‘Fine,’ she said ungraciously and got into her car.
Marco unlocked the gates with the remote control in his car, and they swung silently back, revealing the villa’s long, curving drive.
Taking a deep breath, Sierra drove up with Marco following like her jailer. As soon as his car had passed, the gates swung closed again, locking her inside.
She parked in front of the villa and turned off the engine, reluctant to get out and face Marco again. And to face all the unwelcome memories that crowded her brain and heart. Coming back to Sicily had been a very bad idea.
Her door jerked open and Marco stood there, glowering at her. ‘Are you going to get out of your car?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She climbed out, conscious of his nearness, of the animosity rolling off him even though he’d sounded cold and controlled. After seven years, did he still hate her for what she’d done? It seemed so.
‘Is anyone living in the villa?’ she asked as he pressed the security code into the keypad by the front door.
‘No. I’ve left it empty for the time being, while I’ve been in Palermo.’ He glanced back at her, his expression opaque. ‘While your father was in hospital.’
Sierra made no reply. The lawyer, di Santis, had told her that her father had died of pancreatic cancer. He’d had it for several years but had kept it secret; when the end came it had been swift. After the call she’d tried to dredge up some grief for the man who had sired her; she’d felt nothing but a weary relief that he was finally gone.
Marco opened the front door and ushered her into the huge marble foyer. The air was chilly and stale, the furniture shrouded in dust cloths. Sierra shivered.
‘I’ll turn the hot water on,’ Marco said. ‘I believe there are clothes upstairs.’
‘My clothes...?’
‘No, those were removed some time ago.’ His voice was clipped, giving nothing away. ‘But some of my clothes are in one of the guest bedrooms. You can borrow something to wear while your own clothes dry.’
She remained shivering in the foyer, dripping rainwater onto the black and white marble tiles, while Marco set about turning on lights and removing dust covers. It felt surreal to be back in this villa, and she couldn’t escape the clawing feeling of being trapped, not just by the locked gates and the memories that mocked her, but by the man inhabiting this space, seeming to take up all the air. She felt desperate to leave.
‘I’ll light a fire in the sitting room,’ Marco said. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much food.’
‘I don’t need to eat. I’m going to leave as soon as possible.’
Marco’s mouth twisted mockingly as he glanced back at her. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. The roads will be flooded for a while. I don’t think you’ll be leaving before tomorrow morning.’ His eyes glinted with challenge or perhaps derision as he folded his powerful arms across his chest. Even angry and hostile, he was a beautiful man, every taut muscle radiating strength and power. But she didn’t like brute strength. She hated the abuse of power. She looked away from him.
‘Why don’t you take a bath and change?’
Sierra’s stomach clenched at the prospect of spending a night under the same roof as Marco Ferranti. Of taking a bath, changing clothes...everything making her feel vulnerable. He must have seen something in her face for he added silkily, ‘Surely you’re not worried for your virtue? Trust me, cara, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot bargepole.’
She flinched at both the deliberate use of the endearment and the contempt she saw in his face. The casual cruelty had been second nature to her father, but it stung coming from Marco Ferranti. He’d been kind to her once.
‘Good,’ she answered when she trusted her voice. ‘Because that’s the last thing I’d want.’
His gaze darkened and he took a step towards her. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Sierra held her ground. She knew her body had once responded to Marco’s, and even with him emanating raw, unadulterated anger she had a terrible feeling it would again. A single caress or kiss and she might start to melt, much to her shame. ‘Very sure,’ she answered in a clipped voice, and then she turned towards the stairs without another word.
She found Marco’s things in one of the guest bedrooms; he hadn’t taken the master bedroom for himself and she wondered why. It was all his now, every bit of it. The villa, the palazzo in Palermo, the Rocci business empire of hotels and real estate holdings. Her father had given everything to the man he’d seen as a son, and left his daughter with nothing.
Or almost nothing. Carefully she took the velvet pouch out from the pocket of her skirt. The pearl necklace and sapphire brooch that had been her mother’s before she married were hers now. She had no idea why her father had allowed her to have them; had it been a moment of kindness on his deathbed, or had he simply been saving face, trying to seem like the kind, grieving father he’d never been?