He shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I? I didn’t need any of your inheritance. The only thing I wanted was your father’s shares in Rocci Enterprises.’ Which gave him control of the empire he’d helped to build.
‘Of course.’ Her mouth curved in a mocking smile. ‘That’s why you wanted to marry me, after all.’
‘What do you mean?’ He stared at her in surprise, shocked by her assumption. ‘Is that what you think? That I wanted to marry you only for personal gain?’
‘Can you really deny it? What better way to move through the ranks than marry the boss’s daughter?’ She held his gaze and even though her voice was cool he saw pain in her eyes. Old, unforgotten pain, a remnant of long past emotion, and strangely it gratified him. So this was why she’d left—because she’d assumed he had been using her?
‘I won’t deny that there were some advantages to marrying you,’ he began, and she let out a hard laugh.
‘That’s putting it mildly. You wouldn’t have looked twice at me if my last name hadn’t been Rocci.’
‘That’s not necessarily true. But I was introduced to you by your father. I always knew you were a Rocci.’
‘And he stage-managed it all, didn’t he? The whole reason he introduced you to me was to marry me off.’
Marco heard the bitterness in her voice and wondered at it. ‘But surely you knew that.’
‘Yes, I knew.’ She shook her head, regret etched on her fine-boned features. Marco laid down his knife and fork and stared at her hard.
‘Then how can you object? Your father was concerned for your welfare. It made sense, assuming we got along, for him to encourage the match. He’d provide for his daughter and secure his business.’
‘Which sounds positively medieval—’
‘Not medieval,’ Marco interjected. ‘Sicilian, perhaps. He was an old-fashioned man, this is an old-fashioned country, with outdated ideas about some things. Trust me, I know.’
She looked up, the bitterness and regret sliding from her face, replaced by curiosity. ‘Why do you say that? Why should you know better than another?’
He shouldn’t have said that at all. He had no intention of telling Sierra about the shame of his parentage, the sorrow of his childhood. The past was best left forgotten, and he knew he could not stomach her pity. ‘We’ve both encountered it, in different ways,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘But if you knew your father intended for us to marry, why do you fault me for it now?’
Sierra sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘I don’t, not really.’
‘But...’ He shook his head, mystified and more than a little annoyed. ‘I don’t understand you, Sierra. Perhaps I never did.’
‘I know.’ She was quiet then, her face drawn in sorrowful lines. ‘If it helps, I’m truly sorry for the way it all happened. If I’d had more courage, more clarity, I would have never let it get as far as it did. I would have never agreed to your proposal.’
And that was supposed to make him feel better? Marco’s chest hurt with the pressure of holding back his anger and hurt. He was not going to show Sierra how her words wounded him. She saw their entire relationship as a mistake, an error of judgement. Until she hadn’t come down the aisle, he’d been intending to spend the rest of his life with her. The difference in their experiences, their feelings, was too marked and painful for him to remark on it.
‘I didn’t intend to marry you simply because it was good business,’ he finally managed, his voice level. He would not have her accuse him of being mercenary.
‘I suppose it helped that I didn’t have a face like an old boot,’ Sierra returned before he could continue. ‘And I was so biddable, wasn’t I? So eager to please, practically fawning over you.’ She shook her head in self-derision.
Marco cocked his head, surprise sweeping over him. ‘Is that how you saw it?’
‘That’s how it was.’
He knew there was truth in what she said, but it hadn’t been the whole truth. Yes, she’d been pretty and he’d been physically attracted to her. Overwhelmingly physically attracted to her, so his palms had itched to touch her softness, to feel her body yield to his. And they still did.
And yes, he’d liked how much she’d seemed to like him, how eager and admiring she’d been. What man wouldn’t?
She’d been young and isolated, but so had he, even though he’d been almost thirty. Back then he hadn’t had many, if any, people who looked up to him. He’d been a street rat from the dusty gutters of Palermo, a virtual orphan who had worked through half a dozen foster homes before he’d finally left at sixteen. No one had missed him.