Inherited by Ferranti

Still, the villa had a music room with a piano. It was better than nothing. And she needed to escape from the din inside her own head, if only for a few minutes. Quietly, she crept from her bedroom and down the long darkened hallway. The house was silent save for the steady patter of rain, the distant rumble of thunder as the storm thankfully moved off.

Sierra tiptoed down the stairs, feeling her way through the dark, the moonless night not offering even a sliver of light. Finally, she found her way to the small music room with its French windows opening onto the terrace that was now awash in puddles.

She flicked on a single lamp, its warm glow creating a pool of light across the dusty ebony of grand piano. Gently she eased up the lid; the instrument was no doubt woefully out of tune. She quietly pressed a key and winced at the discordant sound.

Never mind. She sat at the piano and softly played the opening bars to Debussy’s Sarabande, not wanting to wake Marco in one of the rooms above. Even with the piano out of tune, the music filled her, swept away her worries and regrets and left only light and sound in their wake. She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the piece, to the feeling. Forgetting, for a few needful moments, about her parents, her past, Marco.

She didn’t know when she became aware that she wasn’t alone. A prickling along her scalp, the nape of her neck. A shivery awareness that rippled through her and caused her to open her eyes.

Marco stood in the doorway of the music room, wearing only a pair of pyjama bottoms, his glorious chest bare, his gaze trained on her. Sierra’s fingers stilled on the piano, plunging the room into an expectant silence.

‘I didn’t know you played piano.’ His voice was low, husky with sleep, and it wove its sensual threads around her, ensnaring her.

‘I don’t, not really.’ She put her hands in her lap, self-conscious and all too aware of Marco standing so near her, so bare and so beautiful. Every muscle of his chest was bronzed and perfectly sculpted; he looked like an ad for cologne or clothes or cars. Looking the way he did, she thought he could sell anyone anything. ‘I had a few lessons,’ Sierra continued stiltedly, ‘but I’m mostly self-taught.’

‘That’s impressive.’

She shrugged, his surprising praise unnerving her. Having Marco standing here, wearing next to nothing, acting almost as if he admired her, sent her senses into hyperdrive and left her speechless.

‘I never even knew you were musical.’ He’d taken a step closer to her and she could feel the heat from his body. When she took a breath the musky male scent of him hit her nostrils and made her stomach clench. Hard.

‘The violin is actually my chosen instrument, but it’s not something I usually tell people. It’s a private thing.’ She forced herself to meet his sleepy, silvery gaze. She’d been a fool to come out of her bedroom tonight, and yet a distant part of her recognised she’d done it because she’d wanted this. Him. And even though desire was rushing through her in a torrent, both nerves and common sense made her back off. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I must have got carried away.’ She half rose from the piano bench, halting inexplicably, pinned by his gaze.

‘It sounded lovely.’

‘The piano is out of tune.’

‘Even so.’

He held her gaze, and inwardly Sierra quaked at how intent he looked. How utterly purposeful. So she wasn’t even surprised when he reached a hand out and cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking the softness of her lower lip. Her breath caught in a gasp that lodged in her chest. Her heart started to pound. She’d been waiting for this, and even though she was afraid she knew she still wanted it.

‘Almost,’ he said softly, ‘as lovely as you. Do you know how beautiful you are, Sierra? I’ve always thought that. You undid me, with your loveliness. I was caught from the moment I saw you, at your father’s palazzo. Do you remember? You were standing in the drawing room, wearing a pink dress. You looked like a rose.’

She stared at him, shocked by how much he had admitted, how much he’d felt. ‘I remember,’ she whispered. Of course she remembered. She’d glimpsed him from the window, seen him gently stroke that silly cat, and felt her heart lift in both hope and desire. How quickly she’d fallen for him. How completely. Not in love, no, but in childish hope and longing. He’d overwhelmed her senses, even when she’d thought she’d been acting smart, playing safe.

‘Do you remember when I kissed you?’ Marco asked. His thumb pressed her lip gently, reminding her of how his lips had felt on hers. Hard, hot, soft, cool. Everything, all at once.