THE WINTER STORM warnings worried Marcu, and he wrapped up his meetings early, and was in his helicopter flying north, when it became apparent it was foolish to try to land in Aosta. Snow had begun to fall and the wind was howling and the only way he’d make it to the castello tonight would be to drive from Milan. Fortunately, his assistant had booked a car for him, and the car was waiting at the Milan airport when the helicopter landed.
Relieved to be behind the wheel, Marcu left the city, and tried to relax as he got on the open road, but the sky was dark and ominous and the news reports indicated foul weather for the next few days, with this new storm being the worst so far this year.
As he drove, he wondered what the children had been doing, and he hoped Monet had gotten them outside for fresh air and exercise. He tried to think of the children but not Monet, which was impossible. The more he tried to block her from his thoughts, the more she consumed them.
He’d been so preoccupied with her even last night when he’d taken Vittoria to dinner. He hadn’t wanted to be at dinner with Vittoria. He sat across the table from her thinking that maybe Monet was right, maybe he was making a mistake, and not because he needed a warm wife, but the children needed a warm, tender mother. Only as he listened to Vittoria discuss the ski trip, and the people who would be there, and the parties they’d been invited to, his chest tightened, the air bottling in his lungs. Not once did she ask about his children. Not once did she express concern that it might be difficult for the children to be left behind for the holiday.
What if she was as cold and hard as he was?
What if the children suffered more if he married her?
“I have to tell you something,” he’d said, putting down his fork. “I kissed Monet, the woman who is staying with the children while Miss Sheldon is gone. It shouldn’t have happened, and it won’t happen again. I’m sorry—”
“If it was a one-off, and it won’t happen again, why are you telling me?” she asked, coolly. “Was there a reason for me to know?”
“I feel badly about it.”
She gave him a long level look before shrugging. “I have never imagined you to be a saint. You will do what you want—”
“But I don’t, and I wouldn’t when we marry.” If we marry, he silently added, before wondering where that came from.
He wasn’t having serious doubts, was he?
He couldn’t let Monet turn everything inside out.
“Men have affairs,” Vittoria answered matter-of-factly. “Women do, too. It’s human nature.”
“I never cheated on Galeta. If we married, I wouldn’t cheat on you,” he said grimly.
“If,” she said, head tipping, long hair spilling over her shoulder. “You are not so sure now, are you? A few days with this nanny from your childhood, and you kiss her, and then question our relationship. Perhaps you have feelings for her.”
“I did,” he said, “when I was younger, before I married Galeta.”
“Perhaps you still do now.”
Dinner ended soon after that, and he drove Vittoria back to her apartment, and he left her after seeing her to her door.
Back in his car he’d felt wildly out of sorts. Kissing Monet had changed everything. It shouldn’t have because the kiss was brief. It had lasted less than a minute. There had been no touching, no exploration of skin or curves...and yet he might as well have stripped her bare because her body was so imprinted on his mind and imagination.
He’d felt her soft breasts against his chest. He’d felt the shape of her hips, and the indentation of her waist. He’d felt the heat of her slim body and the vanilla-and-orange-blossom scent of her hair and skin.
She’d smelled like summer and her fragrance had stayed with him long after he’d gone to bed, making him think of home, and a past that was long gone.
On the one hand she was vastly different from the girl she’d been, and on the other, she was exactly the same girl—strong, smart, authentic, original.
He’d never met anyone like Monet. She was so opposite him in every way and yet somehow it had once felt right.
Now...
Now...
But there was no now, he told himself tersely, tension weighting his limbs. He still needed a wife, and Vittoria had met the children and it could be a good marriage. He hadn’t married Galeta because he’d loved her, but he’d respected her, and he respected Vittoria. Love was inconsequential. Security mattered. Stability mattered. He wasn’t going to risk the future—or his children’s mental health—on something as temporary, and unstable, as romantic love.
Not that he’d ever loved Monet, either. But there had been desire. Fierce desire. Desire that had destroyed a six-year relationship and created a serious chasm between him and his father.
He had to smash the desire now. He had to get control of himself immediately. There was no way he’d allow an impulse to wreck his plans. He knew what he wanted, and he knew what he didn’t want and his decision had been made.
Exhaling, Marcu turned the windshield wipers on higher, needing the increased speed to clear the falling snow from the windshield. The snow was coming down harder. The wind was blowing sheets of snow across the road, turning the world beyond his car a blinding white. It was going to be a long drive to the castello tonight.
* * *
By the time he arrived home, the children were in bed, asleep—he knew, because he checked in on them and they were all in their beds, tucked in against the night’s chill. Marcu went to Monet’s room and knocked on the door, wanting to see how things had gone while he’d been away.
It took her a few moments to come to the door and he wondered if she’d also gone to bed. He was just turning away when her door opened and she peeked out, her long dark hair tumbling free over her shoulders, her eyes lovely and luminous in her pale oval face.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, feeling guilty for disturbing her, and yet it wasn’t that late, not even quite nine.
“No, I was just in bed reading.”
“How was everything here? I didn’t hear from you so I hope things went smoothly.”
“Very smoothly,” she answered. “We get along very well. So well, that the time just flies by.”
There was something in her cheerful answer that sounded a little forced. “What did you do to pass the time?” he asked.
“We made cookies, and played in the snow.” She smiled brightly up at him, still holding the door close so that all he could see of her was her head and part of her shoulder. “We had lots of fresh air. I’ve put your winter coats and boots to good use.”
“You’re making me suspicious,” he said.
“Why?”
“You seem determined to be happy—”
“But I am happy,” she interrupted. “I really enjoy your children. We have a lot of fun together.”
And that’s when he spotted a bit of sparkle behind her shoulder. It was a gleam of light, reflecting off something silver and shiny and then he took a breath and smelled fragrant pine.
Marcu reached above her head and gave the door a push, forcing it open. In her sitting room on the table near her hearth stood a shimmering tree with white lights and colorful glass ornaments. It was small but beautifully decorated and the fresh smell filled her room, making him immediately feel nostalgic.
For a moment he couldn’t speak, and then he drew a slow, measured breath, fighting to remain in control. “I thought we agreed there would be no decorations, no tree, none of this nonsense—”
“I didn’t agree,” she interrupted hotly, arms crossing over her chest. “I never agreed, because I completely disagree with you—”
“That doesn’t matter. Your opinion doesn’t matter. You’re here to do what I tell you.”
“Wrong. You’re here because you trust me to take care of your children, and I am.”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas, Monet.”
“Fine, but must you deprive the children? Are they no longer allowed to experience the beauty of it? I understand you are grieving, and they also continue to grieve, but you are turning their loss into a greater punishment. You are taking the loss of their mother and turning it into the loss of all hope and beauty—”
“Rubbish!” he snapped, silencing her again, his voice growing louder, his temper hotter. She was trying his patience and he didn’t like it. Marcu stepped all the way into her room and closed the door behind him.
“You have spent too much time in England now,” he added, stalking toward the hearth, which glowed with red embers. He circled the table with the tree, feeling emotions he didn’t welcome. “You have bought in to this very commercialized idea of Christmas,” he said, looking back at her. “In Sicily, Christmas was never about trees and decorations and presents. I give my children presents on Epiphany. You will see that my children eagerly await for the arrival of Le Befana and the sweets they’ve hoped for. They will receive little toys and treats if they have been good, and that’s our heritage, our tradition, and they don’t need your British Christmas.”
For a moment there was just silence and then she shook her head, making her long hair dance. “Fine. Have your way. They don’t need it. You don’t need it. But I do. I need my Christmas. You called in a favor, but that favor did not include stripping me of all the things that give my life meaning, and I want to celebrate Christmas. I want to have magic and fizz and joy. So if you don’t like it, please send me away now. I would love to return to London and my friends and my life there. Let me leave right now, because I am not going to battle with you on this. I think you are wrong, I think you are actually dreadful—”
“Dreadful?” he practically roared.
“Yes, dreadful,” she repeated, stepping close and jabbing a finger in the air, “and hurtful.”
He took a step back, affronted. “I am neither.”
“Yes, you are, and you enjoy being a beast, too. Now I realize you were left with three children and a broken heart, but face life, and face the pain and let your heart heal. Let your children’s hearts heal. Move forward without this anger, because right now I feel sorry for Vittoria. I pity any woman you want to bring into this family because you are not ready. You are not ready for a new wife, and you are not ready to let go of the past.”
“The children—”
“This isn’t about the children! This is about you. This is about you being angry at God, and angry with yourself, because you are not God and you couldn’t be there and you couldn’t save Galeta. Heavens, you have serious issues and you need to deal with them.”
Rage swept through him. His hands balled at his sides. “How dare you talk to me this way?”
She threw her head back, her eyes flashing fire, not in the least bit intimidated by his roar. “How dare others not talk to you this way? They do you no favors. They’re hurting you by keeping the truth from you.”
“I’ve had enough. In the morning you will remove the tree—”
“No. That will not happen.”
“If you don’t dispose of it, I will.”
“If you touch my tree, I am gone. And if you choose to fire me, that’s fine, too, because I never wanted to be in your employ in the first place. I came here to do you a favor, and whether you like it or not, I am your equal in every way.”
“You’re being paid. That makes you my employee.”
“Keep your awful money. I don’t want it. I never wanted it. The only thing I ever wanted from you was respect, and it was the one thing you have refused to give me.”
“You’re hysterical!”
“Not hysterical, just honest. I’m done holding back. I’m done worrying about your ego. You have far too much ego. Marcu, you are a man, not a god, or a demigod. You are a human being, and because you’re human you make mistakes, and you are making mistakes right now, and that would be okay if you could recognize it and work on it but you won’t.”
“Are you finished?” he gritted.
“No. I’m not going to tiptoe around you, and I’m not going to pretend that you are right, when you’re not. I’m not afraid of you, and I don’t care what you think of me. It’s not as if I’m going to lose your good opinion. Marcu, I know what you think of me. I know exactly what you and your father have always thought of me. It’s why I left Palermo. It’s why I left all of you. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t worthy.”
The words came faster and faster and he sensed she’d been keeping them bottled up for years, and now she could no longer hold them back.
“I know that I was kind of woman you’d take to your bed,” she added, “but you’d never respect enough to marry. I was the kind of woman who’d fulfil your physical desires but never win your heart—”
“You’re talking nonsense now,” he snapped, his own patience tested, his own control threatened.
“No. I heard you. I heard you and your father the night he found us in your bedroom. I heard what he said when he pulled you out into the hallway. He asked if you were being careful, and if you’d used protection, because you couldn’t be stupid and fall for my schemes as I was not the kind of woman you’d ever marry.” Monet’s voice quavered and she reached up to press a trembling hand to her forehead. After a moment she continued. “I heard every word he said, just as I’m sure he intended me to. He wanted me to know that I was not the kind of woman you could take out socially. He wanted me to hear that I was a whore like my mother—”
“He did not use the word whore,” Marcu interrupted gruffly, stunned that she’d heard the conversation in the hall all those years ago. He hadn’t known she’d heard what his father had said, hadn’t realized that his father’s voice had carried so clearly. No wonder she was so hurt and angry. She’d bottled up the pain for years and now it was spilling out of her in a torrent of words.
“You’re right. He used a different word, a Sicilian swear word that implied almost the same thing, but what it boils down to is that I wasn’t acceptable due to being a bastard.”
“My father wasn’t trying to hurt you, he was trying to protect me as I was the oldest, and his heir.”
“He was your father. He was doing what he thought was best,” she said, lips curving up, contradicting the bright sheen of tears in her eyes. “I guess it was a blessing in disguise. It proved beneficial to hear his thoughts—and yours—clarifying many things for me, and allowing me to make a break from you.”
“He hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
“You hurt me, and you’re not sorry.” Her chin jerked up and tears clung to her lower lashes. “But in hindsight, I’m glad you didn’t defend me. It was important to hear that conversation and discover you had no feelings for me. It was a giant wake-up call, one that I desperately needed as it was time for me to stop living my life to please the Ubertos. That conversation freed me, which is why I can stand here and look at you and not feel inferior.”
Marcu didn’t know what to do with her. He didn’t know how to stop these words because they were barbed and brutal and coming at him so fast. Is this why she’d left first thing in the morning? Is this truly the reason she’d fled the palazzo?
“You should have told me you’d heard him,” he said tautly. “You should have confronted me—”
“And what would you have done? Denied it? Told me I’d misheard? That I didn’t understand? Marcu, I understood perfectly then, and I understand now, but none of that matters. What matters is the family here, in this castello. It’s time for you to deal with your grief so you can take care of your children. You need to love them. You need to love them so well that you don’t need a woman to come in and fix things for you. Because you don’t need a wife. You don’t need a new mother for them. You just need to forgive yourself for not being there when Galeta died. And you could be an amazing father if you stopped looking back and just focused on the present. Your children are adorable. They’re smart and kind and funny. They are perfect. And they are still so young. All they need is someone to love them and laugh with them. Why can’t that be you?”
Her words were relentless, sharp and heavy, and they were piercing the armor he wore to keep from feeling too much. “I think you’ve said enough for one night,” he growled.
“Then leave. This is my room. You’re free to go at any time.”
“You’re trying to provoke me.”
“You’re refusing to see what’s in front of your face!”
He stalked toward her. “You, you mean?”
Every time he took a step forward, she took a step back. “No, your children,” she snapped.
She was skirting the furniture now, and moving closer to the wall, but he wasn’t about to let her escape. “You’re making this about the children, but it’s not,” he answered. “You’re angry with me, angry that I didn’t defend you to my father that night—”
“I was angry then, and hurt, but that’s behind us. I’m here trying to help you now. It’s what you wanted. It’s why you insisted I come.”
“To follow my instructions,” he said, finally cornering her. There was nowhere for her to run and she stood facing him, her back to the plaster wall, her expression mutinous. “Not challenge me at every turn.”
“That’s because you’ve become lazy, and soft—”
“Soft?” he repeated incredulously.
Her golden-brown eyes flashed at him, her lips twisting scornfully. “Yes, soft. You don’t want to do the hard work. You want an easy fix, but you’re going to be disappointed. You’re going to regret this down the road.”
“I’m already regretting having you here.”
“Send me home in the morning then. We’ll both be happier.”
She was tiny, barely reaching his shoulder, and she practically vibrated with fury and emotion and he, who avoided emotion, felt drawn to her light and heat just as a moth was drawn to a flame.
He wanted to touch her...kiss her...possess her...and yet he’d promised her he wouldn’t. He’d promised her that as long as he was pursuing another woman, he wouldn’t touch her, and he was determined to keep that vow. But that didn’t stop him from moving closer, and leaning in, his hands against the wall over her head, and his body angling over hers. There was space between them. A sliver of space. Just enough to honor his promise, but not enough to give either of them peace of mind.
There was no peace of mind with her here.
There was no peace of mind since she’d left him all those years ago.
“You promised you wouldn’t touch me,” she said breathlessly.
He heard the catch in her voice, as well as the quick rise and fall of her breasts. She wasn’t immune to him. No, she was just as aware of him as he was of her.
“Not going to touch you,” he said, dropping his head a quarter inch, her mouth so close now that he could feel the heat shimmering between them. The heat was intoxicating. She was intoxicating. He felt almost drugged. “Just standing here.”
Monet swallowed hard. He could see her smooth column of a throat work, and the muscle in her jaw tighten. Her eyes glowed, flecks of gold against a darker amber. Her lips were full and soft and far too tempting.
To kiss her properly, to kiss her thoroughly...
“I know what you want to do,” she said, her voice pitched low, the tone so husky he thought immediately of sex and sin.
He craved sex and sin.
He craved the forbidden.
“So do I, but I haven’t, have I?” he answered, a carnal rasp in his voice as he bent his elbows, lowering his body, dropping his head so that his mouth hovered over hers, feeling the warmth of her breath on his lips, and smelling the scent of her shampoo and skin. This was torture. There was no other word for it. He stared at her mouth and the soft lushness of her lower lip, fascinated by the shape. It was decadent and sensual and he wanted to claim it...and her.
His body felt taut and hard, his senses flooded with her scent and heat. Why was she the only one who made him feel this way? Why did she drive him mad? It made no sense. This desire wasn’t logical and yet it was the most compelling thing he’d felt in years.
Her cheeks already flushed, darkened to a luscious rose. She chewed on her lower lip. “You’re not abiding by the rules,” she whispered.
“What rules?”
She closed her eyes, and drew a slow, unsteady breath before exhaling just as slowly. “Exactly my point.”
Marcu’s body was so hard he ached. He pressed his knuckles to the wall. He craved her mouth. He craved her taste. It was all he could do to just hold his position. “This isn’t working, is it?” he muttered.
She gave her head a very slight shake.
“What do we do?” he asked.
She dragged in another unsteady breath. “One of us needs to leave.”
“Leave? Your room?”
“No. This place. The castello.” She opened her eyes, and looked straight into his. The gold-brown of her eyes was dark with emotion. She looked as if she was in pain, and it sent a lance of white-hot agony through him.
He flinched and ground his knuckles against the wall.
“We can’t both be here,” she whispered. “Nothing good will come of it. You know it.”
He did know it, and he hated what she was saying, but she was right. This wasn’t good for either of them. This was beyond torturous. He hated feeling so much. He hated feeling helpless. But to leave her...
To lose her...
Again.
And yet she wasn’t his. She’d never be his. Why couldn’t he accept it?
But no, he could. He did. He was an adult, a man who understood responsibility. He understood ramifications.
“You need to be here. I don’t,” he said brusquely, before peeling himself away from her and taking a step back. The effort had drained him. He felt almost beaten as he put space between them. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Good, because if you don’t, I will.”
* * *
Monet sagged as Marcu left her suite. Her heart was still racing so fast that she could barely cross to the chair by the fire before she collapsed into it.
She’d never wanted a kiss so badly.
She’d never wanted anything as much as she’d wanted him to throw caution to the wind and just kiss her...
And not a sweet, tentative kiss, but mad passion. Her hands itched for his, her body trembled with longing. If only he’d clasped her hands and pinned them over her head and held her there against that wall as he claimed her mouth, and then claimed her.
She’d wanted the weight of his body, and the heat and pressure. Her body felt so unbearably sensitive. Monet wrapped an arm over her chest, pressing against her breasts, against the tingling in her nipples.
She’d wanted his hands there, and she’d wanted his mouth on her skin, and she’d wanted him...
My God.
This was everything she’d felt in Palermo, and yet more, because she was older now and more confident and she didn’t want him because she had some big emotional hole inside of her, but rather she wanted him because he set her body on fire and torched her senses and she loved it.
Loved it.
And she wanted more.
Monet’s head fell back against the back of the chair and she sighed heavily. Obviously she wouldn’t be kissing Marcu, or taking him to her bed, but the desire burned within her and it wasn’t going to be easy to forget just how hungry and fierce he’d made her feel.
* * *
Marcu stood at his bedroom window watching the snow fall in white sheets beyond the thick beveled glass. It was after midnight and he hadn’t even tried to go to bed, knowing it would be impossible to sleep when his brain still raced, struggling to process everything said tonight.
All these years he’d thought Monet had left Palermo because she’d been disgusted by the kiss. He’d thought she’d wanted to escape, because she was filled with regret over what they’d done. He’d agonized over his actions, thinking he’d let her down, betrayed her trust. Had she viewed him as a surrogate brother, someone who would look after her instead? If that was the case, no wonder she’d given him a look of repulsion when he’d returned to his room after speaking to his father.
He’d misread the situation and violated her trust.
For years he couldn’t even think of her without self-hatred, disgusted with himself for taking advantage of her and making her feel unsafe in her own home.
But she hadn’t said any of that tonight. No, she’d flung different words at him instead...an altogether different accusation.
She’d been hurt by his father’s words, and devastated that Marcu hadn’t defended her.
He hadn’t known she could hear the conversation—a conversation he remembered quite differently.
His brow creased as he stared out at the swirling world of white.
Either way, it was problematic being under the same roof with her again. He wasn’t sure how he had thought this would play out. Had he imagined that he wouldn’t be attracted to her any longer? Had he hoped that by bringing her to Aosta, he would finally feel free of the past? Of her?
Except that he wasn’t free of the past, or her. Being near her now was even more difficult than before.
Being near her made him feel, and a dark dangerous hunger seemed to fill his veins and heat his skin. He wanted her. He wanted to possess her...to touch her and taste her, to take her, and know her, and make her shudder and come apart for him.
And yet despite the desire, and despite his body being hard and his pulse thudding with demanding need, he had a ring for Vittoria in his travel bag. He had a suitcase packed for his departure tomorrow. His head told him that Vittoria would be the right one. His head said he needed someone suitable, someone who didn’t threaten his calm, and control. He preferred a rational world, a world of order and reason. Not passion. Or hunger. Or volatile emotions that weren’t to be trusted.
Now if only his body would listen, and his pulse would slow, and his uncomfortable aching erection would ease.
He put a hand to the cold glass, pressing his palm against the chill, trying to freeze the heat within him.
Monet wasn’t for him. She was never meant to be his. But at the same time, there was no one he trusted more with his children. They’d be safe with her.
There was no one he wanted more...
But marriage wasn’t about passion, or desire. Marriage was duty, responsibility. He couldn’t confuse the two.
He’d leave first thing tomorrow. He’d leave before he did something rash, something illogical...something that might change all their lives forever.
* * *
The snow was falling thickly in the morning when Monet dragged herself from bed. Her head ached and her eyes felt dry and gritty. She’d tossed and turned all night, her dreams tormenting her almost as much as Marcu had tormented her with the promise of something he had no intention of delivering. He’d been pretty ruthless last night, and she’d been aroused by it, wanting him more than ever.
Monet wrapped herself in her thick robe and went to the sitting room, where a breakfast tray waited on one of the small tables. Even better, there was no note from Marcu.
She plugged in the lights on her little tree and sipped her caffe latte, and tore apart the warm fragrant roll, liberally spreading butter and jam on it. She’d forgotten how much she loved prima colazione. Even though she was in the Italian Alps, not Sicily, a part of her felt as if she’d come home.
She was just finishing the last of her breakfast when a knock sounded on her door. She closed her eyes, said a swift prayer—please don’t let it be Marcu—and then rose to open the door.
It was Marcu, dressed, in winter travel clothes.
“I’ve said goodbye to the children,” he said flatly. “They’re just waking, but I didn’t want to leave without speaking to them.”
“It’s early,” she said, thinking that just moments ago she wanted him gone and now that he was leaving, she felt strangely deflated.
“If I have any hope of getting out of the valley, it’s now. It’s only going to get worse later.”
“You’re not trying to fly, are you?”
“No. The helicopter can’t land in these conditions. I’m driving. Once I reach Milan, I’ll be able to fly.”
She glanced out the window and couldn’t even see the massive pine trees for the thickly falling snow. “How will you be able to see? And won’t the roads be icy?”
“The roads won’t be icy yet. I agree it’s not ideal driving conditions, no. But if I don’t go now, I’m here all weekend. The storm is supposed to continue for the next couple of days.”
“Be safe then.”
“I will.” He hesitated. “There is something I need to say before I go. Something that I should have said years ago.” He hesitated again. “I helped you leave Palermo all those years ago because I thought you were...disgusted...by my attentions. I thought I had taken advantage of you, and—” he broke off and sucked in a breath “—forced myself on you. I thought that was why you were in tears when I returned to the bedroom after speaking with my father.” He dropped his head and stared at the floor. “I have hated myself for hurting you. I have always wanted to make amends. It’s why I came to see you after Galeta died. I thought perhaps God was cursing me—”
“No.”
He made a soft, rough sound under his breath. “I am sorry if I—”
“You didn’t.” She rushed toward him, hand outstretched to stop his words. She was just about to put her hand to his chest when she remembered herself, and curled her fingers into a ball instead. “God wasn’t cursing you, or punishing you. Nor did you take advantage of me. You did nothing improper, nothing that I didn’t want. I was upset that night, but for different reasons, reasons that had to do with my eighteen-year-old heart.” She struggled to smile. “I had a massive crush on you. I’d had a crush on you forever and my feelings were hurt that you didn’t feel the same way about me—”
“Obviously I had feelings for you. I wouldn’t have kissed you otherwise.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t the one you could keep, remember, and while I understand that now, it was...bruising...back then.”
“I wish I’d understood better.”
“It’s fine. I was eighteen, and a romantic. I took the kiss too seriously, imagining possibilities that weren’t there. I was wrong, and I survived.” She took a step back and did a little bow. “Look! I’m here. I’m fine.”
His head lifted and his gaze locked with hers. “One last thing, before I go.”
She swallowed hard and forced a smile. “You’re making it sound like this is the last time I’ll see you. You’re not intending on driving recklessly, are you?”
“Of course not. I have three children who need me.”
“Exactly right,” she retorted. “Don’t ever forget it.”
“I don’t.” He reached up to run his hand over his mouth, and jaw. “The favor I demanded of you. It wasn’t fair of me, seeing as I put you in that position in the first place.”
Monet flashed to Marcu’s bedroom suite and how she’d been virtually naked in his bed, her shirt off, her bra off, just her panties on when Marcu’s father had barged in. Marcu had covered her so his father hadn’t seen her, but it had been obvious that Monet had little on. “It is what it is, Marcu. No one grows up without getting a little emotionally banged up.”
“You were so angry with me,” Marcu said quietly. “You told me you never wanted to see me again.”
She nodded, remembering. “Yes.”
“You meant it, too.”
“I did.” Her shoulders twisted. “I needed a change. And I needed to figure out my life without the Ubertos in it.”
He turned to the window and looked out at the fat thick snowflakes falling steadily, relentlessly. “That’s why I made you promise me that you’d return the favor one day. I was worried you were cutting me off, and I wasn’t ready to lose you entirely. It was my way of letting you go, but not letting you go. The favor was my last tie to you. It represented one more conversation, one more visit, one last bit of connection.”
His words put a pang in her chest and she sucked in her lower lip, biting on it, to keep from making a sound.
He’d always known how to get to her.
He’d always known the right words to say...at least until she’d left and he’d married and become someone else, someone she didn’t like and didn’t want to know. But it seemed that the old Marcu was still in there. The Marcu she adored wasn’t entirely gone.
“I’m glad,” she said simply. “It would have been tragic for us to go the rest of our lives without speaking again. I’m glad I was able to help you with your children. They are such lovely little people. You are lucky to have them.”
The ache in her chest expanded, pressing into her throat, making it hard to talk and swallow. Life had a funny way of turning on itself, upending everything.
Last night she’d gone to bed, body on fire. This morning her heart felt as if it had broken free of her chest and was flopping around at her feet on the floor.
He nodded once. “I need to go.”
“Yes, you do.” She shot a glance out the window. “It doesn’t look good, though. I’m concerned about the drive.”
“Once I make it over the pass, I’ll be fine.”
“You mean, if you make it over the pass.”
Marcu suddenly smiled, one of the careless, self-deprecating smiles she knew from years past, a smile she’d thought she might never see again. “You have so little faith in me.”
“Not so, but with all that you have here, dependent on you, I don’t know why you’d want to tempt fate.”
He gave her a long look, his smile fading. “You might think I’m not listening, but I am. I have heard every word you’ve said.”
Her chest seized, burning. She blinked hard to keep her eyes from filling with tears. “We will miss you,” she said quietly. “Be careful.”
“Always,” he answered, after a moment’s silence, before turning and walking out.