Marco's Pride. Jane Porter

disturbing the toddler slumped against her shoulder.

      Wrong name. Not hers.

      As Payton straightened she cradled the back of Gia’s head and glanced down into her sleeping daughter’s face. Wet tears still streaked Gia’s swollen cheeks, a testament to the hours Gia had wailed inconsolably for the small fuzzy blankie lost somewhere between boarding in San Francisco and changing planes in New York’s La Guardia airport.

      It had not been an easy flight.

      It had not been an easy month.

      It had not been an easy life.

      Payton’s lips twisted as she suppressed the rise of emotion. She couldn’t start thinking now. Thinking would only make everything worse.

      She shot Livia a quick glance. “Are you okay, Liv?” she whispered, mustering a smile for Gia’s twin.

      The three-year-old sat perched on top of an up-ended car seat, her thumb popped in her mouth, her arm clutching her own fuzzy blankie.

      Livia nodded solemnly, her dark blue eyes the same shade as Payton’s. The girls had inherited Payton’s heart-shaped face, small straight nose, and dark blue eyes, but their gorgeous coloring came from their father. Onyx curls, light olive skin, the longest, thickest black fringe of eyelash imaginable.

      Just thinking of Marco made Payton’s chest squeeze tight. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. When she’d left Milan two years ago she’d rashly vowed that nothing short of death would bring her back.

      And it had.

      Blinking, Payton concentrated on the moving carousel to keep the tears from forming. She wasn’t much of a crier anymore but she was exhausted and when she was overly tired tears welled more easily.

      The last year had been hard, but nothing like the last month. That had been hell. Four weeks endless fear. Endless worry. Endless soul-searching.

      And finally at last the truth came: if she were sick, the girls would need their father.

      Gia stirred in her arms, black lashes fluttering open. “I want my blankie,” she croaked, voice raspy from hours of crying.

      Payton cupped the back of her daughter’s head. “I know you do.”

      Brilliant tears welled in Gia’s eyes. “I want it now!”

      Gia’s forlorn cry knotted Payton’s heart. She felt like she’d failed Gia. The girls never went anywhere without their blankets. How could Payton lose track of Gia’s? It’d never happened before. It was unthinkable. “I know, I know, but we can’t get it right now—”

      “Noooo!”

      The wail filled the baggage claim area. Payton kissed Gia’s flushed cheek and rocked her. “We’ll get it back soon, I promise.”

      But Gia wasn’t comforted and Liv, hearing Gia’s distress, began to whimper, too.

      Suddenly the baggage carousel shut off.

      Payton stared at the now flat belt with a smattering of suitcases still on it. An airline employee began retrieving the remaining luggage, locking them together on a cart.

      Her suitcase hadn’t made it. The girls’ bag had arrived. The two car seats had made it. But not Payton’s own bag.

      No clean underwear, no nightgown, no comfortable shoes, nothing at all.

      A five-month audit from the Internal Revenue Service.

      A horrible biopsy.

      And now no clean underwear. Unbelievable.

      “Moommmmmy!” Gia wailed louder.

      Livia’s eyes filled with tears and she began to cry for Gia. “Get Gia’s blankie, Mommy! She needs her blankie.”

      “I know.” Payton crouched down, scooped up both girls in her arms and held them on her lap. “And I’ll try. I promise.”

      “Now!” Gia sobbed, pummeling her fist against Payton’s shoulder. “Get it now. Now. Now!”

      “She needs blankie,” Liv echoed, lower lip trembling.

      Gia’s wet gaze met her sister’s “Blankie misses me!”

      Now both girls were sobbing uncontrollably. Payton jiggled both in her arms, hushing them, even as she wondered how in God’s name she’d made it this far as a single mom.

      It hadn’t been easy.

      “I miss blankie, too,” Payton whispered. “Maybe we can find you a new one. I bet there are some beautiful blankets here and you can pick out the one you like best—”

      “Noooooo.” Gia sounded stricken and her cries grew louder, rose higher, nearing a feverish pitch.

      Suddenly a deep voice boomed, “Gianina Elettra Maria d’Angelo!” The reprimand immediately silenced Gia.

      The reprimand chilled Payton, too.

      Payton knew that voice. An icy shiver raced down her back. Marco.

      O God, she didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to be here. But she had no choice…

      Payton battled her own hysteria and slowly dragged her gaze up the imposing length of her ex-husband, a man she hadn’t seen in nearly a year.

      His dark eyes, the color of cocoa, met hers and for a moment she couldn’t breathe, the air bottled in her lungs, her heart constricting with anger and pain.

      She’d never thought she’d be back, never in a million years. And hadn’t she thrown something like that in Marco’s face on their last meeting? Nothing short of death would make me come back to you!

      Her head grew light. Her limbs felt heavy and brittle, as if coated with ice. Tiny black dots danced before her eyes and Payton forced herself to exhale, and then inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

      She could do this. She had to do this. It was for the girls.

      But looking at the girls—Gia’s small face almost white with shock, while huge tears filmed Liv’s dark blue eyes and clung to her lush black lashes—Payton felt a stab of utter despair.

      They didn’t even know him! How could she leave them with him? How could she think this—he—was the solution? How could he be the solution? She had to be out of her mind.

      Or out of options.

      Dammit, it wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Life had never given her a chance!

      “Hello, Marco,” she said, trying to sound natural and failing miserably. Seemed like she was failing at everything these days.

      “Hello, Payton.” He echoed her greeting and he sounded so coolly, casually composed. This was the Marco d’Angelo that faced the media, the Marco of a million magazine and newspaper stories, the Marco photographed a dozen times a week, the Marco that believed his own press.

      Her jaw ached and she realized she was smiling hard, smiling a tight fierce white toothy smile as though her life depended on it, and in a way, it did.

      No matter what happened to her, the girls would come first now. The girl’s future was all that mattered.

      She might hate Marco d’Angelo but he was the father of her children.

      “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she answered, forcing more air through her lips, praying she’d find her footing fast. She felt ridiculously disheveled her eyes gritty and dry after the all-night flight.

      “You left word that you were arriving in Milan this morning.”

      She felt rather than saw the narrowing of his eyes, the press of his lips. He was irritated. Which didn’t surprise her. She’d always irritated him. He’d been so impatient during their brief painful marriage, so angry.

      “I left word so you wouldn’t be surprised