LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      She thought of the second-hand dress folded in her suitcase. ‘It’s fine.’

      Marco didn’t answer; he just took her suitcase and walked out of the flat. Sierra expelled a shaky breath and then followed him, locking the door behind her.

      In the two weeks since she’d agreed to accompany Marco to New York, she’d questioned her decision many times. Wondered why on earth she was entangling herself with Marco again, when things between them were complicated enough. Surely it would be better, or at least easier, to walk away for good. Draw a final line across the past.

      But there on the street she’d seen Marco as she’d never seen him before. She’d seen him being open and honest, vulnerable, and she’d believed him. For once suspicion hadn’t hardened her heart or doubt clouded her mind. She’d known Marco was speaking the truth even when he didn’t want to, when it made him feel weak.

      And so she’d said yes.

      And not just because he’d been so honest, Sierra knew. It was more complicated than that. Because she felt she owed him something, after the way she’d walked away seven years ago. And, if she was as honest as he had been, because she wanted to see him again. And that was very dangerous thinking.

      The driver of the limo took her suitcase from Marco and stowed it in the back as Marco opened the door and ushered her inside the car.

      Sierra slid inside the limo, one hand smoothing across one of the sumptuous leather seats that faced each other. She scooted to the far side as Marco climbed inside, and suddenly the huge limo with its leather sofa-like seats and coffee table seemed very small.

      It was going to be a long three days. An exciting three days. Maybe that was another reason she’d agreed; as much as she liked her life in London, it was quiet and unassuming. The thought of spending three days in luxury in New York, three days with Marco, was a heady one. Even if it shouldn’t be.

      The door closed and Marco settled in the seat across from her, stretching his legs out so his knee nudged hers. Sierra didn’t move, not wanting to be obvious about how much he affected her. Just that little nudge sent her pulse skyrocketing, although maybe it was everything all at once that was affecting her: the limo, the scent of his aftershave, the real and magnetic presence of the man opposite her, and the fact that she’d be spending the next three days with him.

      She looked out of the window, afraid all her apprehension and excitement would be visible on her face.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      She turned back, startled and a little embarrassed. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

      ‘Have some water.’ He handed her a bottle of water and after a moment Sierra uncapped it and took a drink, conscious of Marco’s eyes on her as she swallowed. ‘I do appreciate you agreeing to do this,’ he said quietly.

      She lowered the bottle to look at him; his expression was shuttered, neutral, all the openness and honesty he’d shown two weeks ago tucked safely away. ‘It’s no hardship, spending a few days in New York,’ she said.

      ‘You seemed quite opposed to the idea initially.’

      She sighed and screwed the cap back on the bottle of water. ‘Revisiting everything in the past has been hard. I want to move on with my life.’

      ‘After this you can, I promise. I won’t bother you again, Sierra.’

      Which should make her feel relieved rather than disappointed. Not trusting herself to speak, Sierra just nodded.

      They kept the conversation light after that, speaking only of innocuous subjects: travel and food and films. By the time they reached the airport Sierra was starting to feel more relaxed, although her nerves jumped to alert when Marco took her arm as they left the limo.

      He led her through the crowds, bypassing the queue at check-in for private VIP service.

      ‘This is the life,’ Sierra teased as they settled in the private lounge and a waiter brought a bottle of champagne and two flutes. ‘Are we celebrating?’

      ‘The opening of The Rocci New York,’ Marco answered easily. ‘Surely you’ve travelled VIP before?’

      She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve hardly travelled at all. Going to London was the first time I’d left the mainland of Europe.’

      ‘Was it?’ Marco frowned, clearly surprised by this information, and Sierra wondered just how rosy a view he had of her family life. Had he not realised how her father had tucked his family away, bringing them out only when necessary? But she didn’t want to dwell on the past and neither, it seemed, did Marco, for after the waiter had popped the cork on the champagne and poured them both glasses, he asked, ‘So how did you get into teaching in London?’

      ‘I volunteered at first, and took some lessons myself. It started small—I took a slot at an after-school club and then word spread and more schools asked.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not grooming too many world-class musicians, but I enjoy it and I think the children do, as well.’

      ‘And you like London?’

      ‘Yes. It’s different, of course, and I could do without the rain, but...’ She shrugged and took a sip of champagne, enjoying the way the bubbles zinged through her. ‘It’s become home.’

      ‘You’ve made friends?’ The innocuous lilt to his voice belied the sudden intensity she saw spark in his eyes. What was he really asking?

      ‘I’ve made a few. Some teachers, a few neighbours.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m used to being solitary.’

      ‘Are you? Why?’

      ‘I spent most of my childhood in the mountains or at convent school. Company was scarce.’

      ‘I suppose your father was strict and old-fashioned about that kind of thing.’

      Her stomach tightened, memory clenching inside her. ‘You could say that.’

      ‘But he had a good heart. He always wanted the best for you.’

      Sierra didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Marco sounded so sincere, so sure. How could she refute what he said? Now seemed neither the time nor the place. ‘And for you,’ she said after a moment, when she trusted her voice to sound measured and mild. ‘He loved you like a son. More than I ever even realised.’

      Marco nodded, his expression sombre, the corners of his mouth pulled down. ‘He was like a father to me. Better than my own father.’

      Curiosity sharpened inside her. ‘Why? What was your own father like?’

      He hesitated, his glass halfway to his lips, his mouth now a hard line. ‘I don’t really know. He was out of my life by the time I was seven years old.’

      ‘He was? I’m sorry.’ She paused, feeling her way through the sudden minefield of their conversation. It was obvious from his narrowed eyes and his tense shoulders, that Marco didn’t like talking about his past. And yet Sierra wanted to know. ‘I’ve realised how little I knew about you. Your childhood, your family.’

      ‘That’s because they’re not worth knowing.’

      ‘What happened to your father when you were seven?’

      He was silent for a moment, marshalling his thoughts, and Sierra waited. ‘I’m illegitimate,’ he finally stated flatly. ‘My mother was a chambermaid at one of the hotels in Palermo—not The Rocci,’ he clarified with a small, hard smile. ‘My father was an executive at the hotel. Married, of course. They had an affair, and my mother became pregnant. That old story.’ He shrugged dismissively, as if he wasn’t going to say anything more.

      ‘And then what happened?’ Sierra asked after a moment.

      ‘My mother had me, and my father set her up in a dingy flat in one of Palermo’s slums. Gave her enough to live on—just. He’d visit us on occasion, a few times a year, perhaps. He’d bring some cheap

Скачать книгу