Interview with a Playboy (7 page)

‘Ah! I understand.’ He pulled out one of the chairs for her and watched as she walked hesitantly over to sit down. ‘Well, I’ll just have to see what I can do about that for you. There are some extra lights out here somewhere.’

‘Thank you.’ Why did she feel so unbearably self-conscious? she wondered angrily. Why was she aware of every nuance in his voice, every flicker from his dark eyes as they moved over her?

She watched as he walked across to a light switch and switched it on.

‘So how is that?’ he asked.

Isobel had expected a bright overhead light to come on, but instead garden lights flickered on, glittering like icicles around the palm trees and the edges of the veranda, giving the gathering dusk an even more romantic feel.

‘As you probably know, that isn’t any help at all,’ she muttered, and he smiled.

‘Really? I think it’s much better.’ ‘ He strolled back and sat down opposite. ‘Best I can do, I’m afraid.’

Somehow Isobel didn’t believe him. In fact she got the distinct impression he was enjoying her feeling of discomfiture. ‘Well, never mind. I’ll just have to use my Dictaphone,’ she said as she reached to get it out of her bag. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Without waiting for an answer she turned it on and put it down in the centre of the table.

‘Actually, yes, I
do
mind.’ Calmly he leaned over, picked the machine up and talked into it. ‘Note to Ms Izzy Keyes… You need to relax a little, unwind and switch off.’ As he spoke his eyes held hers. ‘And by the way—has anyone ever told you that you look quite extraordinarily attractive when you are angry?’

Then he switched the machine off, and watched as her green eyes blazed with fire.

‘Marco, stop making fun of me! I really need to start assimilating information for my article,’ she told him in consternation.

‘I wasn’t making fun. I was being serious.’ And he really was, he realised suddenly. There was something exciting about the way her intelligent green eyes could blaze like that—the way her smooth, pale skin could warm up to boiling point.

‘Let’s assimilate information the old-fashioned way… hmm?’ He murmured huskily. ‘Let’s have a conversation and get to know each other.’ He watched as her eyes narrowed warily on him. ‘Anyone would think I’d suggested something scandalous,’ he said humorously.

‘No, you haven’t, but I think you are missing the point.’ Her heart was thudding uncomfortably hard against her chest as she strove to sound in control. ‘I’m interviewing you, and—’

‘No, I think
you
are missing the point Izzy. We are sitting on a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, about to have
dinner. Life is too short for rigid rules. You can assimilate your information, as you like to put it, but let’s do it my way.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘
My
way Izzy…or no way.’ He cut across her firmly.

‘Well, what can I say…?’ She shrugged helplessly. She wasn’t at all happy about the way this conversation was going, and she was totally out of her comfort zone now. ‘I was just trying to be organized, so I don’t forget anything.’

It was strange, but the more she tried to put up her businesslike barriers the more Marco felt inclined to tear them down. ‘You won’t forget anything,’ he told her softly. ‘And here’s a radical idea—if you do, you can ask me in the morning and I’ll remind you.’

He leaned across and filled both of their wine glasses.

‘Now, what shall we drink to?’ he asked nonchalantly.

She wanted to tell him again that she didn’t drink while she was working, but as she saw the humour glittering in the darkness of his gaze she realised he expected her to say that. So she changed her mind.

‘How about the truth?’ she said quietly instead. ‘Let’s drink to that.’

The suggestion jarred a little with Marco. ‘Since when has a journalist ever been interested in the truth?’

‘Since right now.’ Her eyes held with his, and something about his derisive remark made her lean forward earnestly. ‘Not all journalists are the same. We are not all out to sensationalise a story, or get the story at any cost.’

‘Nice try, Izzy.’ He laughed, but this time there was little humour in the sound. ‘But that’s not my experience.’

‘Well…you obviously just haven’t met the right journalists.’

‘Is that a fact?’ Marco’s eyes drifted over her lazily. He couldn’t quite work out if she was just the most practised liar in the world, or if that really was sincerity in her voice.

Not that he particularly cared—because, no matter how
much sincerity shone from her, she would not be getting the inside track on his marriage breakdown. There were some things that he would never discuss with anyone, never mind a journalist.

‘Well…we’ll see.’ He shrugged. ‘So, why don’t you set the conversation rolling and tell me a little about yourself?’

‘I think you’ve just stolen my line.’ She cast him a fulminating glare from wide eyes, and he laughed.

‘Izzy, if I’m going to tell you about myself, the least you can do is give me a brief summary of your life.’ He reached and took a sip of his wine. ‘That’s the thing I hate about the paparazzi—total strangers shouting questions. What gives them the right…hmm?’

The softly asked question made her look over at him. She supposed he had a point. But even so she was loath to open up to him even on a superficial level. ‘I’m really not that interesting,’ she murmured.

‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’

Oh, he was far too smooth, she thought nervously.

Marco noted the shadows in the depths of her eyes. He still couldn’t fathom why he found her so fascinating, but he did. Perhaps it was nothing more than idle curiosity…because she certainly wasn’t his type. Maybe she just stirred the hunter instinct in him, or maybe it was that air of fragility that gave her a certain mystery.

Whatever it was, he found himself remembering that moment when he had unfastened the top button on her blouse. The intensity of the sensual heat that had flared between them had been quite a surprise.

And as his gaze flicked down over her again he found himself thinking that he would like to unbutton her a little more and then take her to bed—just for the hell of it.

D
ARKNESS
had fallen quickly, and there was a full moon shimmering in the inky blackness of the sky, its light reflecting over the stillness of the sea like a wide silver pathway to heaven. There was something very surreal and tranquil about the scene, but there was nothing tranquil about the way Isobel was feeling.

Every time she met Marco’s dark gaze across the table she could hear her heart thundering, as if she were running fast across difficult terrain pursued by the devil himself.

Why was that? she wondered distractedly. Was it just the fact that he was undeniably handsome?

The white shirt unbuttoned at the neck seemed to emphasise the smooth olive tones of his skin. His thick dark hair was immaculately groomed. Even the hint of stubble on his square jaw made him look more…enticing…if that was the word she was looking for. She frowned…. Maybe not! She certainly couldn’t use that adjective when she wrote about him!

‘So, you were about to tell me about yourself?’ He smiled, as if her hesitation totally amused him.

‘Marco, I really don’t see the point—’

‘Well, you will just have to humour me, won’t you?’ He cut across her easily. ‘Tell me about your parents and your childhood—that kind of thing.’

She shrugged. ‘I was brought up in London,’ she began hesitantly. ‘And my mother lives in Brighton now.’

‘And your father?’

‘I don’t know where he is. He left when I was eleven and he didn’t come back.’

‘Not even to see you?’ Marco frowned.

‘My dad was a bit of a complex character,’ she murmured non-committally.

‘Which is code for the fact that he was a dreadful parent, I take it?’

It was really strange, but she found she didn’t want to tell Marco that he was right. Why was that? she wondered. Was it because she remembered that Marco was the man who had sacked her father from the job he’d loved at the factory? Did she still feel some kind of loyalty towards her dad? The discovery surprised her, because her dad certainly didn’t deserve any kind of loyalty after the way he’d behaved… Maybe that old saying about blood being thicker than water was true!

‘Let’s just say he had problems. Everyone can’t get a best parent award, I suppose.’ She reached and took a sip of her wine. He was looking at her with that close attention that unnerved her so much—as if he were interested in her—as if he cared about what she was telling him.

He was just practised in that kind of concerned attitude, she told herself quickly. It came under the heading of charm.

But even so, those dark eyes were incredibly warm as they held hers…

They were interrupted by Marco’s cook, who came to put some plates of prosciutto on the table, accompanied by ciabatta bread. She was a large lady in her fifties, and obviously couldn’t speak much English—because Marco introduced her in French, and the conversation stayed in that language for a few minutes as the woman put some bowls of olives on the table. There was a lot of laughter and what sounded like light-hearted banter, and Isobel was glad of the interlude.
Glad to switch her thoughts away from old memories and the new challenge of not getting drawn in by Marco’s smooth charisma.

‘Stella says that our starter for this evening is Italian, in my honour, and that our main course is British, in your honour,’ Marco told her as they were left alone again. ‘But apparently the dessert is French, in honour of the fact that French food is the best—not that she is biased at all.’ He laughed.

‘No, obviously not.’ She smiled. ‘She seems a nice lady.’

‘Yes, she is—and as a rule she is very reliable… However, all is not as it seems.’

‘Oh?’ She looked over at him intrigued, thinking he was serious. But then she saw the gleam of humour in his eyes.

‘I have a feeling these olives are not truly Italian,’ he said seriously. ‘I believe they come from a grove down the road.’

‘No!’ She played along with him and looked suitable horrified. ‘That’s very underhand of her, isn’t it?’

‘Absolutely. You can’t trust anyone nowadays.’ He reached and took one of the plump green olives from the bowl to examine it closely. Then he put it into his mouth.

‘So what’s the verdict?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Not so sure I can tell you…’ He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. ‘I don’t want my views splashed all over the papers tomorrow. The olive world in Italy could be in uproar.’

She giggled.

‘You may laugh, but we take our food very seriously in Italy.’

‘Don’t worry—you’ll find I am the soul of discretion. Sensitive, responsible journalism is my speciality.’

‘Hmm…well, as I said earlier I’ll reserve judgement on that for a while.’ Their eyes held for a moment. Then he smiled at her and slid the bowl a little closer to her. ‘Try one—they are very good.’

They
were
good she thought, as was the warm bread and the prosciutto. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was until
now. But when she thought about it she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

‘So, moving on from your childhood, tell me about the guy who broke your heart?’ Marco asked suddenly.

The question took her completely aback. ‘What makes you think someone has broken my heart?’

‘I don’t know. Call it a wild guess.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I imagine I catch a vulnerable look in your eyes.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m more your practical, pragmatic type.’ She raised her chin.

‘The tough journalist, coolly aloof from emotional ties—that kind of thing?’ He looked vaguely amused.

‘Yes…that kind of thing.’

As their eyes held across the table Marco wasn’t sure what he believed about her. There was something about the hesitation in her reply, that expression in her eye…

‘And, you know, my love-life really isn’t any of your business,’ she continued fiercely.

‘Ah! But in a few moments you will be asking me about
my
love-life won’t you?’ he countered. ‘You’ll be traipsing out all the old tired questions.’

‘I don’t have any old or tired questions; mine are all fresh and full of zing.’

He laughed at that.

‘But actually we
should
move on to that—’

‘So you’ve never been married?’ Marco continued lazily, as if she hadn’t even spoken. ‘Never lived with anyone?’

Why did he keep asking her these personal questions? He was driving her mad. ‘I was engaged for a while. But it didn’t work out and we called it off.’ She slanted him a warning look. ‘I’m over it. There’s no underlying vulnerability to me whatsoever.’

‘And did this happen fairly recently?’

‘About six months ago. Now, can we move on?’ There was an unconsciously pleading look in her eyes.

‘OK, I won’t say another word on the subject.’ He held up his hands.

‘Good—because we are supposed to be talking about you.’

Stella interrupted them to clear away their plates and put out some serving dishes between them.

‘I hope you are not going to be disappointed,’ Marco said as they were left alone again.

‘Why?’ She looked over at him with a frown, thinking he was talking about their interview.

‘Because your British dish…’ he lifted the lid off one of the casserole dishes ‘…is not roast beef.’ He flicked her a teasing look and she couldn’t help but smile.

For a while there was silence between them as he put some food onto her plate. ‘I think it is beef casserole with herbs of Provence,’ he said as he tasted it. ‘Which
I
would think is a French dish.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s very good. I wish I could cook like this.’

She could hear the sound of the sea against the shore beneath them; there was something very relaxing about it, and about the warmth of the air.

She looked down over the garden towards the sea. ‘I can understand why you bought this house. The setting is spectacular. But I’m surprised that you have your main home here in France. I would have thought, being Italian, your home would be in Italy.’