CHAPTER FOUR
A LOG SETTLED in the grate and popped, sparks scattering across the hearth before turning to cold ash. The silence stretched on and Sierra let it. What could she say? What would Marco believe or be willing to hear?
It was obvious he’d manufactured his own version of events, no doubt been fed lies by her father, who would have pretended to grieve for her. Marco wouldn’t believe the truth now, even if she fed it to him with a spoon.
‘Well?’ His voice rang out, harsh and demanding. ‘No reply?’
She shrugged, not meeting his gaze. ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘I told you—the truth. Why did you leave, Sierra? The night before our wedding?’
Sierra took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his hard gaze; looking into his eyes felt like slamming into a wall. ‘Fine. The truth is I had second thoughts. Cold feet. I realised I was putting my life in the hands of a virtual stranger, and that it was a mistake. I couldn’t do it.’
He stared at her, his gaze like concrete, a muscle flickering in his jaw. ‘You realised all this the night before our wedding? It didn’t occur to you at any point during the month of our engagement?’
‘I’d thought I was making the right decision. That night I realised I wasn’t.’
He shook his head derisively. ‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘In some ways it was, Marco.’ Another deep breath. ‘We didn’t love or even know each other, not really. We’d had a handful of dates, everything stage-managed by my father. Our marriage would have been a disaster.’
‘You can be so sure?’
‘Yes.’ She looked away, wanting to hide the truth she feared would be reflected in her eyes. She wasn’t sure. Not completely. Maybe their marriage would have worked. Maybe Marco really was a good and gentle man. Although the fact that he’d remained at her father’s right hand since then made her wonder. Doubt. How much of her father’s shallow charm and ruthless ways had rubbed off on her ex-fiancé? Judging from the cold anger she’d seen from him today, she feared far too much. No, she’d made the right choice. She had to believe that.
‘Fine.’ Marco exhaled in one long, low rush of breath. ‘You changed your mind. Why didn’t you tell me, then? Talk to me and tell me what you were thinking? Did I not deserve that much courtesy? A note, at the very least? Maybe I could have convinced you...’
‘Exactly. You would have convinced me.’ He stared at her, nonplussed, and she continued, ‘I was nineteen, Marco. You were a man of nearly thirty, sophisticated and worldly, especially compared to me. I had no life experience at all, and I was afraid to stand up to you, afraid that you’d sweep my arguments aside and then I’d marry you out of fear.’
‘Did I ever give you any reason to be afraid of me?’ he demanded. ‘What a thing to accuse me of, Sierra, and with no proof.’ His voice vibrated with anger and she fought not to flinch.
Now was the time to say it. To admit what she’d overheard, how it had made her feel. Why shouldn’t she? What did she have to lose? She’d lost it all already. She’d gained a new life—a small, quiet life that was safe and was hers. She had nothing she either needed or wanted from this man. ‘I heard you,’ she said quietly.
His gaze widened and his mouth parted soundlessly before he finally spoke. ‘You heard me? Am I supposed to know what that means?’
‘The night before our wedding, I heard you talking to my father.’
He shook his head slowly, not understanding. Not wanting to understand. ‘I’m still in the dark, Sierra.’
A deep breath, and she let it buoy her lungs, her courage. ‘You said, “I know how to handle her”, Marco.’ Even after all the years the memory burned. ‘When my father told you how women get notions. You spoke about me as if I were a dog, a beast to be bridled. Someone to be managed rather than respected.’
A full minute passed where Marco simply stared at her. Sierra held his gaze even though she ached to look away. To hide. The fire crackled and a spark popped, the loud sound breaking the stillness and finally allowing her to look somewhere else.
‘And for this, this one statement I can’t even remember,’ Marco said in a low voice, ‘you condemned me? Damned me?’
‘It was enough.’
He swore, a hiss under his breath. Sierra flinched, tried not to cringe. A man’s anger still had the power to strike fear into her soul. Make her body tense as she waited to ward off the blow.
‘How could you—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I don’t even want to know. I’m not interested in your excuses.’ He stalked into the kitchen. After a moment Sierra followed him. She’d rather creep back upstairs but she felt the conversation needed to be finished. Maybe then the past would be laid to rest, or at least as much as it could be.
She stood in the doorway while he opened various cupboards, every movement taut with suppressed fury.
He took out a packet of dried pasta and tossed it onto the granite island. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Don’t be perverse. You probably haven’t eaten anything all day. You should keep up your strength.’
The fact that he was right made Sierra stay silent. She was being perverse because she didn’t want to spend any more time with him than necessary. Her stomach growled loudly and Marco gave her a mocking look.
Sierra forced a smile. ‘Very well, then. Let me help.’ He shrugged his indifferent assent and Sierra moved awkwardly through the kitchen, conscious how this cosy domestic scene was at odds with the tension and animosity that still tautened the air.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, concentrating on mundane things; Sierra found a large pot and filled it with water, plonking it on the huge state-of-the-art range as Marco retrieved a tin of crushed tomatoes and various herbs from the cupboards.
This was his home now, and yet it once had been hers. She glanced round the huge kitchen, the oak table in the dining nook where she’d eaten breakfast while her mother moped and drank espresso. Sierra had enjoyed a cautious happiness at the villa, but Violet had always been miserable away from Arturo.
Sierra shook her head at the memory, at the regret she still felt for her mother’s life, her mother’s choices.
Marco noticed the movement and stilled. ‘What is it?’
She turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re shaking your head. What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something, Sierra.’
‘I was just thinking about my mother. How I missed her.’
His eyebrows rose in obvious disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you ever come back, then?’
The question hung in the air, taunting her. She could tell him the truth, but she resisted instinctively. Sierra didn’t know if it was because she didn’t want to be pitied, or because she suspected he wouldn’t believe her. Or, worse, an innate loyalty to her father, a man who had shown her so much contempt and disgust.
She drew a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘My father would not want me back, after...everything.’
‘You’re wrong.’ She recoiled at the flatly spoken statement. He could be so sure? ‘You judge people so quickly, Sierra. Me and your father both. He would have welcomed you back with open arms, I know it. He told me as much, many times.’
She leaned against the counter, absorbing his statement. So her father had been feeding him lies all along, just as she’d suspected. She could tell Marco believed what he said, deeply and utterly. And he would never believe her.
‘I suppose I wasn’t prepared to risk it.’
‘You broke his heart,’ Marco told her flatly. ‘And your mother’s. Neither of them were ever the same.’
Guilt curdled her stomach like sour milk. She’d always known, even if she hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, that her leaving would cost her mother. It hurt to hear it now. ‘How do you know? Did you see my mother very much?’
‘Often enough. Arturo invited me to dinner many times. Your mother became reclusive—’
‘She was always reclusive,’ Sierra cut in sharply. She could not let every statement pass as gospel. ‘We lived here, at the villa, except when my father called us into action.’