Interview with a Playboy (12 page)

She took a sip of her coffee before returning her attention to the boxes. There was a letter attached to the top one, and with a jolt of surprise she saw it had her name on it.

Quickly she slit the envelope open, and pulled out the crisp sheet of white paper.

It was more of a summons than an invitation, Isobel thought as her eyes flicked over the bold, clear handwriting.

Hope you slept well
, indeed! And how could she meet him for lunch when she had no clothes? Unless…

She looked at the boxes underneath, and quickly unloosened the red ribbon and lifted the first lid.

Nestled in amongst folds of tissue lay a silk dress in the most exquisite shades of green and purple. Even before she looked at the label she knew it was an expensive designer dress. It was in her size too!

She opened the next box and found a pair of gold Jimmy Choo high-heeled shoes with a matching clutch bag.

Isobel swallowed hard. Never in her entire life had she owned an outfit so beautiful or so expensive.

But somehow it didn’t seem right, accepting such gifts from
a man she had just slept with. She felt a bit like a mistress or a kept woman or something.

With a frown, she put the lid back on the boxes.

She had to think sensibly. If she didn’t accept the clothes she wouldn’t be able to meet Marco for lunch. And maybe… just maybe…he would give her an interview today. Then she’d be able to put this episode behind her, go back to London and forget all about Marco Lombardi.

At exactly twelve-forty-five Isobel was skimming across the sea in a speedboat that was taking her from Marco’s yacht into Nice Harbour.

As the boat slowed and entered the port she smoothed back her hair with a feeling of apprehension. She hoped she was going to be able to deal with this lunch in a purely professional way—that she could look at Marco and forget what had happened between them.

The boat pulled alongside the quay and a man in the same uniform as the man who was piloting her came hurrying to help her step out onto dry land.

Marco seemed to have a lot of staff; whilst she’d been lazing aboard his yacht this morning she’d counted at least five people wearing that uniform.

There was a limousine waiting for her next to the dock. And Isobel was aware of a few curious glances being thrown her way as a chauffeur got out to open the passenger door for her.

She wasn’t used to so much attention, and she had to admit she felt good; the dress she was wearing was fabulous. It was perfectly cut, skimming over her curves in a very flattering way, and it even had short, feathery little straps that covered the bruise on her shoulder. It seemed Marco had thought of everything. All she lacked was some make-up—not that her appearance was important, she reminded herself firmly. Really she should be focusing on work.

Isobel looked out of the limousine with interest as they drove around the quayside. She loved the colourful buildings and the quaint old-world charm about the place. They passed pavement cafés and restaurants, and then swept past a huge memorial to the fallen of World Wars. Further around the headland she could see the Bay of Angels glittering in the sun, and the long sweep of the Promenade des Anglais.

The limousine turned off the main road at that point, through an archway into what looked like an old medieval part of the town, before pulling to a stop.

‘Monsieur Lombardi is waiting for you,’ the chauffeur told her as he opened the door for her and pointed towards a cobbled street lined with pavement restaurants.

She felt a bit like a nervous teenager on a first date as she walked in the direction the chauffeur had indicated. With determination, she held her head up high. This was just a business lunch, she told herself over and over again. It would be madness to think of it in any other way. She tried to concentrate on the beauty of her surroundings, the lovely old buildings in rich shades of yellow and umber, the profusion of flowers on the stalls in the centre of the street, the scent of carnations and lilies and roses merging in the warmth of the day with the French buzz of the market.

She saw Marco before he saw her. He was sitting at one of the pavement cafés, studying the menu, and he looked so relaxed and sophisticated in his dark suit and white shirt that she felt all her sensible thoughts immediately start to desert her.

Was this gorgeous man really waiting for her? she wondered dreamily. Had last night really happened, or had it been some kind of crazy hallucination? None of this felt real, somehow.

He looked up, and her senses flipped even more as she saw the look of surprise in his eyes as he took in her appearance. ‘Izzy, you look great,’ he said as he got to his feet.

‘Thank you.’ She felt suddenly unbearably self-conscious. She wished she was wearing make-up—she wished that she were as beautiful as the women he usually dated. A dart of anger rushed through her at the absurdity of that thought.

This wasn’t a real date, she reminded herself firmly. And even if it were, she knew what type of man he was—knew that even if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, his interest in her would probably go no deeper than last night’s sex. And he’d most likely even forgotten
that
.

‘The dress suits you.’ He took his seat again as she sat down.

‘Yes…thank you. I take it you have a secretary who is good at shopping in her coffee break?’

He laughed. ‘Actually, I saw it in a boutique window as I walked up to the office. But you are right—I have a very obliging secretary who ran out for it in her coffee break.’

And was probably used to doing such things, Isobel reminded herself matter-of-factly. ‘Well, thanks anyway. I was a bit unsure about accepting it, but I thought arriving for lunch wearing a dressing gown might cause a bit of a stir.’

‘I’m sure it would have done. Because you looked very sexy in that as well,’ he told her with a gleam in his eye.

Maybe he hadn’t forgotten last night.

She tried desperately not to look in any way uncomfortable about the remark, but she could feel herself heating up as she remembered how he had untied that robe last night—how he had moved his hands boldly over her naked body.

‘So, how are you today?’ he asked nonchalantly as he put up a hand to summon the waiter.

‘Absolutely fine.’ Isobel forced herself to hold her head high and maintain eye contact. She could do this, she told herself firmly. She could be just as casual as he—could forget all about what had happened between them.

‘Good.’ His gaze moved slowly over her. He’d thought that she would look good with her hair down and the right clothes,
but he hadn’t realised she would be this striking. Her long dark hair lay in glossy curls around her shoulders, and although she wasn’t wearing any make-up her skin was smoothly perfect and her lips had a natural apricot glow. She really was naturally stunning, he thought absently.

But it was her eyes that held him—she looked so determined and yet at the same time so…defenceless. The combination intrigued him, made him remember how sweetly and innocently she had responded to him in bed.

‘I enjoyed last night,’ he told her lazily.

He watched with interest as the skin over her high cheekbones seemed to flare with a wild rose colour. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a woman blush like that.

‘Yes…it was…OK.’ It took every ounce of Isobel’s self-control to make the nonchalant reply. What she really wanted to do was to get up from the table and run as far away as she possibly could. She couldn’t handle this. She was mortified… absolutely mortified.

He laughed. ‘Yes, it was definitely OK,’ he told her, and the husky, teasing warmth in his tone made her skin flush even more.

She looked over at him from beneath the long dark sweep of her eyelashes and he smiled. Yesterday he had wondered if that shy look was for real…now he knew that it was.

And she was obviously struggling to cope with this situation.

‘So, how was your business meeting this morning?’ She tried to change the subject.

‘To be honest, it was an extreme inconvenience,’ he told her softly.

‘Was it…?’ From nowhere she suddenly remembered how at one point last night she’d sleepily suggested that he forgot about business today.

‘Absolutely.’ His lips twisted in a half-smile. ‘Another few hours in bed would have been most welcome.’

‘Marco, I think you should know that I wasn’t thinking very clearly last night…or this morning, for that matter.’ She cut across him breathlessly. ‘So if you don’t mind I’d rather we didn’t spend time analysing what happened.’

He smiled. ‘Isobel, I kind of gathered that. Neither of us planned for last night. It was one of those things—chemistry, Karma…call it what you want.’

She nodded, and tried to tell herself that she was glad they’d had that conversation and cleared the air. Except as she looked over at him things didn’t feel any less complicated.

‘Now, shall we order some lunch?’ he suggested matter-of-factly as the waiter stopped beside their table.

‘Yes, of course.’ She grabbed the menu and tried to study it. But she wasn’t in any way interested in anything that was on it, and she was so wound up she didn’t think she could eat anything.

‘The seafood is good here,’ Marco told her. ‘Also the Salade Niçoise is a speciality of the region.’

Isobel grabbed on to the suggestion gratefully. ‘I’ll have the salad, then, thank you.’

Marco nodded and gave the order in perfect French.

She tried not to think about how sexy he sounded—tried not to think about anything connected with last night. But as he turned his attention lazily back to her she could feel herself heating up even more.

He seemed so perfectly at ease. But then she supposed he was used to going to bed with a woman without thinking deeply about it.

By contrast, as she looked at his hands all she could remember was the way he had caressed her. When she looked at his lips she was remembering the way they had possessed hers. And as their eyes held across the table she wanted him all over again.

The knowledge twisted painfully inside her. So much for hoping he was out of her system! So much for being able to
act as if last night had never happened! Her reassurances to herself about getting with the modern programme now felt hollow and foolish—like a very bad joke.

She didn’t want to feel like this.

Marco’s gaze drifted over her, taking in the vulnerable gleam in her eyes, the pallor of her skin. The chemistry was still swirling between them, and he knew he only had to reach for her to break down the flimsy defences that she was so desperate to construct around herself.

He was tempted to do that right now—because for the last few hours of his business meetings he had been distractedly thinking about possessing her body again.

But something in her eyes held him back, told him to bide his time, take this slowly.

She was his for the taking…but he found himself in the unusual position of wanting to take things at a leisurely pace—of wanting to explore her mind as well as her body. He was interested by the fact that he had taken her virginity—fascinated about why even now she was so scared of letting go and opening up to him.

Most women fell over themselves for so much as a smile from him…but she was different.

OK, since his divorce he hadn’t wanted to get involved with any woman, especially a journalist, but he did have a little time on his hands before he took a business flight to New York in a few days, and she was…very appealing.

‘Actually, I have some news for you. My deal with Cheri Bon was finalised this morning,’ he told her.

‘Really?’ She sat up a little straighter. ‘Are you going to tell me all about it?’

He smiled at her. ‘I just might.’

For now he’d play along with her need to be businesslike—but after lunch things were going to change, he told himself determinedly.

T
HE
sun was warm on Isobel’s back. The food was good and the conversation stimulating. Marco was giving her the inside details of his takeover deal with the French confectionery company, and it was completely absorbing.

‘When you make up your mind that you want something, you really go for it, don’t you?’ she murmured with a shake of her head.

‘Don’t you?’ He looked at her humorously. ‘Aren’t you the young woman who hung around the Sienna offices for weeks to get the inside track on what was happening there?’

‘I was convinced you were about to take the place apart…’ She looked over at him guiltily. ‘Sorry—but there was a factory last year in London that you
did
close.’

‘Henshaws…’ Marco shook his head. ‘That company was dead in the water when I bought it, Izzy. It was the land that was valuable.’

‘Yeah, well, I thought it was similar to what had happened at my grandfather’s firm…and, yes, I realise I got it wrong.’

He shook his head and watched as she looked away from him. ‘It still hurts you to think about what happened with your family’s firm, doesn’t it?’

She shrugged self-consciously. ‘I just feel like an idiot for being shocked. I honestly didn’t think my dad could hurt me any more than he had…’

Marco’s dark eyes moved over her slowly.

‘Anyway, let’s not talk about that,’ she said hurriedly.

‘No, let’s not. Have I told you that you are the first reporter that I’ve actually wanted to spend time with?’ He leaned forward and reached to tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘It’s very curious,’ he murmured huskily.

The words and the touch of his hand made her emotions flip.

She wanted to tell him that she liked spending time with him too. But she forced herself not to because that would be madness…emotional suicide. He was a player, she told herself for the hundredth time…and he was playing her right now.

His phone rang and he reached lazily to answer it, his eyes still on her face.

He was speaking in Italian now. She remembered how he’d spoken to her in Italian last night, and how she’d asked him to translate words in between kisses. The memory sent little butterflies dancing around in her stomach. They hadn’t been loving words, they had been sexy, tantalising…provoking words, and just thinking about them made her feel hot all over again.