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Downstairs Marco didn’t sit. He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets as he faced her, black eyebrows flattened, expression tense. “Marilena and I had our first fight today.”
It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say at all. Payton pressed her hands against her lap and drew herself a little taller.
“It was about you,” he continued evenly, no emotion in his voice. “She knows I’m uncomfortable with you here. She knows that I’m feeling angry and she—” he broke off, jaw flexing “—she defended you. Said she liked you. She asked me to be kind to you.”
Marco looked away, swallowed, muscles popping in his jawbone near his ear. “I lost my temper with her. I lost my temper because I thought she didn’t know you. She didn’t know how dangerous you are.”
“I’m not a threat,” she contradicted quietly. “I’m not here to drive a wedge between you. I’ve already told you that.”
“So why do I fear you’ll destroy everything?”
She couldn’t look away from his dark smoldering gaze. “I don’t know.”
He laughed softly, laughed without mirth. “I have a million things on my plate at the moment and I can’t focus on any of them. It’s the fifty-year anniversary of d’Angelo. I’m getting married in less than two and a half months. I’m working feverishly to prepare for a Spring collection that has no backbone, no life to it. Dammit, Payton, I didn’t need this now.
“I love Marilena,” he continued. “I can’t allow you to come between us. I don’t know what to do with you, I don’t know if I need to send you to a hotel or send you home, but I can’t have Marilena caught between us.”
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