Inherited By Ferranti
Return of the runaway bride!It’s been seven years since Sierra Rocci left Marco Ferranti on the eve of their convenient wedding. Now she’s back in Sicily to collect her inheritance – only to find out that everything that bears her name belongs to Marco!Marco thought revenge would taste sweeter…but it’s not as sweet as the memory of Sierra’s shy kisses. He should turn his back on her this time, but Marco needs Sierra to help with his latest business venture. Soon, having his runaway bride back by his side isn’t enough…making Marco determined to claim the wedding night that never was!Discover more at www.millsandboon.co.uk/katehewitt
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‘Why did you want to marry me?’
Marco stared at her for a moment, furious that he felt cornered. Damn it, how dared she ask him—accuse him—when she was the one who should be called to account? What did it matter why he’d married her when she’d agreed?
Sierra had moved closer to the fire, and the flames cast dancing shadows across her face. She looked utterly delectable wearing his too-big clothes. The belt she’d cinched at her waist showed off its narrowness and the high, proud curve of her breasts. He remembered the feel of them in his hands when he’d given his desire free rein for a few intensely exquisite moments.
That memory had the power to stir the embers of his desire, and he turned away from her, willing the memories and the emotion back. He didn’t want to feel anything for Sierra Rocci now. Not even simple lust.
‘Damn it, Sierra, you have some nerve, asking me why I behaved the way I did. You’re the one who chose to leave without so much as a note.’
‘I know.’
‘And you still haven’t given me a reason why. Don’t you think I deserve an explanation? Your parents are no longer alive to hear why you abandoned them, but I am.’ His voice hardened, rose. ‘So why don’t you just tell me the truth?’
After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, KATE HEWITT now lives in a small village in the English Lake District with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories, she loves reading, baking and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com.
Contents
TOMORROW WAS HER wedding day. Sierra Rocci gazed at the fluffy white meringue of a dress hanging from her wardrobe door and tried to suppress the rush of nerves that seethed in her stomach and fluttered up her throat. She was doing the right thing. She had to be. She had no other choice.
Pressing one hand to her jumpy middle, she turned to look out of the window at the darkened gardens of her father’s villa on the Via Marinai Alliata in Palermo. The summer night was still and hot, without even a breath of wind to make the leaves of the plane trees in the garden rattle. The stillness felt expectant, even eerie, and she tried to shake off her nervousness; she’d chosen this.
Earlier that night she’d dined with her parents and Marco Ferranti, the man she was going to marry. They’d chatted easily, and Marco’s gaze had rested on her like a caress, a promise. She could trust this man, she’d told herself. She had to. In less than twenty-four hours she would promise to love, honour and obey him. Her life would be in his hands.
She knew the hard price of obedience. She prayed Marco truly was a gentle man. He’d been kind to her so far, in the three months of their courtship. Gentle and patient, never punishing or pushing, except perhaps for that one time, when they’d gone for a walk in the gardens and he’d kissed her in the shadow of a plane tree, his mouth hard and insistent and surprisingly exciting on hers.
Another leap in her belly, and this was a whole different kind of fear. She was nineteen years old, and she’d only been kissed by her fiancé a handful of times. She was utterly inexperienced when it came to what happened in the bedroom, but Marco had told her, when he’d stopped his shockingly delicious onslaught under the plane tree, that he would be patient and gentle when it came to their wedding night.
She believed him. She’d chosen to believe him—an act of will, a step towards securing her future, her freedom. And yet... Sierra’s unfocused gaze rested on the darkened gardens as nerves leapt and writhed inside her and doubt crept into the dark corners of her heart, sly and insidious as that old serpent. Did she really know Marco Ferranti? When she’d first glimpsed him in the courtyard of her father’s palazzo, she’d watched as one of the kitchen cats had wound its scrawny body around Marco’s legs. He’d bent down and stroked the cat’s ears and the animal had purred and rubbed against him. Her father would have kicked the cat away, insist its kittens be drowned. Seeing Marco exhibit a moment of unthinking kindness when he thought no one was looking had lit the spark of hope inside Sierra’s heart.
She knew her father approved of the marriage between her and Marco; she was not so naïve not to realise that it was his strong hand that had pushed Marco towards her. But she’d encouraged Marco; she’d made a choice. As much as was possible, she’d controlled her own destiny.
On that first evening he’d introduced himself, and then later he had asked her out to dinner. He’d wooed her gently, always courteous, even tender. She wasn’t in love with him; she had no interest in that deceitful, dangerous emotion, but she wanted a way out of her father’s house and marriage to Marco Ferranti would provide it...if she could truly trust him. She would find out tomorrow, when the vows were said, when the bedroom door closed...
