Inherited by Ferranti

She took a deep breath and willed her nerves back. Lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. Show no fear. She could do this.

* * *

Marco paced the foyer of the hotel as the reporters, celebrities and guests attending the opening of The Rocci New York waited outside the frosted glass doors. It was three minutes past two o’clock and Sierra was meant to be down here. He’d already sent a staff member upstairs to check on her; she’d promised to be down shortly. He’d thought of going up himself, but some sense, or perhaps just an innate sense of caution, had stopped him. What if she didn’t want to see him now?

‘We should start...’ Antony, the head of the hotel, looked nervously at the waiting crowds.

‘We can’t start without a Rocci,’ Marco snapped. He felt his ‘less than’ status as the non-Rocci CEO keenly then, but worse, he felt it as a man. Sierra’s lateness was too powerful a reminder of another time he’d been kept waiting.

Another time he’d felt the blood drain from his head and the hope from his heart as he’d realised once again someone wasn’t coming back. Wasn’t coming at all.

He blinked back the memories, willed back the hurt and fear. This was different. He and Sierra were both different now.

Then the lift doors opened and she stepped out, looking ethereally lovely in a mint-green shift dress—and very pale. Her gaze darted round the empty foyer and then to the front doors where the crowd gathered, waiting; she took a deep breath and threw her shoulders back. Marco frowned and started forward.

Sierra saw his frown and faltered and Marco caught her hands in his; they were icy.

‘Sierra, are you all right?’

‘Yes...’

‘You look ill.’

‘Jet lag.’ She didn’t quite meet his gaze. ‘Everything has been such a whirlwind.’

But he knew it couldn’t just be jet lag. As beautiful as she was and always would be to him, she looked awful. ‘Sierra, if you’re not up for it...’ he began, only to stop. She had to be up for it. The security of the company and his place at its head rested on having a Rocci at this opening.

And yet in that moment he knew if she said she wasn’t, he would accept her word.

‘I’m fine, Marco.’ She squeezed his hands lightly and gave him what he suspected was meant to be a smile. ‘Really, I am. Let’s do this.’

* * *

Sierra watched as Marco scanned her face like a doctor looking for broken bones. She knew she must look truly awful for him to seem so worried and she tried to dredge up some confidence and composure. It was just the memories. So many of them, crowding her in like jeering ghosts. She wanted to drown out the babble of their voices but it was hard. She hadn’t been at an opening like this since she was a teenager, her father’s hand hard on her elbow, his voice in her ear.

Be good, Sierra. With the awful implied or else.

Finally Marco nodded and let go of her hands. ‘All right. The crowd is waiting.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ She’d been trying not to be sick.

‘It’s fine.’ He strode towards the front doors and resolutely, holding her head high, Sierra followed.

A staff member opened the doors and Sierra stepped out into the shimmering heat and the snap and flash of dozens of cameras. She recoiled instinctively before she forced herself to stop and straighten. Foolishly, perhaps, she hadn’t realised quite how big a deal the hotel opening would be, bigger than any of the ones her father had arranged, but then she hadn’t considered Marco’s ambition and drive.

Marco had stepped up to a microphone and was welcoming the guests and media, his voice smooth and urbane, his English flawless. Sierra stood stiffly, trying to smile, until Marco’s words began to penetrate.

‘I know Arturo Rocci, my mentor and greatest friend, would be so proud to be here with us, and to see his daughter cutting the ribbon today. Arturo believed passionately in the values that gird every Rocci hotel. He valued hard work, excellent service and, of course, family ties.’ He glanced at Sierra, who stood frozen, her stomach churning. She hadn’t expected Marco to mention her father. She couldn’t keep his words from washing over her like an acid rain, corroding everything.

The crowd clapped and someone pressed an overlarge pair of gilded scissors into her hand. The silver satin ribbon that stretched across the steps glinted in the sunlight.

‘Sierra?’ Marco asked, his voice low.

Somehow she moved forward and snipped the ribbon. As it fell away the crowd cheered and then Marco took her elbow and led her inside to the cool sanctuary of the foyer.

‘You don’t look well.’