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Christmas Contract For His Cinderella
Jane Porter
December in the brooding Sicilian’s castle… Spending the Christmas holidays with the man who broke her heart is Monet’s worst nightmare. But when commanding Marcu’s children urgently need a nanny she can’t refuse. Landing back in his aristocratic world, where free-spirited Monet never belonged, is bittersweet torture…and Marcu doesn’t anticipate his overly ordered life being disrupted by the enchanting woman Monet’s become. Duty has always dictated his actions—making Monet, with her infamous family history, strictly forbidden. But as their long-simmering passion burns intensely enough to melt the snow will Marcu finally claim his Christmas Cinderella…?
December in the brooding Sicilian’s castle...
Spending the holidays with the man who broke her heart is Monet’s worst nightmare. But when commanding Marcu’s children urgently need a nanny, she can’t refuse. Landing back in his aristocratic world, where free-spirited Monet never belonged, is bittersweet torture...
Marcu doesn’t anticipate his overly ordered life being disrupted by the enchanting woman Monet’s become. Duty has always dictated his actions, making Monet, with her infamous family history, strictly forbidden. But when their long-simmering passion burns intensely enough to melt the snow, will Marcu finally claim his Christmas Cinderella...?
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JANE PORTER has written forty romances and eleven women’s fiction novels since her first sale to Mills & Boon in 2000. A five-time RITA® Award finalist, Jane is known for her passionate, emotional and sensual novels, and loves nothing more than alpha heroes, exotic locations and happy-ever-afters. Today Jane lives in sunny San Clemente, California, with her surfer husband and three sons. Visit janeporter.com (http://www.janeporter.com).
Also by Jane Porter (#u912af88c-e7a2-5c44-bfe4-2d11aa155a8c)
Bought to Carry His Heir
His Merciless Marriage Bargain
The Prince’s Scandalous Wedding Vow
TThe Disgraced Copelands miniseries
The Fallen Greek Bride
His Defiant Desert Queen
Her Sinful Secret
Passion in Paradise collection
His Shock Marriage in Greece
Stolen Brides collection
Kidnapped for His Royal Duty
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Christmas Contract for His Cinderella
Jane Porter
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08852-7
CHRISTMAS CONTRACT FOR HIS CINDERELLA
В© 2019 Jane Porter
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Cover (#u90af30ba-9414-524e-af50-e4d5af268f9d)
Back Cover Text (#ubcd17fc8-2388-52fb-8929-e586b4b8fe09)
About the Author (#u851f8b95-7a9f-5ed3-97f3-21f1637476d2)
Booklist (#u67898b05-21a9-58de-88d8-dd3beaa88caa)
Title Page (#u602a1ec8-b9c4-5025-96bf-3ec707066e7a)
Copyright (#ue70a908e-f750-524f-830d-383055204695)
Note to Readers
CHAPTER ONE (#ue216e19a-49d2-51f1-8478-c48fdc256a8d)
CHAPTER TWO (#ud65996cb-c83b-51da-91cf-2250e07df1df)
CHAPTER THREE (#u1306bd88-9643-592b-85f8-350d3b4b430c)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
MONET WILDE WAS in the back room on the fifth floor of Bernard Department Store, searching for a customer’s missing gown, which she was sure had gone to alterations but apparently had never actually arrived there, when one of her salesgirls appeared, informing her that a gentleman was waiting for her, and while he was brusque, he was not as irritable as Mrs. Wilkerson, who couldn’t understand how her daughter’s bridal gown could just disappear.
Monet sighed and reached up to smooth a dark tendril that had come loose from her neat chignon, aware that she dressed more matronly than most matrons, but as the manager of the bridal department it was important to maintain a sense of decorum. “Did he say what he wants?” she asked with a glance at the clock on the stockroom wall. Fifteen minutes until closing. Fifteen minutes to find a very expensive gown for a very irate mother of the bride.
“You.” The salesgirl’s expression turned rueful. “Well, he asked for you. By name.”
Monet’s heart fell. “Tell me we haven’t misplaced another gown.”
“He didn’t say. He just asked for you.”
Monet’s frown deepened. It had been a maddeningly busy day at Bernard’s, the kind of busy that characterized Christmas shopping on a weekend in December. The customers had descended in hordes the moment the department-store doors opened this morning at nine, and the queues and demands had been endless. Apparently everyone had decided that an impromptu wedding was in order, and what could be more festive than getting married on Christmas, or a destination wedding for New Year’s? Monet had spent hours already on the phone calling designers, other stores, seamstresses, trying to find out what was available, and what could be done with gowns that might be available, and she still had a dozen things to do before closing.
“Does he have a name?” Monet asked.
“Marcus Oberto, or something like that. He’s Italian.”
Monet froze, even as she silently corrected the girl. Marcu Uberto was the name, and Marcu wasn’t Italian, but Sicilian.
“I told him you were quite busy,” the girl added. “But he said he’d wait. He said to take your time and there was no rush.”
Monet didn’t believe that for a second. Marcu was not a man to be kept waiting.
And yet what was he doing here? And why now?
Those two questions circled her brain, creating unwanted anxiety. She hadn’t seen Marcu in eight years, and the last time she’d heard from him had been almost three years ago to the day. What could he possibly want this close to Christmas?
“Shall I give him a message?” the salesgirl asked with a cheeky smile. “I don’t mind. He’s seriously sexy. But then I adore Italians, don’t you?”
Sicilian, Monet again silently corrected.
Marcu was Sicilian to the bone.
“Thank you for the offer,” Monet said, “but I’ll need to handle Signor Uberto. However, you could help me by phoning Mrs. Wilkerson and let her know we haven’t forgotten her, and we should have news about the missing bridal gown first thing in the morning.”
“Will we?” the girl replied, wrinkling her brow.
Monet couldn’t even imagine the fallout if they didn’t have good news. “We had better,” Monet said firmly, squaring her shoulders and heading from the stockroom to face Marcu.
She spotted him immediately as she emerged through the silver-and-gray curtains. He stood in the center of the marbled floor, commanding the space, which was something since the fifth floor of Bernard’s was topped by a glass dome and there was nothing but airy space on the bridal floor.
Tall, and broad through the shoulders, Marcu looked every inch the powerful wealthy aristocrat. Sophisticated and impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit and crisp white shirt—a suit and shirt she was certain from the tailoring had been made just for him. He’d paired the severe suit with a brilliant blue tie to set off his glossy black hair and piercing blue eyes. Eight years ago he’d worn his thick black hair long, but now it was cropped short and combed severely back from his brow while a hint of a shadow darkened his strong, angled jaw.
Monet’s pulse pounded, and her mouth dried as she fought back a wave of memories—memories she couldn’t bear to deal with on a night like this. Fortunately, he hadn’t yet seen her, and she was grateful for small mercies as she fought to control her breathing, and center herself. She’d worked so hard to block the past that she felt wildly unprepared for dealing with Marcu Uberto in her present.
“Courage and calm,” she whispered to herself. “You can do this.”
“Marcu,” she said politely, approaching him. “What brings you to Bernard’s? Is there a gift, or purchase I can help you with?”
Monet. A streak of icy hot sensation raced through him at the sudden sound of her voice, a voice he’d know anywhere. It wasn’t low or high, but there was a warmth to her tone, a sweetness, that matched her warm, sweet personality.
He turned to face her, half expecting the girl he’d last seen—petite, laughing, unassuming—but that wasn’t the woman before him. The Monet he’d known in Palermo had a quick smile and bright golden-brown eyes, but this Monet was incredibly slender with a guarded gaze and firm full lips that looked as if they rarely smiled. She certainly wasn’t smiling now, and with her hair drawn back, and dressed in a matronly lavender and gray tweed knit sheath dress with a matching knit jacket, she looked older than her twenty-six years.
“Hello, Monet,” he said, moving forward to kiss her on each cheek.
She barely tolerated his cheek grazing hers before stepping quickly away. “Marcu,” she replied quietly, unemotionally.
No, she wasn’t happy to see him in her workspace, but then he hadn’t expected her to welcome him with open arms.
“I’ve come to see you on a personal matter,” he said, matching her detached tone. “I’d hoped that by coming here near to closing time, I would be able to steal you away afterward so we could talk without distractions.”
Her already guarded expression shuttered completely, leaving her pretty features utterly blank. Once he’d known her so well that he could read all of her thoughts. He could read nothing now.
“The store might be closing soon,” she answered with a small, stiff smile, “but unfortunately I’ll be here for another hour. I still have orders to process and missing items to be found. Perhaps next time you’re in London—with advance notice—we could have that visit?”
“The last time I was in London you refused to see me.”
“Our schedules prevented it.”
“No, Monet, you prevented it.” His eyes met hers and held. “I won’t be put off this time. I’m here, and happy to wait until you’ve finished.”
“You won’t be allowed to remain in the building after we close.”
“Then I’ll wait in my car.” He glanced around the floor with its sleek silver Christmas trees and elegant decorations. “But why will it take you an hour to wrap things up? There’s no one here. Everyone but your colleague has gone.”
“I’m the manager and this is my department, so it falls to me to take care of all the pieces.” She paused, her gaze lifting to meet his. “Surely you don’t really want me to explain all the details of my job to you? I can’t imagine you’re that interested in bridal retail.”
“I’m not surprised you opened and closed.”
“It was an unusual day. We’re short-staffed.” She hesitated. “How did you know I opened?”
“I was here this morning. You were extremely busy so I left, and returned four hours ago. You were also very busy then, so here I am now.”
She’d held his gaze the entire time, and while her features remained neutral, her brown eyes burned with intensity. “Has something happened?” she asked, her husky voice dropping even lower.
“There has been no accident, no tragedy.”
“I don’t understand then why you’re here.”
“I need your help.”
“Mine?”
“Yes. You might recall that you owe me, and I’ve come to collect on that favor.”
She seemed to stop breathing then, and he watched the heat fade from her eyes until they were glacier-cool. “I have much to do tonight, Marcu. This is not a good night.”
He gestured to the pair of charcoal velvet armchairs near the platform and the tall trio of gilt-framed mirrors. “Would it be easier to just speak now?”
He saw her indecision and then she gave a curt nod. “Yes. Fine. Let’s talk now,” she said before walking to the chairs and sitting down on the edge of one, ankles crossing neatly under the chair.
Monet’s heart hammered as Marcu followed her to the chairs backed by huge framed mirrors, and then took his time sitting down. The trio of mirrors gave her views of him from all angles as he first unbuttoned his dark jacket, and then sat down, all fluid grace and strength, before adjusting the cuff of his shirt, making sure it fit just so.
This was her workplace, and her floor, and yet he managed to make her feel as if she was the outsider...the imposter. Just as she’d been as a girl, living in the Uberto palazzo, supported by his father. Monet hated remembering. She hated being dependent on anyone. And she very much resented Marcu’s appearance and reminder that she owed him.
She did owe him, too.
Years ago Marcu had come to her aid, providing an airline ticket and a loan when she needed to escape a difficult situation. He must have known there would be questions, and consequences, but he’d bought the airline ticket to London for her, anyway, and sent her with cash in her pocket, allowing her to escape Palermo, which is where the Uberto family lived, as did Monet’s mother, who was Marcu’s father’s mistress.
Marcu had warned her as he’d dropped her off at the airport in Palermo that one day he would call in the favor. Monet was so desperate to escape that she’d blindly agreed. It had been eight years since that flight out of Palermo. It had been eight years since Marcu had told her that one day he would settle the score. It seemed that day was now. He had finally called in the favor.
“I need you for the next four weeks,” he said, extending long legs. “I know you were once a nanny, and you were always good with my brother and sisters. Now I need you to take care of my three.”
She hadn’t heard from him in years. She’d avoided all mention of the aristocratic Sicilian Uberto family in years, the Uberto palazzo was one of the oldest and most luxurious in Palermo, and yet now he was here, asking her to drop everything to take care of his children. It would be laughable if it had been anyone else making such demands, but this was Marcu and that changed everything.
Monet drew a quick breath and shaped her smile, wanting to appear sympathetic. “As much as I’d like to help you, I really can’t. This is a terrible time for me to take leave from my work here, as retail depends on Christmas, and then there are my own clients. I’m quite protective of my anxious Christmas and New Year’s brides.”
“I’m more protective of my children.”
“As you should be, but you’re asking the impossible of me. I won’t be permitted to take any leave now.”
“Then give notice.”
“I can’t do that. I love my work here, and I’ve fought hard for this position.”
“I need you.”
“You don’t need me. You need a caregiver, a professional nanny. Hire a proper, skilled child-minder. There are dozens of agencies that cater to exclusive clientele—”
“I will not trust my children with just anyone. But I will trust them with you.”
She wasn’t flattered. The very last thing she wanted to do was to take care of Marcu’s children. She and Marcu had not parted on good terms. Yes, he’d helped finance her escape from Palermo, but he was the reason she’d had to leave Sicily in the first place. He’d broken her eighteen-year-old heart, and shattered her confidence. It had taken her years to build up her self-esteem again.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” she retorted calmly. “But I can’t leave Bernard’s at this time of year. I have an entire department that depends on me.”
“I’m calling in my favor.”
“Marcu.”
He simply looked at her, saying no more, but then, nothing else needed to be said on his part. They both knew she had agreed to return the favor. It was the only condition he’d made when he’d helped her leave Palermo. That one day he’d call in the favor, and when he did, she needed to help, and she’d agreed. As the years passed, Monet had come to hope—believe—that he would never need her. She’d hoped—believed—that he was so successful and comfortable that he’d forget the promise he’d extracted from her as he drove her to the airport. She’d grown so hopeful that he’d forgotten, that she herself had almost forgotten, that such a promise had even been made.
But clearly he hadn’t, and that’s all that mattered now. “This is not a good time to call in the favor,” she murmured huskily.
“I wouldn’t be here if it was a good time.”
She looked away, brow knitting as she looked toward the huge Palladian-style window that dominated the fifth floor, adding to the department’s restrained elegance. A few fat white flakes seemed to be floating past the glass. It wasn’t snowing, was it?
“I promise to put in a good word with Charles Bernard,” Marcu added. “I know him quite well, and I’m confident he will hold your position for you, and if not, I promise to help you find another job in January, after the wedding.”
The wedding?
That caught her attention and she turned from the window and the snow to look at Marcu. His blue gaze met hers and held.
Marcu was still Marcu—brilliant, confident, arrogant, self-contained—and for a moment she was that eighteen-year-old girl again, desperate to be in his arms, in his life, in his heart. And then she collected herself, reminding herself that she wasn’t eighteen; years had passed and thankfully they weren’t the same people. At least, she wasn’t the same girl. She wasn’t attracted to him. She felt nothing for him.
So why the sudden frisson of awareness shooting through her, warming her from the inside out?
“I’m afraid you lost me,” she said huskily. “What wedding?”
“Mine.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Perhaps you didn’t know that my wife died shortly after my youngest was born.”
Monet had known, but she’d blocked that from her mind, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said, fixing her gaze on the sharp knot of his blue tie, the silk gleaming in the soft overhead light. Of course he was exquisitely tailored. Marcu looked sleek and polished, Italian style and sophistication personified. Perhaps if she kept her attention fixed to the crisp white points of his collar, and the smooth lapels of his jacket, she could keep from seeing the face she’d once loved. It had taken her forever to get over him, and she would not allow herself to feel any attraction, or interest, or concern or affection.
“I need help with the children until after the wedding, and then it will get easier,” he said. “I won’t need your assistance longer than four weeks. Five, if it’s really rough going.”
Four or five weeks, working with him? Minding his children while he married again? “Does that include the honeymoon?” she asked drily.
He shrugged. “I have a conference mid-January in Singapore. I’m speaking so it depends on Vittoria if she’d like to make that our honeymoon.”
Monet was appalled but it was none of her business. She wasn’t going to get involved. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry, but I’ve already paid you back the cost of the airline ticket, and the cash you lent me, with interest. Our debt should be settled.”
“The debt is settled, the favor is not.”
“They are one and the same.”
“No, they are not one and the same. You do not owe me financially, but you owe me for the position you put me in when you left the palazzo, and the speculation you created by abruptly departing without saying goodbye to your mother, my father, my brother and sisters. You put me in a most difficult position, and that is the score that is to be settled now as once again I am in a difficult position and this time you can help me.”
It crossed her mind that she could argue this point forever with him, but he would never change his stance. Marcu was fixed. He was absolutely immovable. Even at twenty-five he’d been mentally strong, physically strong, a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps that had been his appeal. Monet had been raised by a woman who couldn’t put down permanent roots, and didn’t know how to make a home, or even make responsible decisions. Monet’s mother, Candie, was impulsive and irrational. Marcu was the opposite. He was analytical, cautious, risk-averse. He was reason personified.
The only time he’d ever surprised her was the night he’d kissed her, and made love to her, only stopping short of taking her virginity. And then his regret, and his scorn, had scarred her. In mere minutes he’d gone from passionate and sensual, to callous and cold.
Monet had left less than fourteen hours later, flying out of Palermo with nothing but the smallest knapsack of clothing. She owned very little. She and her mother had lived off the generosity of Marcu’s father and Monet was not about to take any of the gifts he’d bestowed on her.
It proved easy to leave Palermo, and yet once she’d arrived in London, far too hard to forget Palermo. Not because she missed her mother, but Monet missed everything else—the busy life at the historic sprawling palazzo, Marcu’s younger brother and sisters, and then there was Marcu himself...
In that first year in London Monet spent far too many nights sleepless, agonizing over the evening in Marcu’s arms. It hurt to remember his kisses and his touch, and yet they were the most potent, powerful emotions and sensations she had ever felt. She had felt like a flame—flickering, hot, radiant. He had woken something inside of her that she hadn’t known existed. And his harsh rejection of her had been confusing...shattering.
She’d worked to forget Sicily. She’d tried to put the entire Uberto family from her mind, and yet she missed the children. They had become the only family she’d ever really known.
She had also been in desperate need of a job, and her father, a man she’d only seen a handful of times in her life, had introduced her to a family in need of a nanny while the children were out of school for the summer holiday. She’d performed the job so well that the family had kept her on for the coming school year. She helped with the children, and their schoolwork, and ferrying them from one after-school activity to another. She’d stayed with that family until the parents divorced and could no longer keep her on, but she’d found another job right away, and then another until she’d realized that she couldn’t continue in child care—all the goodbyes were too hard on her heart—and she went to work in retail.
She’d started downstairs at the register in hats and gloves, and then when they were short-staffed in bridal, went to the fifth floor to fill in, and had never left the bridal department. If others thought she was too young to be the manager of the department at twenty-six, no one said so, because despite her age, she had style and flair and an eye for quality. Monet wasn’t entirely surprised. She was her mother’s daughter after all.
“I know this is a lot to take in so I propose we postpone further conversation until you’ve finished here, and we can go to dinner and relax and have a civilized discussion.” Marcu gave her an encouraging smile. “It will give you an opportunity to ask the questions that I’m sure will come to you—”
“But I have no questions,” she interrupted, refusing to fall for his charm, painfully aware that in the past she’d found Marcu nearly irresistible—and he knew it, too. He knew exactly how to play her, just as he’d successfully played her eight years ago. She had no wish to fall in with his plans again and rose, indicating she was finished with the conversation.
“Marcu, I have no interest in this position. It’s pointless to continue as I have no wish to waste your time, nor do I wish to waste my own. I’m to return here early tomorrow morning and I still need to find a missing gown before Mrs. Wilkerson descends on us again.” She drew another short, tight breath. “I wish I could say it was good to see you, but that would be a lie, and after all these years there is no point in either of us lying to the other.”
“I never imagined you to be vindictive.”
“Vindictive? Not at all. Just because I can’t fall in line with your plans doesn’t mean I harbor you ill will. You were important to me once. But that was years and years ago.”
He rose as well, and he towered over her now. “You made me a promise, Monet. I’m afraid you can’t say no...at least not yet, not until you have heard me out, and you haven’t. You don’t know the details. You don’t know the time frame. You don’t know the salary, or the benefits.”
She threw up her hands. “There are no benefits to working for you!”
“You once loved us. You used to say that we were the family you never had.”
“I was young and naive. I know better now.”
“Did something happen after you left Palermo? Did something occur that I do not know about?”
“No. You know everything.”
“Then why so much scorn and hatred for my family? How did they hurt you?”
She couldn’t immediately answer, not when her emotions bubbled up, her chest too hot and tender. She had once loved them all. She had once dreamed of being part of them, a cherished member of the family. But that wasn’t to be. She wasn’t one of them. She hadn’t any hope of being one of them. Her eyes stung, and her throat ached. Monet fought to speak. “It was good of your family to tolerate me for so many years, especially in light of who I was. So no, I do not hate your entire family. I do not speak of your brother and sisters with scorn.”
“So your anger is with me, and my father, then?”
This is precisely what she didn’t want to do. Dredge up the past. Relive the old pain. She dug her nails into her palms, fighting for control. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t wish to discuss it. I don’t live in the past, and neither should you.”
“Unfortunately, it does matter to me, and unfortunately you are in my debt, so we will discuss it later, over dinner. I shall leave you now to finish up here. My car will be downstairs waiting for you. I look forward to continuing our discussion then.” He nodded at her and walked away, heading for the gleaming elevators against the distant wall.
She stood there watching him until the elevators opened and he stepped in. He never once turned around until he was inside the elevator and then, and only then, did he turn and look back to find her still standing where he’d left her. Their gazes met and held, a fierce silent challenge that was only broken by the closing of the doors.
He crossed his arms over his chest and exhaled in the privacy of the elevator. Marcu hadn’t missed the challenge in Monet’s eyes, or her defiant expression as she’d stared him down until the elevator doors closed, blocking the view. He’d expected some resistance from her but this was ridiculous. Monet Wilde needed to remember that she owed him, and not the other way around.
Further, she hadn’t been his first pick for child care.
He hadn’t even thought of her until after he’d exhausted every resource, trying to find someone already familiar with his children to take care of them over the Christmas holidays. Their nanny of the past two and a half years had a family emergency and needed to be with her own parents, and he understood that it was an emergency but Marcu was now in a terrible bind because he wouldn’t let just anyone be with his children. He was very selective, very protective, and he needed more than a warm body to mind his three young children over Christmas. Marcu hadn’t even thought of Monet until the last woman he’d interviewed for the position had exited the room and he’d faced the window, disappointed, and deeply troubled. He didn’t want his children to be with a stranger.
He didn’t trust strangers.
But then, he didn’t trust many people, period.
He was well aware that his lack of trust was a problem. It had been a problem for much of his adult life, resulting in a tendency to overanalyze, which wasn’t a bad thing as a venture capitalist, but an issue when it came to his social life. Until very recently he’d refused to extend himself beyond his small, trusted inner circle, but when it became obvious that his inner circle would not provide him with a replacement wife to mother his young children, he’d been forced to go further afield. After a series of excruciating dates he’d found a suitable prospect in twenty-nine-year-old Vittoria Bonfiglio, and it was his plan to propose to her on Christmas Eve, but first, he needed some time alone with her, something difficult to achieve when his children were running wild while their nanny was at home in England with her family.
Which is when Monet came to mind. He hadn’t thought of her in years, and yet once he’d thought of her, she seemed to be the perfect solution.
He knew her, and she’d never once betrayed his trust. She’d always been good with his younger brother and sisters—why wouldn’t she be as patient and kind with his three?
And once Marcu set his mind on something, it was relatively easy to make things happen. It took him less than fifteen minutes to locate her—she lived in London, and worked at Bernard Department Store. She wasn’t married. She might have a boyfriend. Marcu didn’t care. He needed her for four weeks, five weeks tops, and then she could return to her life in retail and he’d have his new bride and his child-care issue would be permanently sorted.
It didn’t cross his mind that she’d say no, because she owed him. She’d left Palermo in his debt and he was calling in the favor.
Even after Marcu was gone, Monet couldn’t move. She was too stunned to do anything but wish the ground would swallow her whole.
All she’d wanted today was to go home after work, take a long hot bath, change into cozy pajamas and curl up on her couch and stream her favorite television programs, lost in the pleasure of diverting entertainment.
She wouldn’t be going home anytime soon now.
There would be no long hot bath or a satisfying hour or two of her favorite program.
Slowly she turned, her gaze sweeping the fifth floor. Over the years this elegant, luxurious space had come to feel more like home than her own flat. She was good at what she did. She knew how to soothe the nervous bride, and organize the overwhelmed one. Who would have thought this would be her gift, never mind her skill set?
The illegitimate daughter of a struggling French actress and an English banker, Monet had a most unusual and Bohemian upbringings. By eighteen, she had seen far more of the world than her peers, having lived in Ireland, France, Sicily, Morocco, and three different American states.
She’d spent the longest stretch in Sicily, Palermo being her home for six years from the time she was nearly twelve until she’d turned eighteen. Even after she’d left Palermo, her mother had continued to live with Sicilian aristocrat Matteo Uberto for another three years. But after leaving, Monet never returned to Sicily. She didn’t want to see any of the Uberto family, and she’d rebuffed Marcu when he tried to visit her in London three years ago, just as she’d rebuffed his father a year earlier when Matteo appeared on her doorstep with wine and flowers and a delicate negligee more appropriate for your paramour than your former lover’s daughter. It was that visit by Matteo that ensured she finally closed the door on the past, locking it securely.
She had nothing in common with this family she had lived with for six years of her life. Yes, they’d shared meals together, and yes, they’d gone to the movies, and various plays, ballets, and operas together, as well as shared holidays at the beach and Christmases at the palazzo, but in the end she was not one of them, not a member of the family, or a member of Sicilian aristocratic society.
No, she was the bastard daughter of a careless British banker, and a French actress more famous for her affairs and her wealthy lovers then her acting talent, and therefore to be treated as someone cheap and unimportant.
Monet could live with cheap. She couldn’t bear to be unimportant, though. She didn’t need to be valued by the world, but she’d craved Marcu’s love, and respect.
Instead he’d been the first to shame her, but Monet was a quick learner, and she vowed to never be dependent on anyone again, and she hadn’t been.
Determined to be different from her mother in every way, she not only rejected all things scandalous, but also pushed away her colorful, Bohemian past. She was no longer Candie’s daughter. She was no longer vulnerable, or apologetic. She was herself, her own creation and invention. Unlike her mother, Monet didn’t need men. It might not be fair, but it was easier to view them with suspicion than be open to their advances.
It didn’t stop men from pursuing her, though, and they did. They were intrigued by her very French cheekbones, pouting lips, golden-brown eyes and long thick dark hair, but they didn’t know her, and they didn’t realize that while she might look like a siren on the outside, she was British on the inside, and not about to indulge in meaningless affairs. She wasn’t interested in sex, which is why at twenty-six, she was still a virgin, and quite possibly frigid. Monet didn’t care if she was. She wasn’t interested in labels, nor did she care what men thought, aware that to most men, women were just toys—playthings—and she had no desire to be anyone’s plaything. Her mother, Matteo, and Marcu Uberto had made sure of that.
CHAPTER TWO
AN HOUR LATER Monet was outside, and the black car was where Marcu said it would be, parked in front of Bernard’s front doors. The driver appeared the moment she stepped outside, and he opened a large black umbrella to protect her from the flurries of snow. She murmured her thanks as she stepped into the car.
She glimpsed Marcu and held her breath, careful to keep a distance between them.
“So what exactly do you do here?” he asked, as the car pulled away from the curb, sliding into the stream of traffic.
She placed her purse on her lap, and rested her hands on the purse clasp. “Manage the department. Assist brides finding their dream gown. Keep mothers from overwhelming their emotional daughters.”
“An interesting choice for you, given your background.”
Her chin notched up. “Because my mother never married?” she asked, a dark elegant winged eyebrow arching higher.
Of course he’d find it ironic that she’d work as a bridal-gown consultant, but most people didn’t know her background. In fact, the only ones who knew her background were the father who’d never been part of her life and the Uberto family.
“Any problems closing?” he asked a moment later, his tone one of excessive politeness.
She nearly rolled her eyes. Surely they were beyond such superficial pleasantries. “No.”
“Were you working at Bernard’s when I reached out to you a few years ago?”
“I was. I’ve been there for four years now.”
“Why wouldn’t you see me when I reached out to you?” he asked.
Her shoulders lifted, and fell. “There was no point.” She turned her head, her gaze resting on his hard masculine profile illuminated by the streetlights. He had a perfect face—broad brow, straight, strong nose, wide firm lips, angled jaw, square chin. And yet it wasn’t the individual features that made him attractive, it was the way they came together—the quirk of his lips, the creases at the corner of his eyes, the blue gleam in his eyes. She steeled herself against the curve of his lips and the piercing blue of his eyes now. “Was there?”
“I don’t understand,” he answered simply.
“You were a married man. I was a single woman. I didn’t see what good could come of us meeting.”
“I wasn’t coming to you for sex.”
“How was I to know? Your father did.”
“What?”
She shrugged again, exhausted by the day, and his appearance. Her exhaustion made her careless. Why keep all these secrets? Why not tell the truth? “Your father approached me a year before you did. He came bearing gifts.”
“Your mother had just passed away. He was just being kind.”
“Then perhaps a casserole would have been proper. But roses? A pink satin robe? It was wildly inappropriate.”
“He gave my sisters a similar robe each for Christmas one year—pink, even. Why must you make his gift sound scandalous?”
Because he didn’t like me, Monet thought, turning her head to stare out the window, regretting her words. Why share such a thing with Marcu? Of course he wouldn’t believe her. He’d always worshipped his father. Matteo Uberto could do no wrong.
Silence stretched. They sat forever at the next stop light. The snow was heavier, wetter, and it stuck to the glass in thick clumps.
“I wasn’t interested in making you my mistress,” Marcu said roughly, breaking the tense silence. “I came to see you as my wife had just died and I needed advice. I thought you could help me. I was wrong.”
His words created a lance of pain. Her stomach knotted and her chest grew tight. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“But you did know I’d married?”
She nodded. He’d married just six months after she left Palermo. She hadn’t wanted to know but it was splashed across the tabloids as well as the internet as the Uberto family was wealthy, glamorous, aristocratic, and very much darlings of the media.
Marcu’s wedding was held at the cathedral in Palermo, a place she knew well as that was where the Uberto family attended church services every Sunday. Marcu had married an Italian countess from northern Italy, although her maternal grandmother was Sicilian. Galeta Corrado was an only child and stood to inherit all the ancestral homes and estates of her family, a family that could be traced back hundreds of years. Marcu’s family was considerably older, his ancestors Sicilian royalty dating back five hundred years, a fact the tabloids mentioned ad nauseam in their coverage of the Uberto-Corrado wedding, sharing that Marcu’s great-grandfather had been a Sicilian prince, and Marcu could probably claim the title, but he was far too egalitarian.
He wasn’t.
Monet could scarcely stomach that one.
Marcu and Galeta’s wedding had been lavish, with Galeta’s bridal gown costing close to forty thousand euros. The silk train stretched for yards, with the hand-crocheted lace veil equally long, the delicate lace anchored to a priceless two-hundred-year-old pink diamond-and-pearl tiara. The bride had been a stunning vision in white, her slender form showcased by the luminous silk. The first baby came not quite nine months later. There was gossip that Galeta was pregnant at the time she married, and it was then Monet had refused to read the tabloids ever again. She was done. Spent. Flattened.
She didn’t want to know anything else. She didn’t want to live on the fringes of Marcu’s life. She didn’t want to know about his wife or children. She refused to look back, refused to remember, unwilling to feel the pain that washed through her every time his name was mentioned.
The pain baffled her, too, because when she left Palermo, she’d convinced herself that she hadn’t loved him, she’d merely been infatuated. She’d told herself she felt curiosity and desire, but not true love. So why did his name hurt? Why did his marriage wound? It wasn’t until he’d married Galeta and they’d had that first baby together, that Monet realized her feelings for him were stronger and deeper than she’d previously allowed herself to acknowledge. She couldn’t possibly hurt so much if she’d merely been infatuated. She wouldn’t miss him so much if she’d just been curious. No, she hurt because she loved him, and he was only the second person in her whole life she’d ever loved.
Monet turned back to Marcu again, still not quite able to believe he was here, beside her. She felt so many different things, and her chaotic emotions weren’t improved by his close proximity. Marcu had been handsome at twenty, and twenty-five, but now, at thirty-three, his face was even more arresting. He’d matured, the bones in his jaw and cheekbones more defined, the hollows beneath his cheekbones more pronounced, his skin lightly tanned, glowing with health and vitality.
“How did she die?” Monet asked, trying to organize her thoughts, never mind her impossible emotions.
“She had a stroke after childbirth.” He drew a breath. “I’d never heard of such a thing but our doctor said that while it’s uncommon, strokes cause ten percent of all pregnancy-related deaths.” He was silent another moment. “I wasn’t even there when it happened. I’d just flown to New York, thinking she was in good hands at the palazzo with the nanny and night nurse.”
“You don’t blame yourself, do you?”
“I don’t blame myself for the stroke, but I can’t forget that she died while I was on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean. It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t have been that way. If I’d been there, maybe I could have gotten her help sooner. Maybe the doctors could have saved her.”
Monet didn’t know how to respond and so she sat there with the distressing words resonating around her, listening to the soft rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers moving back and forth, clearing the glass, even as her heart did a painful beat in her chest.
Of course Marcu would feel badly. How could he not feel partially responsible? But at the same time, that didn’t make his situation her problem. He needed help, yes, but why from her?
“Does your late wife have no family who could help with the children?” she asked as the traffic thinned. They were approaching London’s commercial financial hub, and during the week the streets bustled with activity but now the area was quiet and dark. “What of Galeta’s parents? No grandparents to lend a supportive hand?”
“Galeta was an only child, and her parents are both gone. My father is gone. I have my brother and sisters, but they all are busy with their own lives.”
“Just as I am busy with my own life,” she retorted lightly, unwilling to escalate things in the close confines of his car.
“I’m asking for a few weeks, not years.”
She glanced out the window and watched the grand Bank of England pass by. Lovingly referred to as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street by some, Monet was always awed and reassured by its history and size. “It’s simply not a good time,” she answered, glancing from the bank to Marcu.
“Would any time be a good time?” he countered.
The car turned at the corner, passing more historic buildings that formed the heart of the city of London, making Monet wonder where they were going to eat in this particular neighborhood before her attention returned to Marcu.
“No,” she answered with a sigh, even as she reached up to tuck a long tendril behind her ear. She was tired and uncomfortable and she wanted out of her slim dress and heels. She wanted the delicate underwire bra off and the smoothing undergarments off so that she could climb into pajamas and eat warm comfort food and sip a big glass of red wine. Merlot. Burgundy. Shiraz. “I have no desire to work for you, ever.”
“I know,” he answered even as the driver pulled over in front of one of the big dark buildings, parked, and exited the driver’s side, again wielding the umbrella. He opened the back door and Marcu stepped out and then reached in to assist her. She avoided his hand, neatly stepping away to make sure there was no contact between them.
He shot her a sardonic glance but said nothing as the driver walked them to a plain wooden door. Marcu reached out and touched one gray stone. There was a long pause and then the door silently opened. They stepped inside a dimly lit, severe-looking entrance hall. The door closed behind them and Monet gazed around, curious but also confused by the stillness and emptiness of the impersonal cream-and-gray space. There were stairs at the back of the hallway and a service elevator to their right but that was all.
“I normally prefer the stairs,” Marcu said, “but you’ve been on your feet all day, so I suggest we take the elevator.”
They did, traveling down, but it was impossible to say how far down they went, before the doors silently opened, revealing a black-and-white marble parquet floor, massive columns, and what looked like the entrance to a huge bank vault. Walls glimmered gold and silver on the other side of the vault entrance. She glanced at Marcu, an eyebrow lifting in silent enquiry.
He gestured for her to proceed through the open vault door, where they were greeted by a gentleman in a dark suit and black shirt. “Mr. Uberto,” the man said. “It’s good to have you back.”
They were ushered past an elegant bar of stainless steel and thick glass where a bartender was mixing drinks, then through another archway to a dining room dotted with chandeliers. The chandeliers were an eclectic mix of styles and time periods, and hung from a silver ceiling casting soft pools of light on pale lavender velvet chairs and upholstered booths. There weren’t more than a dozen tables in the room. There were men at some tables, and couples at others. Monet and Marcu were taken to yet another room, this one small and private, with just one table. The chandelier was all pink glass, and the upholstery on the high back chairs was gray.
Monet sank into her well-upholstered chair with an appreciative sigh. It felt even more welcoming than it looked. “This is quite a place,” she said, as waiters appeared in quick succession with bottles of chilled mineral water, olives, and pâté with slivers of toasted baguette.
“It was once part of the Bank of Sicily. It’s now a private members’ club.”
“I suspected as much.” She reached for an olive and popped it in her mouth, suddenly ravenous. “Let me guess, your father used to have a membership here, and they extended an invitation to you?”
“My grandfather used to own the bank, my father closed it, and when he couldn’t find someone to buy the building for its proper value, I took it on and turned the Vault into a private club five years ago.”
“What happened to the rest of the building?”
“It’s now a members-only hotel and spa.”
“Do you use the same door to access the hotel and spa?”
“No, there is a different entrance.”
“Why?”
“Because membership to the hotel doesn’t give one automatic membership to the Vault.”
“Is this where you stay when you’re in London?”
“The top floor is my apartment, yes.”
“It’s quite spacious.”
“You don’t make that sound like a question,” he replied, leaning back in his chair.
“It’s not,” she answered, before thanking the waiter who presented her with a silver menu. She glanced down at it, scanning the delectable offerings. She could have been perfectly happy with just pâté and toast but once she spotted the flat-iron steak she knew what she wanted.
After ordering, Marcu got straight to the point. “I do need you, urgently. I would have liked to leave tonight, but obviously it’s too late now. So I’ll organize travel for the morning—”
“Marcu, I haven’t said yes.”
“But you will.”
She rolled her eyes, frustrated, and yet part of her frustration was based on the truth in his words. She did owe him. “January would be so much better for me.”
“I’ve already told you, I have a conference in the Far East in January, and I would like to have things sorted by then.”
“Sorted as in...?”
“Married, with Vittoria at home with the children. I worry more about the children when I am far away. This way they’d have their nanny, Miss Sheldon, who’s on leave at the moment, and a mother—”
“But they don’t have a close relationship with this new mother, do they?”
“They’ve been introduced.”
She felt a bubble of incredulous laughter. “I don’t know who to feel more sorry for, your future wife, or your children. Where is your sensitivity—?”
“Oh, that’s long gone. I’m as hard as they come now.”
“Your poor future wife.”
“I’m not romantic. I never have been.”
“So says the man who loved opera? Who’d listen to Puccini for hours?”
“You loved opera. I simply supported your passion.”
She eyed him, trying to come to terms with this new version of Marcu. He was so hard to stomach. “You do know you’d be better off hiring a new nanny, or even two, to job-share than trying to fix things by acquiring a wife. Wives do come with feelings—”
“Not all women require extravagant gestures. Vittoria is quite practical. And I’m hoping you can be practical, too. I’ll pay you one hundred thousand euros for the next five weeks,” he added. “Hopefully that will adequately cover any lost wages from Bernard’s.”
“And if they don’t take me back afterward?”
“You will continue to earn twenty thousand euros a week until I find you a new position.”
She was intrigued and appalled. “That’s a lot of money.”
“My children are worth it.”
“So you are still consumed with guilt over your wife’s death.”
“I’m not consumed with guilt, just determined to make amends. They are very good children, but they are also in need of a mother. I do not, and cannot, meet all their needs, which is why I’m determined to marry again. A mother will be better equipped to handle their ups and downs and various emotions.”
“This mother you speak of will be practically a stranger to them.”
“But they will form a relationship. I don’t expect it to happen overnight, but I do believe it will happen eventually, and I imagine when a new baby arrives, the children will be excited to have a new brother or sister.”
Monet studied him for a long moment. Did he really think his children, who had already been deprived of a mother, would welcome the competition of a new baby for their father’s attention? “I remember you studied finance at university. It’s a shame you didn’t study more psychology. Creating a new family isn’t an easy thing, and children who have been through loss and heartbreak don’t always welcome more change.”
“I don’t expect them to understand immediately. They are still very young but their innocence is also to their advantage. They will be grateful for a permanent mother figure. As it is they are very attached to their current nanny, and I fear the day Miss Sheldon leaves us for good.”
“I thought your nanny was only on temporary leave?”
“So she is, but I see the writing on the wall. It’s only a matter of time.” He hesitated. “Miss Sheldon has fallen in love with my pilot. They’ve been secretly dating for the past year. They don’t think I know, but neither of them are as discreet as they imagine.”
“Your nanny couldn’t marry and continue working for you?”
“They will want to start a family of their own. She’s in her thirties. I know how these things go. She’s not our first nanny, nor will she be the last.”
“But she hasn’t left yet—”
“I don’t care to discuss Miss Sheldon with you. I’m simply informing you that you will not lose any wages while you work for me.”
His brusque tone put her teeth on edge. His arrogance was beyond off-putting. The very idea of working for him made her nauseous. She’d had so many feelings for him, but none of them involved being his employee. She didn’t want him as her superior. The idea of having to answer to him made her want to stand up and storm out. She’d thought she’d loved him once—desperately, passionately—but he’d deemed her unsuitable. Unworthy.
Suddenly she flashed back to another conversation, one between Marcu and his father as they’d discussed how inappropriate Monet was for someone of Marcu’s stature. That Monet might be sweet and charming but she was the kind of woman you took as your mistress, not as your wife.
To hear this at eighteen. To be so painfully and thoroughly dismissed, reduced—marginalized—at only eighteen. It had changed her forever.
“I can’t work for you,” she said in a low voice. “I can’t be at your beck and call.”
“I won’t be around after the first few days. I’ll only be there to get you settled and then I’m taking Vittoria to Altapura for Christmas. She loves to ski. She’s a very good skier, too, so unless something unexpected happens, we’ll return just after New Year.”
“You won’t be spending the holidays with your children?” she asked, confused.
“No. That’s the whole point of me seeking you out. I won’t be with them this year, but you will be.”
Monet felt another welling of pity for his children. It was also difficult to believe that Marcu had become such a cold, pragmatic man. He’d been so warm and kind when he was younger. He’d been a very loving, and much-adored, big brother. “Do they know this?”
“They know that it’s going to be a different kind of holiday this year. I haven’t told them more than that. I didn’t think it appropriate until Vittoria accepts my proposal.”
“You worry me, Marcu, and you make me worry for the children, too.”
Marcu’s eyes met hers and held, the light blue gaze heavily hooded, and assessing. “They are not mistreated in any way.”
“They’ll miss you.”
“They won’t. They might even be relieved to have me gone.” He hesitated. “I know they have more fun with Miss Sheldon when I’m away.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“I never asked to be both mother and father.”
“But leaving them altogether seems exceptionally unfair—”
“It seems you want to fight with me. Does it give you pleasure? I’ve already told you I’m not good at this parenting thing. I have not been a rousing success. What more do you want from me?”
The raw pain in his voice silenced her. She sat still for a moment, feeling his deep anguish echo in her ears. She waited another moment until she was sure she could speak calmly. “I don’t want to fight with you, but I’m not comfortable with the way things ended between us. And while I’m sympathetic to your children’s situation—they’ve experienced loss and grief and they need stability—I also recognize that I’m not the right person to fill in for your nanny.”
“Why not? You’re very good with children.”
“I only did child care temporarily, until I found permanent work. Further, I can’t leave Bernard’s on such short notice. I was down two saleswomen in my department today. It’s impossible for my department to run without anybody there tomorrow. I must speak with management. I must clear things—”
“I already have,” he interrupted flatly. “I had a brief conversation this morning with Charles.”
“Bernard?”
Marcu’s dark head inclined impatiently. “He was sorry to hear of my emergency, and agreed that you would be the best help for me—”
“Emergency? What emergency?” She exhaled hard, battling to keep her temper in check. “You’ve decided to go skiing with your girlfriend during the same time period your nanny needs a break. That’s not an emergency.”
“I have no dedicated help for them.”
“Then do what others in your situation do—hire a replacement through a professional service. You refuse to, but that doesn’t constitute an emergency.”
He shrugged. “You’re wrong. Charles agreed that young children cannot be left with a stranger. Once he understood your connection with my family, he thought you were the best answer.”
Such a power play. What arrogance! Monet was shocked at how manipulative Marcu had been. “I can’t believe you went to my boss and told him some ridiculous sob story. I’m sorry that your nanny needed a break just now, and I’m sorry you had plans to ski—”
“It’s not about the skiing. I’m going to propose—”
“Regardless, that’s not my problem, and I’m livid that you’ve spoken to anyone about me, much less the CEO of Bernard’s.”
“I didn’t think it’d hurt you in any way for Charles to know that we have a close family connection. If anything, it will help your standing on your return. I’m quite certain you will see more promotions, and more salary increases.”
“Did you happen to tell Charles just what our close family connection was? Did you explain to him that my mother was your father’s mistress? Charles is quite conservative—”
“He knows our connection, just as he knows you are Edward Wilde’s daughter. Your father is on the board at Bernard’s. I suspect your rapid promotions have had something to do with that.”
Her mouth opened, closed. She had no idea that her father was on the board. She hadn’t spoken to him in years...not since he’d provided references, helping her get her first nanny job. “I earned my promotions through hard work, not through family connections.”
“Your father is quite respected in the banking world.”
“That has nothing to do with me. I’ve seen him less than a half dozen times in my life. He had no interest in me, and only gave me those references I needed because I went to him, and told him I needed his assistance. He balked, at first, but came around when I threatened to introduce myself to his wife and children.”
Marcu lifted a black brow. “You don’t think they already knew about you?”
“I’m sure they didn’t, and that’s fine. Everyone makes mistakes and my mother was Edward’s mistake.”
“You call him Edward?”
“I certainly don’t call him Father.”
“You’re more defensive than ever.”
“I’m not defensive. He didn’t want me, and he paid my mother to get rid of me. Instead she took the money and went to the States and then Morocco and you know the rest. Edward tolerates my existence because he has no other choice. Just as your father tolerated me because he had no other choice. As a young girl I had to accept that I was barely tolerated, but I don’t anymore.” She drew a quick breath. “This is why I can’t do this favor for you. I won’t be treated as a second-class citizen any longer. It’s not acceptable. Not from you, not from anyone.”
“I never treated you as a second-class citizen.”
“You did at the end, you know you did.”
“What are you talking about? Does this have something to do with the kiss?”
Heat flashed through her, making her shake. “It was more than a kiss.”
“You welcomed my attention. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
“You did not force yourself on me, no. But what I thought was happening was quite different from reality.”
“I don’t understand.”
She drew a breath and then another, battling to hang on to the last thread of her composure. Crying would be a disaster. Losing control would be the final humiliation. She refused to endure any more shame. “We were not equals. You let me imagine we were. But we weren’t.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s no longer relevant. But what is relevant is my answer today. It’s a no. If I had wanted to be part of your life I would have stayed in Palermo, but I left for a reason and I have no desire to spend time with you. Ever. Which is why I’m demanding you forgive the debt, forget the favor, and let me let leave now with us both closing the door on the past, once and forever.”
Marcu froze, her words catching him off guard because yes, they probably both needed to close the door on the past and yet, it was the last thing he wanted.
And in that moment he realized something else.
Marcu hadn’t been honest when he told himself Monet wasn’t his first choice for a backup nanny. That was a lie. He’d interviewed plenty of candidates, but none of them had been right for the job, because none of them had been Monet. He’d been dismissive of the other women, finding fault with each, precisely so he could come to Monet today and say, I need you.
Because he did.
He needed her to come help him stabilize things at home while he figured out how to give his children a better life.
His children needed more than him. He wasn’t patient and tender, or particularly affectionate. He loved his children but he didn’t know how to meet all their needs, which is why he needed a partner...a better half. He needed a wife, someone maternal, someone to create stability in their home. He traveled too much. He worked too long. He was constantly at war with himself, juggling his business commitments while trying to be present with the children—not easy when his main office was in New York and his children were being raised in Sicily. He’d fly to New York for three days, but inevitably he’d have to extend his trip by a day, and then another, and another. Sometimes his brief trips became a week long and then two weeks, and he not only worried about the kids, but he’d also be filled with guilt and self-loathing.
Guilt that Galeta had died.
Self-loathing because he didn’t want to remarry and it’s why he hadn’t proposed to someone sooner.
Galeta had been a kind, loyal wife, and while they didn’t have a passionate marriage, they became friends and partners, with Galeta creating a warm loving home for him and their children in the main apartment at the palazzo. Her death had been a shock, and it had taken him years to wrap his head around the tragedy. Why hadn’t he known that a woman was still so vulnerable after delivery? Why had he thought that once she was home from the hospital everything was fine?
The guilt. The agony. She had deserved better, and so did their children. He wasn’t the father he’d thought he would be. He wasn’t good enough at all. And so while he didn’t want another wife, he would remarry, and he’d make sure that his new wife understood that her first responsibility was to the children.
“I can’t forgive the favor because I need you,” he replied now, his rough tone betraying his impatience. “You needed help from me eight years ago, and I helped you, and now I’m asking for you to return the favor. You understand this, I know you do. You lived with us long enough to understand our Sicilian view of these things.”
Monet gave her dark head a faint shake. Two bright spots of color stained her cheekbones, while her large golden-brown eyes glowed, burning with emotion.
“I also know that you could choose to be magnanimous and forgive the debt.”
“If my children weren’t involved, then yes, perhaps I could. But this is about my children, and they need you, which is why I need you.”
She slowly sat back in her chair, her slim frame practically vibrating with fury. She was both beautiful and fierce, and it struck him that he’d never seen this side of her before. In Palermo she’d been quiet and sweet with a deliciously dry sense of humor. She rarely spoke when his father was present, but when she was with Marcu and his brother and sisters, she had plenty to say, and inevitably she made everyone laugh. He should have known that underneath her sweet persona she had backbone. He was pleased to see it, finding it something of a relief. His world was filled with people who acquiesced to his every desire simply because he was wealthy and powerful. But it was hard to trust people who claimed they always agreed with you and only wanted to please you. Those people were dangerous. They could be bought.
“I don’t like you,” she said quietly, carefully, the lushness of her lower lip quivering before she pressed her mouth into a firm line.
Her words hung there between them, coloring the private dining room. He let them hover, too, even though his first instinct was to remind her that once she’d followed him everywhere, had been absolutely devoted to him, and was always the first to defend him even though he’d never needed her defense. No, he’d never needed it but her loyalty had always touched him, and in return he’d kept an eye out for her, been protective of her even when he’d been away at university. He’d paid one of the palazzo staff to report to him because he worried about her in his absence. Her mother was oblivious to her existence and while his father would never hurt her, he only tolerated the girl for Candie’s sake.
It was never good to merely be tolerated. Monet was too smart, too sensitive not to have been aware of her position in the Uberto household.
“Now,” he said, breaking the silence. “You don’t like me now. We both know that wasn’t always the case.”
“But that dislike should be enough for you to not want me to be with your children. That dislike should make you reject me as a suitable caregiver.”
“Your dislike is at least honest. I respect such honesty, and I also know that you are far too fair to allow your personal feelings for me to prejudice you against my children.”
“But you don’t know me. I’m not the girl who left Palermo eight years ago with nothing but a knapsack on her back—”
“And five thousand of my euros in your pocket.”
“Don’t you understand?” she blurted, rising swiftly to her feet. “I didn’t want your money then, and I don’t want it now.”
She would have fled if he’d allowed it. He wasn’t going to let her go, though. His hand snaked out and wrapped around her wrist, preventing her from leaving.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “Have a conversation with me.”
“There is no point,” she said hotly. “You don’t listen. You’re not hearing what I’m saying.” She tugged to free herself. He didn’t let go. “Why can’t you offer a compromise? Why can’t you meet me partway? I can’t leave my job now. I would be willing to do it in January—”
“I don’t need you in January,” he interrupted, releasing her, hoping she would sit. She didn’t. She continued to stand there at the table, furious and indignant. “Miss Sheldon will be back then,” he added. “Once she’s back, I won’t need you.”
“I can’t leave my work for up to five weeks. It’s mid-December now. That means I’d still be gone in the middle of January.”
“Four weeks then.” He suppressed a sigh. “Will you sit, please?”
“That’s still the middle of January.”
He was silent a long moment before countering. “Three weeks from tomorrow, but only if you sit down. This is uncomfortable, and we’re drawing attention.”
“There is no one else in this dining room. It’s exceptionally private.”
“I’m in this dining room and you’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Heavens, we can’t have that, can we?” she retorted mockingly, before slowly sitting back down. “Two weeks.”
“Three.”
She reached for her wineglass and took a sip, hoping he wouldn’t see how her hand trembled. “I wouldn’t want to remain after you and Vittoria return after New Year’s.”
“You wouldn’t have to.”
“I’ll be on a flight home that first weekend of January.”
“I’ll send you home on my plane. I promise.”
Her gaze met his. “Or sooner if you and Vittoria return sooner. I’ve no interest in being present while you integrate Vittoria into your household.”
“Understood.”
“And one more stipulation,” she said after a long pause. “I need to go to work in the morning. I must find a missing wedding gown—”
“We need to return to Italy.”
“You need to return to Italy. I don’t.” Her eyebrows lifted as her brown eyes flashed indignant fire. “I need to find Mrs. Wilkerson’s daughter’s missing gown, and then I can go with you. Give me until noon. I’ve made Mrs. Wilkerson a promise and a promise is a promise.”
He digested her words for a moment before brusquely nodding. “Fine. My car will be at Bernard’s at noon. We will leave straight for the airport.”
The corner of her mouth curled up. “You’re not worried that I’ll try to run away and escape you?”
His body went hard at that saucy curl of her lips. Thank God he wasn’t going to be spending much time with Monet. Thank God he was taking her to the castello and leaving promptly. Monet had always tested his control. She still tested his control.
“No,” he answered roughly. “Because a promise is a promise.”
CHAPTER THREE
MONET KEPT HER eyes closed during the flight over the jagged peaks of southeastern France lit by the setting sun. She wasn’t afraid of flying, but this afternoon her stomach thumped, queasy with anxiety and dread.
She couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
Christmas in the Italian Alps. Christmas with Marcu—correction, Christmas with Marcu’s children, as Marcu would be elsewhere, wooing his future wife.
As a girl she’d dreaded the Christmas holidays. There had been years where she and her mother didn’t celebrate Christmas at all, and then there were years where they celebrated someone else’s holiday traditions, and when she was little Monet had found it confusing. So many people seemed to love Christmas but for her it was often incredibly painful.
She didn’t really experience a proper Christmas until she and her mother moved to Palermo. Her best Christmas memories had been with the Uberto family at their palazzo. The Ubertos celebrated Christmas in a grand way, their December filled with music and food, gifts and sweets. But even in Palermo, Christmas had been about the Uberto children and their father and their aristocratic Sicilian heritage. Monet had merely been that odd French-English girl who kept to the background to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to herself. It was better for her, and better for her mother, who didn’t really want to be a mother but loved Monet just enough to keep her daughter with her, but not enough to do what was right for her.
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