be almost as bad as leaving him at the altar.
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.’
‘I’m sorry, it must be the heat. And the jet lag.’ And the memories. And her father’s ghost, hurting her from the grave. Marco still believing the best of him, and she could hardly fault him. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t thought it was necessary. And when she’d been planning never to see Marco again, it hadn’t been. But now? Now, when she was thinking of something actually happening between them?
‘Do you want to sit down?’ Marco asked. ‘Catch your breath?’
Sierra shook her head. ‘I’m fine, Marco. I came here for this, and I’ll see it through.’ She plucked a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray. She definitely needed some liquid courage. Guests were starting to stream into the foyer, chatting and taking pictures. ‘Let the party begin,’ she said, and raised her glass in a determined toast.
A FEW HOURS into the reception Sierra finally started to relax. The memories that had mocked her were starting to recede; her father’s grip not, thankfully, as tight as she’d feared it was. She avoided reporters with their difficult, probing questions and chatted with various guests and staff about innocuous things: New York, London, the latest films. She was actually having a good time.
The three glasses of champagne helped, too.
‘This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,’ she told a waiter as she studied the chocolate fountain with floating strawberries. He smiled politely and a firm hand touched her elbow. Even though Sierra couldn’t see who it was, she felt it through her marrow. Marco.
‘You’re not drunk, are you?’
‘Drunk? Thanks very much.’ She turned around, misjudging the distance, and nearly poured her half-full flute of champagne onto his front. Marco caught her hand and liberated her glass. ‘Slightly tipsy only,’ she amended at his wry look. ‘But this is a fun party.’
Marco drew her aside, away from the waiter and guests. ‘You seemed tense earlier. Even upset. Was it something I said?’ Concern drew his straight dark eyebrows together, his wonderful mouth drawn into a frowning line.
‘No,’ Sierra answered. ‘It wasn’t something you said.’
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded, knowing she couldn’t explain it to him here, and maybe not ever. The deeper things got with Marco, the harder it became to come clean about her past. She didn’t want to hurt him, and yet if they were to have any future at all she knew she needed to explain. He needed to understand.
But why was she even thinking about a future? They were just having a fling. And they hadn’t even had it yet.
‘When is the ball tonight?’
‘Not for a few hours. But if you’d like to retire upstairs and get ready, you can. You’ve shown your face here. You’ve done enough.’ He paused, and