Kate Hewitt - Inherited By Ferranti

They worked in silence for a few minutes, concentrating on mundane things; Sierra found a large pot and filled it with water, plonking it on the huge state-of-the-art range as Marco retrieved a tin of crushed tomatoes and various herbs from the cupboards.

This was his home now, and yet it once had been hers. She glanced round the huge kitchen, the oak table in the dining nook where she’d eaten breakfast while her mother moped and drank espresso. Sierra had enjoyed a cautious happiness at the villa, but Violet had always been miserable away from Arturo.

Sierra shook her head at the memory, at the regret she still felt for her mother’s life, her mother’s choices.

Marco noticed the movement and stilled. ‘What is it?’

She turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re shaking your head. What are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Something, Sierra.’

‘I was just thinking about my mother. How I missed her.’

His eyebrows rose in obvious disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you ever come back, then?’

The question hung in the air, taunting her. She could tell him the truth, but she resisted instinctively. Sierra didn’t know if it was because she didn’t want to be pitied, or because she suspected he wouldn’t believe her. Or, worse, an innate loyalty to her father, a man who had shown her so much contempt and disgust.

She drew a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘My father would not want me back, after...everything.’

‘You’re wrong.’ She recoiled at the flatly spoken statement. He could be so sure? ‘You judge people so quickly, Sierra. Me and your father both. He would have welcomed you back with open arms, I know it. He told me as much, many times.’

She leaned against the counter, absorbing his statement. So her father had been feeding him lies all along, just as she’d suspected. She could tell Marco believed what he said, deeply and utterly. And he would never believe her.

‘I suppose I wasn’t prepared to risk it.’

‘You broke his heart,’ Marco told her flatly. ‘And your mother’s. Neither of them were ever the same.’

Guilt curdled her stomach like sour milk. She’d always known, even if she hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, that her leaving would cost her mother. It hurt to hear it now. ‘How do you know? Did you see my mother very much?’

‘Often enough. Arturo invited me to dinner many times. Your mother became reclusive—’

‘She was always reclusive,’ Sierra cut in sharply. She could not let every statement pass as gospel. ‘We lived here, at the villa, except when my father called us into action.’

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