Inherited by Ferranti

She glanced around the busy city street and shrugged. ‘Not really.’

‘Then let me find a place.’ Marco slid his phone from the pocket of his suit jacket and thumbed a few buttons. Within seconds he was issuing instructions and then he returned his phone to his pocket and put his hand on the small of Sierra’s back, where it rested enticingly, his palm warm through the thin fabric of her summer blouse. ‘I’ve found a place.’

‘Just like that?’ Sierra hadn’t heard what he’d said into the phone; his Italian had been low and rapid, inaudible over the sounds of traffic.

‘Just like that,’ Marco answered with a smile and guided her down the street, his hand never leaving her back.

A few minutes later they were entering a wine bar with plush velvet sofas and tables of polished ebony and teak. Sierra gaped to see a sofa in a private alcove already prepared for them, a bottle of red wine opened and breathing next to two crystal wine glasses.

‘Some service,’ she remarked shakily.

‘As a Rocci, you must be used to such service,’ Marco replied. He gestured for her to sit down while he poured the wine.

‘Perhaps, but it’s been a while.’ In the seven years since she’d come to London she’d lived on little more than a pittance. She rented a tiny flat in Clapham and she bought everything second-hand. The days of luxury and privilege as Arturo Rocci’s daughter were long over.

As she sank into the velvet sofa and watched Marco pour her a glass of wine, Sierra couldn’t help but enjoy the moment. Even if Marco’s presence overwhelmed and unnerved her. She had no idea why he’d come to London to find her, or what he could possibly want.

‘Here.’ He pressed a glass of wine into her hand and she took a much-needed sip.

‘What do you want from me?’ she asked, and then steeled herself for his answer.

Whatever they were, Marco wasn’t going to reveal his intentions so easily. ‘I didn’t realise you were a music teacher.’

So he’d done some digging. She took another sip of wine. ‘I teach children in after-school clubs.’

‘And you play the piano and violin yourself.’

‘Only in private.’ Her cheeks heated as Marco’s knowing gaze locked with hers. She knew they were both remembering the last time she’d played, and just how private it had been.

‘I’d like to hear you play the violin.’ His gaze seemed to caress her, and she felt goosebumps rise on her arms as a familiar ache started in her centre. ‘I’d like you to play it for me.’ His voice was low, sensuous, his gaze never leaving hers, his words making images and ideas leap into her mind in a vivid and erotic montage.

Sierra shook her head slowly, forcing the feelings back. ‘Why are you acting this way, Marco?’

He took a sip of wine, one eyebrow arched. ‘What way?’

‘Like...like a lover,’ she blurted, and then blushed. ‘The last time we saw each other you seemed glad to be shot of me.’

‘And I must confess you seemed likewise.’

‘Considering the circumstances, not to mention our history, yes.’

‘I’m sorry for the way I acted,’ Marco said abruptly. His gaze was still locked on hers, his expression intent. ‘In the music room. When I made love to you. I was trying to prove you still desired me and it was a petty, stupid thing to do. I’m sorry.’ His lips curved in a tiny smile. ‘Even if it seemed you enjoyed it.’

His words were gently teasing, and they made her blush all the more. She had no idea how to respond.

‘Thank you,’ she finally muttered. ‘For your apology. But I still don’t know why you’re here.’

Marco shifted in his seat, his powerful thigh brushing her leg. The contact sent sizzling arrows of remembered sensation firing through her, and Sierra only just resisted pulling away. She wouldn’t show him how much he affected her. In any case, he undoubtedly already knew.

‘I’ve been thinking about you, Sierra.’ His voice flowed over like her melted chocolate, warm and liquid, enticing but also a way to drown. ‘A lot.’

Her mouth had dried, her lungs emptying of air, and yet suspicion and doubt still took hold of her heart. She shook her head slowly. ‘Marco...’

‘I’ve been thinking that it’s unfair you didn’t receive anything from your father’s will.’

The abrupt reality check felt like falling flat on her face. Left her breathless, smarting. Of course he wasn’t thinking about her that way. She shouldn’t even want to be thinking of him that way. Good grief, where was her backbone? Her resolve? She’d spent the last seven years telling herself she’d done the right thing in walking away from this man, and now she was panting and dreaming like some lovesick teenager.