Masters at Arms - By Kallypso Masters Page 0,38

a young girl they perceived to be “in trouble,” even though this baby actually was the impetus Savannah needed to get herself out of trouble. And her father would never look for her in a barrio neighborhood like that. She’d take on a new name—perhaps the English version of her Mama’s maiden name Pannier. Savi Baker. He’d never trace her.

If the people of the Hispanic community were anything like Damián, she’d be okay. Perhaps she could tutor kids or somehow be of help to them while she waited for the baby.

Oh, Damián. I’m so scared. I wish I had your courage and strength.

Section Three

Prequel to Marc’s Story, Nobody’s Angel

October 2003, Aspen, Colorado

“Not tonight, damn it.” The knock at his door was not welcome. Marc D’Alesso had had an exhausting day trying to juggle what seemed like dozens of crises at the resort and just wanted to be left alone.

He drained his glass of Pinot Bianco and leaned over to set his wineglass on the oak coffee table. Standing, he walked over to the stereo to turn down Bocelli’s Por Amor. The living room of his Aspen apartment was done entirely in earth tones that reminded him of his childhood home in Lombardy, and usually provided some calm for him after the stresses of trying to run the family business.

So not working tonight.

With reluctance, he crossed the living room to open the front door. On the welcome mat knelt a voluptuous Italian woman he recognized immediately, even though her head was bowed.

Ah, shit. Not again.

“I’ve been very bad, Master Marco.”

Melissa raised her head to look at him and smiled. She wore a very low-cut blouse, her breasts spilling from the gaping vee. Two years ago, he’d have dragged her inside, stripped her, and had her ass reddened within ten minutes.

That was before he’d found her in bed with his brother, Gino.

“Look Melissa, I’m tired, I don’t appreciate your topping from the bottom, and I thought we were finished playing these games.”

She sat back on her heels, straightening her back. A look of sheer desperation crossed her face before she controlled it and reached up to place her hands on the sides of his hips. He didn’t help her stand, but perhaps if he had, she wouldn’t have been able to rub her breasts across his crotch and chest as she pulled herself to her feet.

Melissa teetered and grabbed his arms for support. Had she been drinking? Not nearly as much as he’d have to drink to want to have anything more to do with her again.

The woman who had nearly become his fiancée wrapped her arms behind his neck and pulled his face toward hers. “Please, Marco. I need you. No one can satisfy me the way you can.”

He doubted she’d waited around celibately over the last eighteen months for him to satisfy her again. What the hell did she want? He reached up to separate her interlocked hands and took a step away from her. Big mistake. She stepped into the apartment to follow him.

“Melissa, we’re through. We were through six months before what happened after Gino’s funeral. That was just a big mistake.”

Tears filled her brown eyes. She’d always been able to cry at a moment’s notice. Her well-manicured hand splayed across his chest. “Marco, we need each other. Gino would have wanted us to be together to comfort each other.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Gino didn’t share. What was his, was his. And he’d made it abundantly clear that she was his before he left for Afghanistan. Of course, after their betrayal, Marc had wanted nothing to do with either of them.

She closed her eyes, then gazed up at him again and took a new tack. “Gino never satisfied me the way you could. He didn’t understand my need to be controlled.”

As if Marc had ever been in control in their relationship. She’d pursued him in college and they’d dated exclusively the year before he graduated. Then he brought her home to the resort to meet his family in preparation of popping the question. At least he’d been divested of that notion before it was too late.

Melissa had played Marc for a fool. He’d vowed that no woman would have that kind of control over him ever again.

“Look, I’m going to drive you home. You’ve obviously been drinking. Someone can bring you back over tomorrow to get your car.”

He turned to walk into the kitchen to retrieve his Porsche keys. Melissa pressed her body against his back, pushing him