Christmas Contract For His Cinderella. Jane Porter

no tragedy.”

      “I don’t understand then why you’re here.”

      “I need your help.”

      “Mine?”

      “Yes. You might recall that you owe me, and I’ve come to collect on that favor.”

      She seemed to stop breathing then, and he watched the heat fade from her eyes until they were glacier-cool. “I have much to do tonight, Marcu. This is not a good night.”

      He gestured to the pair of charcoal velvet armchairs near the platform and the tall trio of gilt-framed mirrors. “Would it be easier to just speak now?”

      He saw her indecision and then she gave a curt nod. “Yes. Fine. Let’s talk now,” she said before walking to the chairs and sitting down on the edge of one, ankles crossing neatly under the chair.

      Monet’s heart hammered as Marcu followed her to the chairs backed by huge framed mirrors, and then took his time sitting down. The trio of mirrors gave her views of him from all angles as he first unbuttoned his dark jacket, and then sat down, all fluid grace and strength, before adjusting the cuff of his shirt, making sure it fit just so.

      This was her workplace, and her floor, and yet he managed to make her feel as if she was the outsider...the imposter. Just as she’d been as a girl, living in the Uberto palazzo, supported by his father. Monet hated remembering. She hated being dependent on anyone. And she very much resented Marcu’s appearance and reminder that she owed him.

      She did owe him, too.

      Years ago Marcu had come to her aid, providing an airline ticket and a loan when she needed to escape a difficult situation. He must have known there would be questions, and consequences, but he’d bought the airline ticket to London for her, anyway, and sent her with cash in her pocket, allowing her to escape Palermo, which is where the Uberto family lived, as did Monet’s mother, who was Marcu’s father’s mistress.

      Marcu had warned her as he’d dropped her off at the airport in Palermo that one day he would call in the favor. Monet was so desperate to escape that she’d blindly agreed. It had been eight years since that flight out of Palermo. It had been eight years since Marcu had told her that one day he would settle the score. It seemed that day was now. He had finally called in the favor.

      “I need you for the next four weeks,” he said, extending long legs. “I know you were once a nanny, and you were always good with my brother and sisters. Now I need you to take care of my three.”

      She hadn’t heard from him in years. She’d avoided all mention of the aristocratic Sicilian Uberto family in years, the Uberto palazzo was one of the oldest and most luxurious in Palermo, and yet now he was here, asking her to drop everything to take care of his children. It would be laughable if it had been anyone else making such demands, but this was Marcu and that changed everything.

      Monet drew a quick breath and shaped her smile, wanting to appear sympathetic. “As much as I’d like to help you, I really can’t. This is a terrible time for me to take leave from my work here, as retail depends on Christmas, and then there are my own clients. I’m quite protective of my anxious Christmas and New Year’s brides.”

      “I’m more protective of my children.”

      “As you should be, but you’re asking the impossible of me. I won’t be permitted to take any leave now.”

      “Then give notice.”

      “I can’t do that. I love my work here, and I’ve fought hard for this position.”

      “I need you.”

      “You don’t need me. You need a caregiver, a professional nanny. Hire a proper, skilled child-minder. There are dozens of agencies that cater to exclusive clientele—”

      “I will not trust my children with just anyone. But I will trust them with you.”

      She wasn’t flattered. The very last thing she wanted to do was to take care of Marcu’s children. She and Marcu had not parted on good terms. Yes, he’d helped finance her escape from Palermo, but he was the reason she’d had to leave Sicily in the first place. He’d broken her eighteen-year-old heart, and shattered her confidence. It had taken her years to build up her self-esteem again.

      “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” she retorted calmly. “But I can’t leave Bernard’s at this time of year. I have an entire department that depends on me.”

      “I’m calling in my favor.”

       “Marcu.”

      He simply looked at her, saying no more, but then, nothing else needed to be said on his part. They both knew she had agreed to return the favor. It was the only condition he’d made when he’d helped her leave Palermo. That one day he’d call in the favor, and when he did, she needed to help, and she’d agreed. As the years passed, Monet had come to hope—believe—that he would never need her. She’d hoped—believed—that he was so successful and comfortable that he’d forget the promise he’d extracted from her as he drove her to the airport. She’d grown so hopeful that he’d forgotten, that she herself had almost forgotten, that such a promise had even been made.

      But clearly he hadn’t, and that’s all that mattered now. “This is not a good time to call in the favor,” she murmured huskily.

      “I wouldn’t be here if it was a good time.”

      She looked away, brow knitting as she looked toward the huge Palladian-style window that dominated the fifth floor, adding to the department’s restrained elegance. A few fat white flakes seemed to be floating past the glass. It wasn’t snowing, was it?

      “I promise to put in a good word with Charles Bernard,” Marcu added. “I know him quite well, and I’m confident he will hold your position for you, and if not, I promise to help you find another job in January, after the wedding.”

       The wedding?

      That caught her attention and she turned from the window and the snow to look at Marcu. His blue gaze met hers and held.

      Marcu was still Marcu—brilliant, confident, arrogant, self-contained—and for a moment she was that eighteen-year-old girl again, desperate to be in his arms, in his life, in his heart. And then she collected herself, reminding herself that she wasn’t eighteen; years had passed and thankfully they weren’t the same people. At least, she wasn’t the same girl. She wasn’t attracted to him. She felt nothing for him.

      So why the sudden frisson of awareness shooting through her, warming her from the inside out?

      “I’m afraid you lost me,” she said huskily. “What wedding?”

      “Mine.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “Perhaps you didn’t know that my wife died shortly after my youngest was born.”

      Monet had known, but she’d blocked that from her mind, too.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, fixing her gaze on the sharp knot of his blue tie, the silk gleaming in the soft overhead light. Of course he was exquisitely tailored. Marcu looked sleek and polished, Italian style and sophistication personified. Perhaps if she kept her attention fixed to the crisp white points of his collar, and the smooth lapels of his jacket, she could keep from seeing the face she’d once loved. It had taken her forever to get over him, and she would not allow herself to feel any attraction, or interest, or concern or affection.

      “I need help with the children until after the wedding, and then it will get easier,” he said. “I won’t need your assistance longer than four weeks. Five, if it’s really rough going.”

      Four or five weeks, working with him? Minding his children while he married again? “Does that include the honeymoon?” she asked drily.

      He shrugged.