The distinction had been made years ago. The girls might be d’Angelo, but she wasn’t, and she’d never be.

Payton filled the necessary forms for tracking her lost suitcase, felt Marco’s close scrutiny. He still held Gia but Liv clung to Payton’s leg, trying to put as much distance between her and that man.

That man. Their father. Payton realized it had all begun. The changes. The choices. The courage.

 

The limousine ride was quiet. The girls dozed. The tires of the car hummed on the road. Payton noted that Marco kept his distance, sitting as far from her in the back of the car as possible, and for that she was thankful.

As the tall stone house with the late Baroque facade came into view, her stomach tightened. Once she’d been so in awe of the elegant house with the high windows, perfectly painted shutters, curved iron balustrade. But now she felt fear.

Inside the house, Payton settled the girls into the bright, airy nursery, the plaster painted a warm yellow and the low shelves in the room filled with toys and dolls. Then with the girls happily playing, she knew it was time to face Marco.

Marco waited for her in the salon downstairs. His suit jacket disappeared. He wore a thin dark brown sweater that hugged the hard planes of his chest, the expensive leather belt at his waist emphasizing his lean, muscular build. He’d always been athletic. He looked dangerous now.

“You’re back,” he said tautly, reaching for the espresso a maid had carried in.

His voice sounded cool and hard just like the rest of him and it sliced through Payton’s exhaustion, sliced through the jumble of thoughts in her head and brought her the focus she needed.

Payton stiffened slightly, helplessly. “Not by choice.”

He laughed low, the sound harsh and grating. “I find that hard to believe.”

Thank God she didn’t feel anything.

She hadn’t been sure if she would. She’d worried about this moment for weeks, anticipating the moment she finally came face-to-face and heard his voice again, saw his face again and the fierce fire in his eyes.

Now the moment had come and her heart didn’t lurch and her stomach didn’t fall. No racing pulse, no ache of emotion. Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. Thank God.

She couldn’t have handed over her babies knowing that they—she and Marco—could have been a perfect family. She couldn’t have walked away if there’d been a chance for real happiness.

Now that she was here, now that she stood just a foot from Marco d’Angelo she realized that they’d never been in love. They’d never been really together, despite the vows and the ring and the children. They’d been just an accidental meeting.

She cleared her throat. “I didn’t want to argue in front of the girls, but I booked a hotel because I prefer to stay in a hotel—”

“You came all this way to see me but you want a hotel?”

God, she didn’t want to fight. She was swaying on her feet. Exhausted out of her mind. A fight was the last thing she could handle now.