
‘You still didn’t answer my question, Marco.’ Her chin tilted up another notch. ‘Why did you want to marry me?’
He stared at her for a moment, furious that he felt cornered. ‘I need a drink,’ he said abruptly, and stalked into the kitchen. She didn’t follow him.
He yanked a bottle of whisky from the cupboard and poured a healthy measure that he downed in one swallow. Then he poured another.
Damn it, how dare she ask him, accuse him, when she was the one who should be called to account? What did it matter why he’d wanted to marry her, when she’d agreed?