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No one said anything and Marco glanced at Maria, the director of fragrance. She hadn’t spoken yet. “What? I can tell something’s bothering you, and I can guarantee it’s not the mill.”
Maria’s dark eyebrows winged higher. “I’d say so.” She folded her arms over the leather clipboard. “It’s the new ad campaign. They shot the first print ad yesterday.”
“And?”
“It’s not the ad we agreed on. It’s not the new ad campaign that we’ve planned.”
“But is it any good?” The ad was scheduled to run in two dozen fashion publications around the globe.
“No.”
There were days Marco wished he hadn’t gotten out of bed. Today was one of them. “That bad?”
“You’d hate it.”
“Okay. Get the ad agency on the phone. Jacopo, make an appointment with our friends at the mill. Let them know we’re coming, along with our legal counsel. Looks like we’re going to have a busy day everyone.”
It would be busy, he thought, giving his creative team a chance to file out before reaching for his phone. But it wasn’t so busy he’d forgotten the twins. Leaning across his desk, he punched in the number for his travel coordinator. “Marco here,” he said. “Any success locating my daughter’s blanket?”
No luck. That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, and his travel coordinator’s solution irritated him. “I know I could buy her a new blanket, but that’s not the point. Gia doesn’t love a new blanket. She loves the old one. Make sure you’re on the last flight out tonight. I want her favorite blanket.”
CHAPTER TWO
HE GOT home far later than he intended and by the time he’d arrived, the house was dark and quiet, only a few lights glowing downstairs.
Marco followed the light to the grand salon where he heard Payton talking in a hushed voice. The doors were slightly ajar and he could see Payton curled on the love seat speaking on her cell phone. She was wearing slim hunter-green slacks, a black turtleneck, and a suede green blazer. She knew color, he thought. That shade of green she was wearing—forest with a hint of moss—set off her fiery hair and accented her pale complexion.
She’d always had a good eye for color and design and that was exactly what she was discussing now. Business. She must be talking to someone at work in San Francisco.
For a moment he felt a strange spark of emotion, part anger, part resentment. He and Payton had had their problems but he only had respect for her talent. She was a natural when it came to design. It was almost as if she could see how fabric would drape in her mind’s eye, picture the texture, the color, the cut and with just a few pencil sketches, she’d come up with brilliant ideas.
He’d admired her work. He’d wanted her on his team, producing for him. But once their relationship fell apart, Payton headed back to America and went to work for an Italian designer there.
Payton’s fingers were beginning to cramp from holding the little cell phone so long. She’d called the office just to check in but her assistant wouldn’t let her off the phone.
“When are you coming back?” her assistant demanded, already sounding rattled for eleven o’clock in the morning. “I swear, you’re the only one who knows what’s going on.”
“Well, somebody else better figure it out soon,” Payton answered lightly, thinking that if her being gone two days was a problem for Calvanti Design, then they were really going to be thrown for a loop when she announced that she was taking a leave of absence on her return.
She was just hanging up when she heard the wooden floor creak. Turning, Payton spotted Marco standing outside the tall gilded salon doors. “When did you get home?”
“A few minutes ago.” He gestured to the phone. “I didn’t overhear anything I wasn’t supposed to hear, did I?”
“No.”
He walked toward her, shedding his coat en route. “I heard you design for Calvanti under your own label now.”
“Yes.” Payton warily watched him approach.
He’d been livid when she took the position with Calvanti on returning to San Francisco two years ago. Calvanti was a small Italian-American design firm that had shown stunning poise and creativity for a small upstart fashion house. Payton had been thrilled at the prospect of having her own label and yet Marco had said they’d only hired her to capitalize on the d’Angelo name.
“You’ve given up working on menswear then?” he asked, dropping his coat on the back on a chair.
She felt a muscle pull in her jaw. He’d never thought much of her as a designer. Early in their marriage she’d shyly shown him her work and he’d been less than impressed. Actually he’d been far more blunt than that. “I still collaborate on menswear and the sportswear collection, but in the future I’ll be focusing more exclusively on my label.”
“You’ve been successful.”
“Surprisingly so, yes.”
“I guess it doesn’t hurt being a d’Angelo after all.”
She felt her face grow hot. She couldn’t speak for a moment, formulating silent protests, wanting instinctively to defend herself but it would do no good. Marco wouldn’t believe she’d kept his name for the girls’ sake. All Payton had wanted was to keep Gia and Liv’s lives simple. Uncomplicated. As free from tension as possible.
“You’ll be meeting Princess Marilena tonight. She’ll be here in a half hour. I expect you’ll treat her with nothing but kindness and respect.”
Payton felt as if he’d tossed a sandbag at her middle. She drew a quick breath, the air nearly knocked out of her. “Of course.”
“I ask that you’ll keep your distance.”
Her cheeks burned. “I understand, Marco. We’re speaking English.”
“Yes, but you’re famous for selective listening. You hear only what you want to hear and I’m telling you now that you can not, will not, come between Marilena and me.”
“Good, because I have no desire to come between you and the princess. If anything, I want to ensure the stability of your relationship—”
“Why?”
He could have been a surgeon with his cold precision. She struggled about, searching for the right words. It wasn’t easy. “If anything happened to me, the girls would…” her voice faded for a moment. Her mind swept the future, saw only a great blankness and shied away. “They’d go to you.”
“I thought you’d always intended they’d go to your mom—” Marco broke off, realizing he’d just erred. Her mother had died in the past year. Payton and her mother had been very close. “I’m sorry. I’d forgotten.”
She nodded painfully. “Thank you.”
Damn her, Marco thought. She looked so guileless standing there, long hair loose, the soft auburn curls flattering her high cheekbones, softening her firm chin. But he knew her. Knew the tricks in her heart. She was no Botticelli angel. She had a goal when she traveled to Milan four years ago. She wanted an internship with a prominent fashion house and she wanted to snare a prominent man. She’d done both.
And yet…yet she looked so tired, so vulnerable just now and it weighed on him. She’d been raising the twins on her own for two years now, and God knows, that couldn’t have been easy.
“I didn’t bring the girls to create friction,” Payton added after a moment. “I thought it’d be good for them to meet the princess before the wedding. I thought it’d help them adjust.”
He looked at her long and hard. Was she telling the truth? Could he possibly trust her?
“Have the girls been in bed long?” he asked, changing the subject, not knowing where to go with any of this. Seeing Payton again wasn’t easy. Nothing with Payton had ever been easy. “I wanted to get back earlier but I had a meeting that turned nasty.”
“They fell asleep a couple hours ago. They’re exhausted. The traveling and the time change.”
Payton saw the new lines at Marco’s eyes and the tightness at his mouth. Those lines hadn’t been there two years ago. He seemed to be feeling so much pressure and she wondered at the stress he was under.
“I was thinking,” she said, “that perhaps we—you, Princess Marilena, and I—could have dinner tonight.”
He tensed. “Tonight?”
“Yes. The three of us. But you might already have other plans—”
“We do.”
She heard the reproach in his voice. He hated things being thrown at him last minute. “It’s not a problem. We can do dinner another time. Or lunch, too, if that’s better.”
The double salon doors suddenly opened and Princess Marilena stood there, a hand on each handle, her tall slender figure elegant in a trim suit, navy silk the color of midnight, that accented her narrow waist and long legs. “Am I interrupting?” she asked, her English flawless, just like the rest of her.
Marco stood up, a warm smile easing his tight features. “Not at all, darling. Come in. We were just talking about you.”
Her lips twisted. “No wonder my ears were burning. Tell me, was it good?”
She was crossing the grand salon, her heels tapping against the marble parquet and yet she only had eyes for Marco and he only had eyes for her.
“It’s always good,” he answered, his voice dropping, husky and intimate as Marilena reached his side.
His arm reached out, circled her waist, hand resting lightly on her hip. “Everything all right?” he whispered, the question clearly meant for Marilena but loud enough for Payton to hear.
Marilena nodded, smiled faintly. “Yes, darling, thank you.” Then she turned to Payton who had risen when Marilena entered the room. “You must be Payton.”
Payton felt a stab of envy. She shouldn’t be jealous. There was no reason to be jealous. She didn’t want a life with Marco—she’d had her chance two years ago—yet it felt peculiar seeing Marco so warm with the princess.
Not just warm, she corrected, but close. Comfortable. Payton had never been comfortable like that; she’d always felt nervous, on edge. But that was all in the past. Marco wasn’t her husband anymore and she wasn’t part of his future.
She forced herself to act, and she held her hand out. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess Marilena. And congratulations, too.”
Princess Marilena inclined her head, but didn’t take Payton’s hand. “Thank you, Payton. We’re very much looking forward to the wedding. The ceremony will be at the Duomo,” she said, referring to the city’s famous Gothic cathedral. “The reception will probably be here.”
“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.” The words were beginning to stick in Payton’s throat and no one else said anything.
The silence grew weighted and Payton realized Marco and Princess Marilena were exchanging curious glances.
Marco straightened. “Payton was suggesting that the three of us have dinner together sometime—”
“A lovely idea,” Marilena charmingly agreed, her voice beautifully modulated. “We really should get to know each other.”
Marco’s heavy eyebrow lifted. “Unfortunately, getting acquainted will have to wait. Payton, you’ll forgive us if we sneak out? We have dinner reservations.”
As Marco assisted Marilena into the passenger seat of his Ferrari, a car he’d bought himself a month after Payton moved back to America, he found his thoughts returning to his ex-wife.
She was different, he thought. She even looked different. Something had happened. Something had changed. Was she having money trouble? Man trouble? Was it something with the girls?
And just like that he realized he’d just made another tactical error. She shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have allowed her into his house. She was trouble. She’d been trouble from the very get-go.
As he started the car, Marilena reached out to rest her hand on his thigh. “Don’t worry so much. Everything will be all right, Marco. Everything will be just fine.”
His eyes met hers and he lifted her hand and kissed it. Yet even as he kissed the back of her hand, his thoughts strayed once more to Payton. Payton had a way of getting under his skin, unsettling him. And she was doing a damn good job of it right now.
In an effort to keep her mind off Marco, Payton set to work emptying the girls’ knapsacks, sorting out the toys and chunky books from the tangled bits of clothes.
It was odd being back in this house, she thought, folding the tiny lilac and sky-blue cardigans and stacking the delicate sweaters on top of the matching striped cotton leggings.
Although Marco’s father had died two years before Payton met Marco, the villa still embodied the great late Franco d’Angelo. Which made it especially painful when Marco moved out and left her and girls behind in his family house.
For the first few months she was alone in the house, she tried to keep up the pretense that she and Marco were fine. She tried to keep it together for the girls, too. But theory and reality are two different things.
In the end, she couldn’t do it. After their volatile separation, she couldn’t manage to be in the same room with Marco and act casual. She couldn’t make polite conversation at one end of the salon while he stood at the other. She couldn’t bear to watch him talk, walk, work—couldn’t bear it when he touched another woman, even if he was just merely helping her with a coat.
He was so comfortable with everyone, so easy with all. Except with her.
She’d heard that time healed wounds but the pain inside her didn’t fade, it just grew worse. Seeing Marco, being near Marco, intensified the loss.
It rubbed her raw, rubbed away her protective reserve, rubbed away everything until she felt as if she were slowly cracking up, falling apart, dangerously close to losing it completely. Just a glimpse of Marco was enough to shatter her all over again. One glimpse of him and it felt as if someone had taken a serrated knife to her heart.
The months of stilted conversation and tense existence took its toll. Payton knew that everyone watched her. Some were curious, and pitied her. Some were puzzled, and blamed her. And for a long time she tried to continue, doing her best to make everything normal for the girls, trying to make everything okay. But on the inside, nothing was okay.
And maybe that’s what everyone knew.
She was trying to act normal and it was just an act.
Finally, nine months after he took separate quarters, she moved, leaving the villa, Milan, and Marco behind.
“You’re settling in then?”
Payton startled at the sound of Marco’s voice. She hadn’t heard him approach, and yet she’d left the door open in case the girls woke. “The girls haven’t stirred and I’ll be turning in soon.” She sat down on the edge of the bed near the stack of clothing. “You’re back early.”
“I have a seven o’clock breakfast meeting.”
So he wouldn’t have time for the girls in the morning. Payton bit her lip in disappointment.
“These meetings were planned weeks ago, Payton.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“No, but I can see it in your eyes. You think I should be here. You think I should drop everything just because you’ve arrived.”
She felt his anger. It was tangible, a physical thing, black, heavy, threatening, and she stiffened. “I don’t expect you to drop everything.”
“Good, because I can’t. In September we’ll be celebrating the fifty-year anniversary of the House of d’Angelo. It’s a big deal, not just for me, but for Milan and the industry itself.”
She already knew about the anniversary. It was part of the fashion world buzz and she was as fascinated by Franco d’Angelo as the rest of the world. He’d been a genius. He’d dressed many of the world’s most famous and beautiful women. Queens, princesses, wives of presidents, international film stars, mistresses of sheikhs.
“A crew from England is here this week,” he continued. “They’re making a documentary on my father. I have fittings scheduled all morning and then they’re interviewing me in the afternoon.”
“Is there anything I could do?”
“You’re no longer with d’Angelo,” Marco rebuffed bluntly. “Besides, the girls need you here.”
