Cristo!
What in hell was he thinking? She was brave but she was also naïve. He had asked for her trust; she had given it. Was this how he would repay her?
Marco tore his mouth from hers. He drew her hands to her sides and waited until, at last, her lashes lifted and her eyes, blurred and the color of the sea, met his.
“Forgive me,” he said gruffly, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
According to the lighted numbers on his bedside radio, it was 3:58 in the morning.
Marco was still wide awake.
He’d tossed and turned and all he’d succeeded in doing was making a Gordian knot of the bed linens. When the numbers on the face of the clock radio hit four, he mouthed an oath and gave it up.
His triplex penthouse was silent. Charles’s rooms were in the staff wing on the lower level; the housekeeper wouldn’t be in until seven. Good. He really wasn’t in the mood to attempt civil conversation right now.
He rose from the bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and then went down the curved wood-and-glass staircase and along the hall to the kitchen. The espresso machine was at the ready; he made a quick cup of dark, strong coffee, opened the French doors that led to the terrace and stepped outside.
It was only September but surprisingly cold, the wind moaning as it whipped through the Wollemi pines and Sicilian olive trees that formed a small forest in one curving arm of the terrace.
He’d been far too busy to involve himself directly in the furnishing of the condo itself or of the terrace. He’d instructed his designer to use lots of glass and pale woods; she had worked on the plans for weeks and then presented computerized photos for Marco’s approval. He’d gone through them quickly, saying things like “Good” and “Fine” and “Very nice” until he came to the plans for the terrace.
The d
esigner showed an arrangement of comfortable furniture along its two levels; a cooking center on the main level, which Marco had rightly suspected he would never find time to use, and a handsome reflecting pool. There were plantings of shrubs, flowers and succulents.
And, for the first time, Marco had asked for something specific.
He said he wanted trees.
Real trees, not the botanical hybrids that a man of his height would dwarf.
His designer as well as the landscape architect had warned him that it would be difficult to find trees that could endure the wind. There were days the air was perfectly still, of course, but when you were up this high, exposed to the elements, a stiff wind could strip away the leaves that trees needed to survive.
Marco had remained unmoved. He wanted trees—and he got them. Olive trees from Sicily. Woolemi pines from Australia. Tough trees that would not succumb to the worst the world might toss at them.
According to a woman he’d dated a couple of years ago, the trees were subconscious representations of his own survival.
Marco took a mouthful of coffee.
“These trees are you,” she’d told him. “They’re tough. Strong. They can take a beating from life; they’re impervious to what happens once you climb this high.”
He’d scoffed at such foolishness.
“Psychological game playing,” he’d told her. “I simply like trees.”
“Exactly. And the reason you like them is because they remind you of yourself.”
He’d laughed and said that he was nothing like the trees.
“Yes,” she’d said, “you are—but there’s one big difference. The trees know that despite their tough exteriors, they require care. TLC.”
“What?”
“TLC. Tender loving care.”
“I know what the letters mean,” he’d replied, “and it’s pure nonsense. These trees don’t ‘know’ anything. And what they require are only life’s basics. That’s one of the reasons I chose them.”