Interview with a Playboy (18 page)

‘What are you doing here, Marco?’ she asked again, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears.

‘I thought that was obvious. I’ve come to see you.’ He watched as she peeled off her raincoat and put her briefcase down on the kitchen table. She’d lost weight, he noticed suddenly; in fact she looked quite frail.

Isobel was well aware of that deliberate measured assessment of her figure, and it made her body flare with heat. How dared he look her over as if he owned her? She hadn’t heard from him or seen him in weeks, and suddenly here he was, with his bold, sensual attitude… Well, to hell with that.

He didn’t own her; in fact he had no claim on her at all—no right to be here at all.

‘You know, I’m a bit busy right now. I’ve got a pile of work to do. So if there isn’t something specific that you’ve dropped by for, I think maybe you should leave.’ She tipped her chin up defiantly. OK, he thought he was God’s gift to women, and most women would probably have agreed with that, but she was leaving the fan club, she told herself fervently.

Marco smiled. He’d almost forgotten how fiery she was, and how much he enjoyed that about her. ‘Well, it’s a good job I
have
called about something specific, then,’ he told her, his gaze resting on the softness of her lips. Then he reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.

Instinctively she kissed him back, her senses pounding in sudden chaos.

‘There—that’s better,’ he said lazily as he let go of her.

She couldn’t talk for a moment because she felt so shaken up. She hated the way he could do this, she thought hazily. One moment she was promising herself that she wasn’t interested in him, and the next she was feeling hot inside and falling back under his spell.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she told him breathlessly.

‘Probably not.’ His gaze was still resting on her lips. ‘But I’m glad I did. Now, I suggest you run along and get changed out of those wet clothes.’

‘Marco, I’m not going to sleep with you.’ She raised her chin firmly. ‘We had a fling and it’s over.’ It took all her strength to say the words. ‘If you think you can just turn up here and—’

He laughed. ‘
Cara,
relax—if I wanted to sleep with you we’d be in bed right now.’

‘I don’t think so!’

He was looking at her in that bold Italian way that made her body start to melt. And suddenly she realised it was probably best not to try and argue that point. Because whatever
chemistry had once been between them was definitely still there.

‘Go and get changed, Izzy,’ he told her again softly.

She hesitated for a moment. Then with a shrug moved away from him towards the bedroom door.

He really had a nerve, turning up here unannounced—and on a Friday night too, she thought as she opened up her wardrobe and rummaged through it for something suitable to wear. She might have had plans of her own…a date.

And serve him right if she had, she thought as she remembered he’d been back in London for a few days. How dared he come waltzing back in here, kissing her as if he had some God-given right to kiss her?

What was he doing here?
The question sizzled through her.

And what was she going to put on? She didn’t want to look as if she was making too much of an effort for him—but then again she wanted to look her best just to give her confidence a boost.

Her hands shook as she pulled out a plain black dress from the wardrobe.

You couldn’t go wrong with a black dress, she told herself reassuringly. You could dress it up or down accordingly. Quickly she took off her wet clothes, dried herself, and then gave her hair a quick blast from her hairdryer.

‘Have you eaten yet?’ Marco called from the other room. ‘We could go out and have a light supper somewhere, if you’d like?’

The invitation gave her butterflies of anticipation. Part of her would have liked to accept. But jumping when Marco clicked his fingers wasn’t a good idea. She needed to be sensible. He was already arrogant enough. She didn’t want to be some stopgap in his diary.

She took a deep breath. ‘No, I’ve had a busy day—I don’t want to go out, Marco.’

Probably just as well, seeing as she still felt queasy. The knowledge swirled inside her, making her nerves increase even more.

She slipped into the black dress and put some lipstick on. That was better, she thought as she gave her reflection a quick check-over in the dressing table mirror. At least she felt human again, and could hold her own with Marco now.

Taking a deep breath, she went back out to face him.

‘So, if you don’t want to go out, have you got anything in these cupboards that’s edible?’ He was in the kitchen, assessing the contents of her cupboards, and she didn’t think she could have been any more surprised if she’d tried.

She hated to admit it, but he looked good in her kitchen. He’d taken off the jacket of his suit and rolled up his sleeves.

‘Marco, what are you doing?’ she asked, leaning against the doorframe to watch him.

‘I’m raiding your cupboards—because I’ve just come directly from a meeting and I’m starving.’

‘Don’t tell me the mighty Marco Lombardi can
cook
?’ She looked at him teasingly.

‘Of course I can cook. I’m Italian. But I do draw the line at this.’ He pulled out a packet of dried pasta from her cupboard and looked at her accusingly. ‘What
is
this disgusting stuff?’

She laughed. ‘Sorry, Marco, but you’re talking to someone who never has much time.’

‘Hmm… And someone who has stopped eating, by the looks of it.’ He cast a glance over at her. ‘You’re fading away, Izzy.’

‘No, I’m not!’ Even as she denied the claim she knew he was right. She had lost a lot of her curves recently.

‘Well, we shall just have to put up with this dried pasta…’ He was scrutinising her olive oil now.

The oven was on and the kitchen felt cosy. There was
something nice about having him here like this, she thought dreamily.

But that was the crazy part of her talking. She’d liked spending time with Marco in France, and since she’d come back she’d missed him—had felt lonely. But that was most likely because she was ready for a new relationship. A relationship with the right man, she reminded herself firmly. And that wasn’t Marco.

She needed to tread very warily.

He was starting to put away her shopping from the bag she’d brought home.
The bag that contained the pregnancy testing kit she’d just bought!

The memory made her pounce and take the bag from him. ‘It’s OK—I’ll do that!’ she told him hastily.

He smiled at her. ‘OK—and then you can pour us a glass of wine and watch a master at work.’

‘There is no end to your arrogance, is there?’ she said with a shake of her head.

‘No point being falsely modest, Izzy. It gets you nowhere in life.’

She emptied the shopping and then, when she was sure his back was turned towards her, took the bag with the kit in it into the bathroom.

What would she do if she found she were pregnant?

The question burned through her.

OK, Marco was here now, and this display of domesticity was all very well—but it wasn’t real. This situation wasn’t real. He was doubtless just here on a whim. And deep down she knew that the last thing he would want was for her to tell him she was pregnant… He wasn’t over Lucinda, and he wasn’t over the child they had lost.

The reminder made her heart thump uneasily, and she hid the kit at the back of the bathroom cabinet.

She
wasn’t
pregnant, she told herself soothingly. She’d had
a period since she’d come back from France…hadn’t she? The awful thing was she couldn’t remember.

She closed the bathroom cabinet and leaned her forehead against the cool of the glass.

Everything would be OK, she told herself firmly.

It had to be.

As Isobel’s only table was in the kitchen, they ate in there. Isobel dimmed the overhead light and lit some candles. Then as she sat opposite him she wished she hadn’t—because it suddenly felt too intimate.

‘So, what are you really doing here, Marco?’ She forced herself to ask the question as he reached to pour her a glass of wine.

‘I’ve called to see how you are. Is that really so surprising?’ He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. ‘We had fun in France, didn’t we?’

‘Yes, but…that’s all it was—a bit of fun. I didn’t expect to see you again.’

What she said was true. And he hadn’t planned on seeing her again. He didn’t want anything serious. But the strange thing was he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind since they’d said goodbye—and that wasn’t like him.

He’d tried to tell himself that she was just a journalist, and that very soon he’d probably read about his marriage break-up in detail in the
Daily Banner
—which would make a mockery of those deeply sincere green eyes of hers. But that hadn’t happened; instead she’d kept her promise, and her remarks about his marriage had been restrained…even insightful. And that had made him think about her even more. He’d found himself in video conferences, trying to focus on important deals, only to be sidetracked by the memory of her passionate kisses. Or in boardrooms about to clinch a vital deal when he’d remember making love to her on the polished table, their
passion so strong, so impatient, he hadn’t even been able to think coherently enough to wear protection.

By coming here this evening maybe he was hoping for some sort of closure on all of that.

‘Well, I thought we had some unfinished business,’ he murmured slowly. ‘For one thing I wanted to tell you I read your article.’

‘Oh!’ She sat up a little straighter in her chair. ‘That must be the first time you’ve ever opened up the
Daily Banner
! I’m honoured.’

‘Yes, you are.’ He smiled, but his eyes held steadily with hers. ‘I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the article I read.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ She looked at him in puzzlement.

‘You kept my secret.’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ Her heart thudded painfully.

‘I never take anything for granted, Izzy.’

‘Especially with a journalist?’ She looked over at him with a raised eyebrow.

‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘I should have trusted my instincts more with you. Sometimes I’m too wary. But I appreciate your discretion.’

The words were huskily sincere, but Isobel didn’t really want his thanks—and if that was the only reason he’d come then she’d rather he hadn’t.

‘You don’t need to thank me, Marco,’ she said quietly. ‘But you’re welcome anyway.’

‘I know I don’t need to thank you…I just wanted to.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘And something else puzzled me. You didn’t print the pictures I said you could take.’

She shrugged uncomfortably. If anyone at the paper found out she had those photos and hadn’t volunteered them her name would be damned for all time. ‘When it came down to it I didn’t need them. You can have them back if you want—I have them safe.’

He took a sip of his wine and let his eyes drift over her thoughtfully, but he made no reply. Something about the way he was looking at her made her senses stir. Hastily she glanced away, trying to remain focused on reality.

‘I believe you are going to attend Lucinda’s premiere next week?’

‘You’ve been reading the gossip rags,’ he accused sardonically.

‘Well, actually the receptionist at work has. She told me you’d been back in London a few days and that that was the reason you were here.’

‘Amazing, isn’t it, how a receptionist somewhere can know so much about my life? More, in fact, than I do.’ He shook his head. ‘The truth is that I only touched down at Heathrow this morning. We had to stop off in Dublin on the way back from New York, due to some problems with a company I own there.’

‘Oh…’ Why did she feel pleased? she asked crossly. OK, he’d only just arrived back in the country—but he still hadn’t made any attempt to get in contact with her in the weeks since they’d parted. ‘And is it true about the premiere?’

‘Ah…more complicated. Lucinda has asked me to attend. But it’s not the reason I’m here.’

‘Let me guess—you had other pressing business to take care of?’ she said lightly.

‘Yes, some very important business…’

The candlelight flickered between them, throwing his face into shadow. She noticed how his gaze moved towards her lips, and a shiver of need ran through her, twisting into an ache as their eyes held.

How was it that he could make her want him so much that it hurt?

It scared her.

Isobel looked down at the plates in front of them. They’d both finished eating a while ago.

‘I should make us some coffee…’ She tried to focus on being practical, to snap out of that kind of thinking.

‘Izzy…?’

She looked back at him, her eyes shadowed.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Of course I’m OK.’

She remembered him asking her that the day they’d sat having lunch in Nice.

She remembered going back to his apartment—remembered how they hadn’t even managed to make it into the bedroom in those first few moments because they’d wanted each other so badly.

She pushed the thoughts fiercely away. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Just checking.’ He shrugged. ‘We took a few risks in Nice didn’t we…?’

Was that the important business he was talking about? Had he come to make sure there were going to be no unwelcome surprises a few months down the line? She stared at him and wondered what he’d say if she told him she thought she was pregnant. The words hovered on the edge of her lips…

But she wasn’t pregnant, she told herself fiercely—and if she was she needed to come to terms with it before she discussed it with him.

‘Yes, it was a bit crazy…’ She shrugged. ‘But you don’t need to worry about me—I’m fine.’

She got up to clear their plates away to the sink.

‘Maybe you should go, Marco,’ she said suddenly.

‘Maybe I should.’ He stood up and walked over to stand beside her, his eyes moving slowly over her. ‘But the thing is I don’t want to go.’

‘Yes, but it’s getting late, and I’m a bit jaded. You know what it’s like when you’re working hard.’ She wished he wouldn’t look at her so closely.