Inherited By Ferranti

‘And I am glad to be so welcomed.’

Sierra heard the sound of her father slapping Marco’s back and then his good-humoured chuckle. She knew that sound so well. She knew how false it was.

‘Bene, Marco. As long as you know how to handle Sierra. A woman needs a firm hand to guide her. Don’t be too gentle or they get notions. You can’t have that.’ The words were abhorrent and yet so terribly familiar, the tone gentle, almost amused, her father as assured as ever and completely in control.

Every muscle in Sierra’s body seemed to turn to iron as she waited for Marco’s response.

‘Don’t worry, signor,’ Marco said. ‘I know how to handle her.’

Sierra shrank back against the wall, horror and fear churning inside her. I know how to handle her. Did he really think that way, like her father did? That she was some beast to be guided and tamed into subservience?

‘Of course you do,’ Arturo Rocci said, his voice smug with satisfaction. ‘I’ve groomed you myself, chosen you as my son. This is what I wanted, and I could not be more pleased. I have no doubts about you, Marco.’

‘You honour me, signor.’

‘Pap?, Marco. You may call me Pap?.’

Sierra peeked around the edge of the landing and saw the two men embracing. Then her father gave Marco one more back slap before disappearing down the corridor, towards his study.

Sierra watched Marco, a faint smile curving that mobile mouth, the sharp angle of his jaw darkened with five o’clock shadow, his silvery-grey eyes hooded and sleepy. He’d loosened his tie and shed his suit jacket, and he looked rumpled and tired and overwhelmingly male. Sexy.

But there was nothing sexy about what he’d just said. Nothing romantic or loving or remotely attractive about a man who thought women needed to be handled. Her stomach clenched hard with fear and, underneath, anger. Anger at Marco Ferranti, for clearly thinking as her father did, and anger at herself for being so na?ve to think she actually knew a man after just three months, a handful of arranged dates, all of them carefully orchestrated evenings where Marco was at his best, guiding her gently towards the inevitable conclusion. She’d thought she’d chosen him, but now she wondered how well she’d been manipulated. Handled. Perhaps her fiancе was as false as her father, presenting a front she wanted to see while disguising the true man underneath. Would she ever know? Yes, when it was too late. When she was married to him and had no way to escape.

‘Sierra?’ Marco’s silvery gaze flicked upwards, one eyebrow lifted as he gazed at her peeking around the landing, his faint smile deepening, revealing a dimple in one cheek. When Sierra had first seen that dimple it had made him seem friendlier. Kinder. She’d liked him more because of a dimple. She felt like such a child, na?ve to the point of stupidity, thinking she’d wrested some control for herself when in fact she’d been the merest puppet.

‘What are you doing hiding up there?’ he asked, and he stretched one hand towards her.

‘I...’ Sierra licked dry lips as her mind spun. She could not think of a single thing to say. The only thing she could hear on an endless, awful reel was Marco’s assured, indulgent words. I know how to handle her.

Marco glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after midnight, so technically I suppose I shouldn’t see you. It’s our wedding day, after all.’

Wedding day. In just a few hours she would marry this man. She would promise to love him. To honour and obey him...

I know how to handle her.

‘Sierra?’ Marco asked, concern sharpening his voice. ‘Is something wrong?’

Everything was wrong. Everything had been wrong for ever, and she’d actually thought she’d been fixing it. She’d thought she was finally escaping, that she was choosing her own destiny. The thought seemed laughable now. How could she have fooled herself for so long? ‘Sierra?’ Impatience edged his voice now, and Sierra heard it. Heard how quickly the fa?ade of concern fell away, revealed the true man underneath. Just as it did with her father.

‘I’m only tired,’ she whispered. Marco beckoned her towards him and on shaking legs she came down the stairs and stood before him, trying not to tremble. Not to show her fear. It was one small act of defiance she’d nurtured for most of her life, because she knew it infuriated her father. He wanted his women to cower and cringe. And Sierra had done her fair share of both, to her shame, over the years. But when she had the strength to stand tall, to act cool and composed, she did. Cloaking herself in numbness had been a way of coping since she was small. She was glad of it now.

Marco cupped her cheek with one hand. His palm was warm and dry and even now the tender gesture sent sparks shooting through her belly, and her legs shook.

‘It’s not long now,’ he murmured, and his thumb brushed her lips. His expression was tender, but Sierra couldn’t trust it any more. ‘Are you nervous, little one?’

She was terrified. Wordlessly she shook her head. Marco chuckled, the sound indulgent, perhaps patronising. The assumptions she’d made about this man were proving to be just that: assumptions. She didn’t really know who he was, what he was capable of. He’d been kind to her, yes, but what if it had just been an act, just like her father’s kindness in public was? Marco smiled down at her, his dimple showing. ‘Are you certain about that, mi amore?’

Mi amore. My love. But Marco Ferranti didn’t love her. He’d never said he did, and she didn’t even want him to. Looking back, she could see how expedient their relationship had been. A family dinner that led to a walk in the gardens that led to a proper date that led to a proposal. It had been a systematic procedure orchestrated by this man—and her father. And she hadn’t realised, not completely. She’d thought she’d had some say in the proceedings, but now she wondered at how well she’d been manipulated. Used.

‘I’m all right, Marco.’ Her voice came out in a breathy whisper, and it took all the strength she possessed to step away from him so his hand dropped from her cheek. He frowned, and she wondered if he didn’t like her taking even that paltry amount of control. She’d let him dictate everything in the three months of their courtship, she realised now. When and where they went, what they talked about—everything had been decided by him. She’d been so desperate to get away, and she’d convinced herself he was a kind man.

‘One last kiss,’ Marco murmured and before Sierra could think to step farther away he was pulling her towards him, his hands sliding up to cup her face as his lips came down on hers. Hard and soft. Hot and cold. A thousand sensations shivered through her as her lips parted helplessly. Longing and joy. Fear and desire. All of the emotions tangled up together so she couldn’t tell them apart. Her hands fisted in his shirt and she stood on her tiptoes to bring his body closer to hers, unable to keep herself from it, not realising how revealing her response was until Marco chuckled and eased her away from him.

‘There will be plenty of time later,’ he promised her. ‘Tomorrow night.’

When they were wed. Sierra pressed her fingers to her lips and Marco smiled, satisfied by her obvious response.

‘Goodnight, Sierra,’ he said softly, and Sierra managed to choke out a response.

‘Goodnight.’ She turned and hurried up the stairs, not daring to look back, knowing Marco was watching her.

In the quiet darkness of the upstairs hallway she pressed a hand to her thundering heart. Hated herself, hated Marco, for they were both to blame. She never should have let this happen. She should have never thought she could escape.

Sierra hurried down the hallway to the far wing of the house, knocking softly on the door of her mother’s bedroom.

Violet Rocci opened the door a crack, her eyes wide with apprehension. She relaxed visibly when she saw it was Sierra, and opened the door wider to let her daughter in.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘Pap?’s downstairs.’

‘Even so.’ Violet clutched the folds of her silk dressing gown together, her face pale with worry and strain. Twenty years ago she’d been a beautiful young woman, a world-class pianist who played in London’s best concert halls, on the cusp of major fame. Then she’d married Arturo Rocci and virtually disappeared from the public, losing herself in the process.

‘Mamma...’ Sierra stared helplessly at her mother. ‘I think I may have made a mistake.’

Violet drew her breath in sharply. ‘Marco?’ Sierra nodded. ‘But you love him...’ Even after twenty years of living with Arturo Rocci, cringing under his hand, Violet believed in love. She loved her husband desperately, and it had been her destruction.

‘I’ve never loved him, Mamma.’

‘What?’ Violet shook her head. ‘But Sierra, you said...’

‘I trusted him. I thought he was gentle. But the only reason I wanted to marry him was to escape...’ Even now she couldn’t say it. Escape Pap?. She knew the words would hurt her mother; Violet hid from the truth as much as she could.

‘And now?’ Violet asked after a moment, her voice low.

‘And now I don’t know.’ Sierra paced the room, the anxiety inside her like a spring that coiled tighter and tighter. ‘I realise I don’t know him at all.’

‘The wedding is tomorrow, Sierra.’ Violet turned away from her, her hand trembling at the throat of her dressing gown. ‘What can you do? Everything has been arranged—’

‘I know.’ Sierra closed her eyes as regret rushed through her in a scalding wave. ‘I’m afraid I have been very stupid.’ She opened her eyes as she blinked back useless tears and set her jaw. ‘I know there’s nothing I can do. I have to marry him.’ Powerlessness was a familiar feeling. Heavy and leaden, a mantle that had weighed her down for far too long. Yet she’d made her own trap this time. In the end she had no one to blame but herself. She’d agreed to Marco’s proposal.

‘There might be a way.’

Sierra glanced at her mother in surprise; Violet’s face was pale, her eyes glittering with uncharacteristic determination. ‘Mamma...’

‘If you are certain that you cannot go through with it...’

‘Certain?’ Sierra shook her head. ‘I’m not certain of anything. Maybe he is a good man...’ A man who was marrying her for the sake of Rocci Enterprises? A man who worked hand in glove with her father and insisted he knew how to handle her?