Interview with a Playboy (6 page)

She typed the name into a search engine and waited, but there was nothing except a charity for disabled children. She glanced at it brief ly. It also supported families with premature babies, and did some very good work counselling couples dealing with the death of a child, but it was clearly nothing to do with Marco. Maybe she’d spelt it wrong. She was about to close the box, but before she did so something made her type Marco’s name into the mix.

Immediately his name flashed up on screen as the founder
and director of Porzione, and she sat back in her chair. Why would Marco have founded a children’s charity?

Curiously she typed in Marco’s name followed by just the word
charity
, to see what else came up. To her surprise his name was associated with a very long list of charitable organisations.

Strange how that was never mentioned in the media—but then judging by the way she’d had to search for his name it seemed he liked to keep a low profile. And of course, stories about charities probably didn’t sell as well as stories about his love-life.

A curl of guilt stirred inside her. Why hadn’t she discovered this before? She drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair as she thought about her findings. A lot of big businessmen donated to charity, she told herself sensibly. And just because Marco donated money to good causes it didn’t make him a good person. It was probably some kind of tax dodge, anyway.

She returned her attention to the internet and impulsively typed in the name of his ex-wife—Lucinda White. A lot of information came up about the films she had starred in, but there was also a lot of material about her marriage to Marco.

Isobel glanced through some of the old articles and photographs.

As the couple had always fiercely guarded their privacy, almost everything that was written was pure conjecture. The only fact that couldn’t be denied was that they had once loved each other, as evidenced in some of the snatched photographs of them together.

They had made a very glamorous couple, and it was no wonder the press had been obsessed with them. A picture of Marco and Lucinda together at a party or even out for an afternoon stroll had sold newspapers and magazines by the ton. There had been a greedy appetite to know everything there was to know about their whirlwind love affair—where
they shopped, where they went on holiday, how they decorated their home in Beverly Hills. In fairness, Isobel could see why Marco disliked the press. It had all got a bit out of hand.

Although the couple had studiously avoided giving the media any intimate details about their lives, people had thought they knew them—thought their relationship was the real thing. They had been depicted as the perfect couple.

Then suddenly, eighteen months later, the marriage had ended without any explanation.

Irreconcilable differences, they’d said. But they hadn’t said what those differences were. The divorce had been quick and yet dignified. There had been no war over money, no trading of recriminations or insults—in fact they had stated that they would always be friends.

That had been almost two years ago now, and since the split neither one of them had been involved with anyone else. There had been rumours every time Marco was seen out with a woman—which was frequently. But there seemed to be no one serious in his life, and the same for Lucinda.

Some people said that they still loved each other. But if that were the case they would still be together. It wasn’t as if the press interest had diminished because they were divorced. In fact it had sparked a whole new direction of spin.

There were lots of articles on the internet now with various theories about what had happened. Some said Marco had just reverted to type and got bored—once a womaniser always a womaniser, they said. Some alleged that Lucinda had wanted children and Marco hadn’t. A few suspected that Lucinda had been the one to have an affair.

So what was the truth? Isobel wondered.

If she had to guess, her money would be on Marco having an affair—possibly the thought of committing to a family had sent him running scared for the hills. You only had to look at the articles and the lists of women he had dated both before and after his marriage to realise he liked playing the
field. There were even kiss-and-tell articles by women he had unceremoniously dumped after just a few dates. He was a player. It wasn’t rocket science.

But of course she could be wrong, she reminded herself, because she was just guessing. Lucinda was a very beautiful woman and a very successful actress; she
could
have been the one who’d had a fling.

Isobel paused to look at one of her publicity pictures. The actress was wearing a white bikini that left little to the imagination. She had a fabulous body, glorious long blonde hair and big blue eyes.

Maybe one of her leading men had made a play for her and she hadn’t been able to resist. Things like that happened all the time in Hollywood.

But if she’d been the one to have an affair wouldn’t it have been splashed all over the papers? Since the divorce there had been no rumours about Lucinda, no cosy photographs of her out having dinner at restaurants and then returning to someone’s apartment late at night, leaving early in the morning. Not like Marco.

Marco seemed to have sailed through his divorce without giving it a second thought. Although there was one shot of him just after the decree nisi where he looked as if the whole thing had suddenly got to him.

She flicked back to that photograph and studied it. They’d caught him leaving his offices, and there was a bleak look in his eyes, a troubled air about him.

Perhaps he wasn’t unfeeling. Perhaps Lucinda had been unfaithful and he had been devastated.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind Isobel frowned. Why was she suddenly looking for excuses for him? He’d probably looked shattered that day because he’d been out all night, or because he hadn’t made as many millions that week as he’d expected—not because his divorce was final.

Nevertheless she was supposed to be keeping an open mind,
she reminded herself. If she had to write a celebrity interview, the least she could do was to make it the best interview she could, and that meant being accurate with details.

Isobel sighed and disconnected from the internet. She would find out the truth, she told herself with determination, and she would start by putting some questions to Marco tonight over dinner.

With that thought in mind, she got to her feet and went inside to get ready.

It was strange… She was usually so eager to get a story, and not at all nervous. But as she headed downstairs a little while later her confident business mood felt as if it was evaporating—a fact that wasn’t helped when she rounded a corner and caught sight of her reflection in the hallway mirror. The black skirt and blouse she was wearing were OK for the office, but for dinner with Marco they seemed suddenly lamentably dull.

Isobel frowned. She had interviewed a lot of different people over the years, and this was the first time she had ever worried about what she was wearing! Usually she was totally focused on getting the story. And that was how she should be now, she told herself firmly. It wasn’t as if she was out to impress Marco—which was just as well, considering his usual dinner companions were movie stars and models. This was just work.

Trying to forget the stupid undercurrents that were whirring around inside her, she held her head high and moved down the corridor in search of her quarry.

A door was open a little further along, and as she looked in she saw Marco sitting behind a desk in a large book-lined study. He was immersed in paperwork and didn’t hear her until she knocked on the door. Then he sat back and smiled.

Something about that lazy, casual smile and the way his gaze drifted over her appearance made her senses start to spin. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…’

‘That’s OK—I’m just finished. Come on in,’ he invited.

It entertained him to watch her reactions to him—she was so cautious, like a gazelle poised for flight. And even her dress sense seemed to verge on the side of caution. She looked smart, but in a very efficient, non-sexual way. The black top she was wearing was loose and completely hid her curves. Anyone would think she was scared of allowing a man to look at her body, he thought. And why did she insist on scraping her hair back into a ponytail like that?

Isobel tried to pretend that she didn’t notice the analytical way he was dissecting her appearance, but she could feel herself tensing even more. OK, she knew she was not model material, but he had no right to look at her like that!

‘So, what are you working on?’

Her voice was deliberately cool and businesslike, and he laughed. ‘With a question like that, I take it you’re still working as well?’

‘Well…that
is
why I’m here.’ She tried to angle her head up in a way that told him that she didn’t care what he thought about her—that there might be a million women in France who would give anything to be here in his company and would probably dress up for him, but she wasn’t one of them. She was totally work-orientated.

To her consternation he just kept looking at her, with that gleam in the darkness of his eyes, as if she were a very interesting sub-species and as if to say,
I know you’re not immune to me.

But that was in her imagination, she warned herself hastily. Maybe he looked at every woman with that same provocative gleam in his eye.

‘So, you were telling me what you are working on?’ She tried to jog him lightly into continuing.

‘I wasn’t, actually,’ he replied with amusement. ‘But seeing as you are enquiring so…nicely…I’ll tell you. I’m putting a deal together to buy a French company called Cheri Bon.’

‘The name rings a bell…’ She frowned. ‘Oh, yes—I read about them last year. It’s a confectionery company that started out as a small family-run concern and made it big very quickly. Didn’t they get into financial trouble because they’d overstretched themselves?’

‘Well done.’ He looked impressed. ‘Obviously all that reading material next to your bed on the financial markets isn’t just for show.’

‘There is no need to sound quite so surprised. I am a journalist, you know, and we like to keep abreast of what’s going on.’

‘Ah, yes… So you are…’ He smiled. It was strange but every now and then he found himself forgetting that.

‘Anyway, I thought you were buying the Sienna confectionery company.’ She got the point in quickly.

She was very much the journalist now, he noted as he pushed his chair back from the table to stand up. ‘Come on—let’s go and have dinner. I’ve had enough of business.’

‘So…are you buying both companies?’ Even though she knew she probably shouldn’t be asking, she couldn’t leave the subject.

He just laughed. ‘You’re tenacious, aren’t you?’

‘Just interested.’ She shrugged.

‘Well, how about I tell you all about Cheri Bon tomorrow?’ he suggested nonchalantly. ‘They have their main factory in Nice. You can accompany me down there and I will fill you in on my visionary plans for a very sweet future.’

‘Really? That would be great!’ Her eyes widened with interest. ‘So I take it you’re hoping to merge the two companies?’

‘As I said, I’ve had enough of business for now. That’s tomorrow’s subject, Izzy.’ He put a hand on her arm and steered her towards the door. ‘Now, let’s see what Stella has prepared for us to eat.’

The light touch of his hand sent weird little darts of
awareness through her body, and she quickly moved away from him, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But Marco did notice. He also noticed how she deliberately gave him as wide a berth as possible as he stood back to allow her to go ahead of him out of the door. It was as if she was terrified of accidentally brushing against him—in fact of having any bodily contact with him at all. And maybe that unleashed something of the hunting instinct in him, because as he watched her walk past he found himself deliberately wanting to step into her path, hem her in, just so that he could see the light of consternation in her eyes, the pulse beating at the creamy base of her throat.

He forced himself to do no such thing. But as he followed her out and along the corridor, he found his eyes drawn to her hips. He suspected that she had a nice figure beneath those staid clothes, and the more he was around her the more his curiosity was building.

‘We’re dining outside, Izzy,’ he told her as he opened a door into the warmth of the evening.

Isobel found herself out on the terrace. A table had been laid for two, and candlelight flickered and reflected over crystal wine goblets and silver cutlery. There was even an ice bucket that contained a chilled bottle of wine, open and ready for them. The scene looked impossibly romantic against the backdrop of the Mediterranean Sea, now tinged with the oyster-pink of the setting sun.

‘You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble,’ she murmured apprehensively.

He smiled. ‘I haven’t gone to any trouble at all, I assure you; this is all the work of my cook, Stella. She always…how is it you English say?…pushes the boat when I have company for dinner.’

‘Pushes the boat
out
,’ she corrected him absently. ‘She does know that I’m not one of your girlfriends, doesn’t she?’ she added impulsively. ‘And that this is a working dinner?’

‘No, I don’t think she does know that.’ She could see a teasing gleam in the darkness of his eyes now. ‘Stella is my chef, Izzy. I’ve never felt the need to furnish her with the personal details regarding my dinner arrangements. Apart from anything else, I don’t think she would be remotely interested. However, if you feel it’s important I will of course call her out here and bring her up to speed for you.’

‘No—no, obviously it’s not important.’ Isobel could feel herself starting to blush. Why had she said that? Why did she keep feeling the need to assert businesslike boundaries? It wasn’t as if Marco would be interested in her in a million years! No wonder he was looking so amused.

In desperation, she tried to salvage her pride. ‘It’s just that I might need to make notes as we talk, that’s all, and if you’d told her she might have laid the table with a bit more practicality. It’s a little dark out here…don’t you think? With just the candlelight?’