Christmas Contract For His Cinderella

“She didn’t say that!”

“She did. And more.” He shrugged wearily as he turned to face her. “She had worried that the children might impact our social life and all the travel she’d imagined we would do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. You were right, about so many things.”

“Like what?”

“Marriage has to be more than just a contract. Marriage must have some emotions, somewhere. She felt nothing for me, or the children.”

“Then why be with you? Why date you?”

He laughed without humor. “I’m rich.”

“And handsome.”

He gave her a swift glance. “Am I?”

Monet didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You’re impossible.”

“So you’ve been telling me.”

“You’ve had a horrible day,” she said, even as her heart galloped. It was ridiculous, still carrying this torch for him. He wasn’t a beast. He was just a man who had suffered terribly.

“But it’s ending the way it should. I’m here, with my family, and out of a relationship that wasn’t a good one, and might have proved disastrous for my children.” His lips curved faintly. “I suppose I owe you my gratitude.”

“You can keep it. I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

“We go back a very long way. Despite what happened at the end, you were my friend when I needed one, and I am simply trying to be a friend now, as it seems you need one.”

He made a rough raw sound. “You are so much more than a friend.”

Monet found herself watching him, feeling like a girl again, impossibly infatuated with someone out of her reach. Marcu intrigued her, fascinated her, spoke to her in a way that no one else did. It was easy not dating when no one appealed to you. Monet wasn’t attracted to most men in her sphere. She simply wasn’t interested. The idea of trying to find “someone” for her left her cold. But Marcu made her feel. Marcu made something in her warm, and quicken. She was so alive in his company. It made no sense. But then it had never made sense.

Suddenly he was focused on her again, and their eyes locked and held.

For once she didn’t try to hide her raw emotions—the good, and the bad—and she stared back at him, feeling the full weight of her awareness, as well as her bewilderment that he could still impact her so.

She shouldn’t still want him. She shouldn’t still long for a night with him. She ached for all the things she hadn’t ever known. Her body tingled, her skin prickled, her pulse drummed. He had taken so many women to his bed and yet he never taken her there. It was good, she told herself, she shouldn’t be there. But on the other hand, she wasn’t eighteen anymore, she was an adult. A woman. And she could make love to whomever she wanted.

And she wanted Marcu.

If she was going to belong to anyone, it should be him.

“I should go to bed,” she said hoarsely. “It’s late and it’s been an exhausting day.”

“What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“To play with your children, to keep them busy and cheerful so they don’t feel lonely.”

Marcu’s black eyebrows lifted. “Why would they be lonely when they have each other?”

“Because they don’t have enough time with you. They’d love to play with you. Cards, chess, checkers, tag.”

“I haven’t done that in years.”

“Exactly my point. Maybe it’s time to be a little less distant, and a little more playful.

“Surely, you can remember what it was like to be a boy. You have two little boys who would love it if you’d build a fort with them, or pull out their box of toy soldiers and wage a battle. They’d love to run through the halls and have a sword fight—” She noticed his expression, her lips twisting ruefully. “No, not a real sword fight, but a battle with wooden spoons or broom handles. Better yet, the three of you can make your own swords together. Matteo and Antonio would be over the moon.”

“And Rocca, what of her? How shall I entertain her?” he answered mildly.

“A tea party, or a puppet performance—”

“Excuse me?”

“Or a sword fight. Lots of girls like pretending to be sword masters.”

“Did you ever once see my sisters run around with swords?”

“That doesn’t mean Rocca couldn’t.” Her eyebrow lifted, matching his expression. “Or do you have fixed ideas about what is proper play for girls and boys?”

“You’re trying to be provocative.”

“I’m trying to do what you brought me here to do—make sure your children are truly your first priority.” She rose and gave him a crooked smile. “Good night, Marcu. I’m glad you’re home safe. Sleep well.”

She could feel his gaze burning through her back as she headed for the door. He didn’t speak until she was reaching for the doorknob.

“I was on my way home to Aosta when I crashed. I’d already ended things with Vittoria and was coming back here to you—”

“You were not coming back to me,” she interrupted firmly, ignoring the quickening of her pulse.

“But I was. I ended things with her because of you.”

“No.” Monet’s heart did another hard double beat. “No, don’t say that, because it’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.” He faced her, arms crossed over his broad chest. “I told you I wouldn’t touch you again as long as I was in another relationship, and I didn’t. But I’m no longer involved with Vittoria—”

“You really hit your head hard today. I think you should lie down.”

“You feel the same thing I feel. This attraction isn’t one-sided. It killed me keeping my hands off you—”

“I think we should ring for a doctor. You need help.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a coward. And don’t make me prove my point. There is something between us and I realized a lot of things today. The accident forced me to confront not just my mortality but the future. Why be with someone I don’t care about, when I could be with someone like you—”

“No.” She flung her hands up, trying to stop him. “We won’t ever be together. We don’t have a relationship, nor will we ever have one.”

He crossed the room, approaching her. “We’ve had a relationship for years. We’ve just ignored it. And I’m not going to ignore it anymore.”

She edged the other way, moving behind the couch. “What relationship? Marcu, eight years ago I was an eighteen-year-old virgin who idolized you! I had no life experience. I had no sexual experience. Yes, I adored you. I was impossibly infatuated, but that’s not the basis for a mature relationship now.”

“Why not?”

“One-sided adoration is pathetic.”

“I told you, this isn’t one-sided. I wouldn’t have broken things off with Vittoria if I had no feelings for you—”

“You don’t have feelings for me! And you didn’t break up with Vittoria for me. I am absolutely inconsequential.”

“If that was true, then why did my father fear you so? Why was he afraid of your power over me?”

She leaned on the back of the couch, hands gripping the crushed velvet. “You’re not

making any sense. You should sit down. You need to rest. I’m worried about you.”

“Monet, I have a headache, I haven’t lost my mind.”

“Then why say your father was afraid of me? How could he be afraid of me? I was almost nineteen when you got married. I had no power.”

“My father knew how I felt about you. He knew how upset I was when you left, and that I was conflicted in those months after you’d gone, so conflicted that I booked a flight to go see you in London but I never actually got on the plane, as he kept finding ways to stop me.”

“Your father obviously knew best. Galeta was the right one for you.”

“I shouldn’t have allowed my father to influence my judgment. I’ve never forgiven myself for that—”

“You say these things as if you’re certain I had feelings for you. You say this as if you coming to London would have changed the outcome—”

“Wouldn’t it?” he interrupted. “If I had shown up in London in those first few months, and told you how much I cared about you, you don’t think it would have had any impact? You don’t think we might have had a real relationship?”

She picked up a cushion from the couch and threw it at him. “No. You were never serious about me. You wanted something easy, convenient, and I was there at the palazzo, easy and convenient. But then when I was no longer easy or convenient, I was too much trouble.” She grabbed another pillow and threw this one at him, too. He sidestepped the second pillow, just as he had the first.

“I’m not judging you, Marcu, just clarifying facts,” she said, wishing there was another pillow to throw. “We were never meant to be. You and I have very different ideas about life, and struggle, and identity. Your whole identity is that of being Matteo Uberto’s eldest son. You are the heir. You have royal blood in your DNA—”

“This has nothing to do with us.”

“It has everything to do with it. Your ancestry matters to your family, just as your wife’s ancestry mattered to your father. I don’t come from a family where we brag about our lineage, and I’ve spent the past eight years trying to carve my identity out, creating one far from my mother’s shadow.”