Inherited by Ferranti

She lowered the bottle to look at him; his expression was shuttered, neutral, all the openness and honesty he’d shown two weeks ago tucked safely away. ‘It’s no hardship, spending a few days in New York,’ she said.

‘You seemed quite opposed to the idea initially.’

She sighed and screwed the cap back on the bottle of water. ‘Revisiting everything in the past has been hard. I want to move on with my life.’

‘After this you can, I promise. I won’t bother you again, Sierra.’

Which should make her feel relieved rather than disappointed. Not trusting herself to speak, Sierra just nodded.

They kept the conversation light after that, speaking only of innocuous subjects: travel and food and films. By the time they reached the airport Sierra was starting to feel more relaxed, although her nerves jumped to alert when Marco took her arm as they left the limo.

He led her through the crowds, bypassing the queue at check-in for private VIP service.

‘This is the life,’ Sierra teased as they settled in the private lounge and a waiter brought a bottle of champagne and two flutes. ‘Are we celebrating?’

‘The opening of The Rocci New York,’ Marco answered easily. ‘Surely you’ve travelled VIP before?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve hardly travelled at all. Going to London was the first time I’d left the mainland of Europe.’

‘Was it?’ Marco frowned, clearly surprised by this information, and Sierra wondered just how rosy a view he had of her family life. Had he not realised how her father had tucked his family away, bringing them out only when necessary? But she didn’t want to dwell on the past and neither, it seemed, did Marco, for after the waiter had popped the cork on the champagne and poured them both glasses, he asked, ‘So how did you get into teaching in London?’

‘I volunteered at first, and took some lessons myself. It started small—I took a slot at an after-school club and then word spread and more schools asked.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not grooming too many world-class musicians, but I enjoy it and I think the children do, as well.’

‘And you like London?’

‘Yes. It’s different, of course, and I could do without the rain, but...’ She shrugged and took a sip of champagne, enjoying the way the bubbles zinged through her. ‘It’s become home.’

‘You’ve made friends?’ The innocuous lilt to his voice belied the sudden intensity she saw spark in his eyes. What was he really asking?

‘I’ve made a few. Some teachers, a few neighbours.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m used to being solitary.’

‘Are you? Why?’

‘I spent most of my childhood in the mountains or at convent school. Company was scarce.’

‘I suppose your father was strict and old-fashioned about that kind of thing.’

Her stomach tightened, memory clenching inside her. ‘You could say that.’

‘But he had a good heart. He always wanted the best for you.’

Sierra didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Marco sounded so sincere, so sure. How could she refute what he said? Now seemed neither the time nor the place. ‘And for you,’ she said after a moment, when she trusted her voice to sound measured and mild. ‘He loved you like a son. More than I ever even realised.’

Marco nodded, his expression sombre, the corners of his mouth pulled down. ‘He was like a father to me. Better than my own father.’

Curiosity sharpened inside her. ‘Why? What was your own father like?’

He hesitated, his glass halfway to his lips, his mouth now a hard line. ‘I don’t really know. He was out of my life by the time I was seven years old.’

‘He was? I’m sorry.’ She paused, feeling her way through the sudden minefield of their conversation. It was obvious from his narrowed eyes and his tense shoulders, that Marco didn’t like talking about his past. And yet Sierra wanted to know. ‘I’ve realised how little I knew about you. Your childhood, your family.’

‘That’s because they’re not worth knowing.’

‘What happened to your father when you were seven?’

He was silent for a moment, marshalling his thoughts, and Sierra waited. ‘I’m illegitimate,’ he finally stated flatly. ‘My mother was a chambermaid at one of the hotels in Palermo—not The Rocci,’ he clarified with a small, hard smile. ‘My father was an executive at the hotel. Married, of course. They had an affair, and my mother became pregnant. That old story.’ He shrugged dismissively, as if he wasn’t going to say anything more.

‘And then what happened?’ Sierra asked after a moment.