Jane Porter - Marco's Pride

“I’m getting married in a couple of months. I will be taking three weeks honeymoon then. It’s impossible to take more time now. But that doesn’t mean I won’t spend any time with the girls. I’ll make sure we have time together.”

Yes, just as he’d made sure he visited them often in California.

Payton felt a wave of anger roll through her. He’d always said she’d been selfish with the children that she’d turned them against him, but it wasn’t true. He’d never even tried to get to know them. He’d visited them less than a half dozen times in two years. What kind of relationship was that? “Your children are here for the first time in nearly two years—”

“And whose fault is that?” he bristled.

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe they were arguing already. It was all they’d ever done during their last twelve months together. The fighting had become unbearable. The tension impossible. “We’ll see you later this afternoon then.”

Marco’s thoughts weren’t on business when he arrived at the d’Angelo headquarters on Via Borgospesso in the elegant fashion district. He was thinking about the girls, and he made a mental note to follow up with his secretary on Gia’s lost blanket. It was imperative that the blanket be found quickly. Traveling was hard enough on young children without the loss of a favorite possession.

Yet on arriving at the office he was mobbed by a half dozen of his senior staff members, each with a pressing problem. They followed them into his office, talking at once. The men’s designer, his creative director, the vice president in charge of textiles and home collection—they were all crowding through the door, shouting over each other.

Marco shut the door, waved them toward the stylish modern couches against the wall. “I gather we have a couple problems,” he said dryly.

“A couple?” Jacopo rolled his eyes. He was the brainchild behind d’Angelo’s successful men’s collection. The House of d’Angelo had catered exclusively to women during Marco’s father’s time, but since taking over the business ten years ago Marco had entered new markets and Jacopo was the first new designer Marco had brought on board.

“Our number one mill closed their doors this morning,” Jacopo continued bitterly. “They’ve nothing for us. They fulfilled nothing in our order. We won’t have a single new textile for the show.”

“We didn’t contract with anyone else this year.” Fabrizio, the creative director, dropped onto the low black leather sofa, and threw an arm behind his head. “We’d decided this was the year we were going to go small. Work with one mill. We screwed ourselves.”

That was putting it bluntly, Marco thought, rubbing his temple, but it did seem to fit.

The closing of the mill impacted the women’s collection more than menswear. It would cripple womenswear and the fledgling home collection. “They can’t close their doors without fulfilling our contract. They’d open themselves to a horrendous lawsuit.”

No one said anything and Marco glanced at Maria, the director of fragrance. She hadn’t spoken yet. “What? I can tell something’s bothering you, and I can guarantee it’s not the mill.”

Maria’s dark eyebrows winged higher. “I’d say so.” She folded her arms over the leather clipboard. “It’s the new ad campaign. They shot the first print ad yesterday.”

“And?”

“It’s not the ad we agreed on. It’s not the new ad campaign that we’ve planned.”

“But is it any good?” The ad was scheduled to run in two dozen fashion publications around the globe.

“No.”

There were days Marco wished he hadn’t gotten out of bed. Today was one of them. “That bad?”

“You’d hate it.”

“Okay. Get the ad agency on the phone. Jacopo, make an appointment with our friends at the mill. Let them know we’re coming, along with our legal counsel. Looks like we’re going to have a busy day everyone.”

It would be busy, he thought, giving his creative team a chance to file out before reaching for his phone. But it wasn’t so busy he’d forgotten the twins. Leaning across his desk, he punched in the number for his travel coordinator. “Marco here,” he said. “Any success locating my daughter’s blanket?”

No luck. That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, and his travel coordinator’s solution irritated him. “I know I could buy her a new blanket, but that’s not the point. Gia doesn’t love a new blanket. She loves the old one. Make sure you’re on the last flight out tonight. I want her favorite blanket.”

HE GOT home far later than he intended and by the time he’d arrived, the house was dark and quiet, only a few lights glowing downstairs.

Marco followed the light to the grand salon where he heard Payton talking in a hushed voice. The doors were slightly ajar and he could see Payton curled on the love seat speaking on her cell phone. She was wearing slim hunter-green slacks, a black turtleneck, and a suede green blazer. She knew color, he thought. That shade of green she was wearing—forest with a hint of moss—set off her fiery hair and accented her pale complexion.

She’d always had a good eye for color and design and that was exactly what she was discussing now. Business. She must be talking to someone at work in San Francisco.

For a moment he felt a strange spark of emotion, part anger, part resentment. He and Payton had had their problems but he only had respect for her talent. She was a natural when it came to design. It was almost as if she could see how fabric would drape in her mind’s eye, picture the texture, the color, the cut and with just a few pencil sketches, she’d come up with brilliant ideas.

He’d admired her work. He’d wanted her on his team, producing for him. But once their relationship fell apart, Payton headed back to America and went to work for an Italian designer there.

Payton’s fingers were beginning to cramp from holding the little cell phone so long. She’d called the office just to check in but her assistant wouldn’t let her off the phone.

“When are you coming back?” her assistant demanded, already sounding rattled for eleven o’clock in the morning. “I swear, you’re the only one who knows what’s going on.”

“Well, somebody else better figure it out soon,” Payton answered lightly, thinking that if her being gone two days was a problem for Calvanti Design, then they were really going to be thrown for a loop when she announced that she was taking a leave of absence on her return.

She was just hanging up when she heard the wooden floor creak. Turning, Payton spotted Marco standing outside the tall gilded salon doors. “When did you get home?”

“A few minutes ago.” He gestured to the phone. “I didn’t overhear anything I wasn’t supposed to hear, did I?”

“No.”

He walked toward her, shedding his coat en route. “I heard you design for Calvanti under your own label now.”

“Yes.” Payton warily watched him approach.

He’d been livid when she took the position with Calvanti on returning to San Francisco two years ago. Calvanti was a small Italian-American design firm that had shown stunning poise and creativity for a small upstart fashion house. Payton had been thrilled at the prospect of having her own label and yet Marco had said they’d only hired her to capitalize on the d’Angelo name.

“You’ve given up working on menswear then?” he asked, dropping his coat on the back on a chair.

She felt a muscle pull in her jaw. He’d never thought much of her as a designer. Early in their marriage she’d shyly shown him her work and he’d been less than impressed. Actually he’d been far more blunt than that. “I still collaborate on menswear and the sportswear collection, but in the future I’ll be focusing more exclusively on my label.”