Sophie and the Scorching Sicilian (17 page)

That was clearly Marco's grand plan.

Dropping her head onto the table she let out a long sibilant sigh and crossed one ankle over the other. ‘Ouch!' Rubbing her shin she looked under the table to see what she'd hit herself on.

When she identified the culprit, a contemplative smile played around her lips.

‘Why not?' she said, dragging out the champagne bucket that had been missed. She set it on the table and extracted the bottle from the water dotted with pieces of half-melted ice.

After a slight tussle she managed to pop the cork, sending froth all over the dress. Pressing a hand to the fizzing top she looked around for a glass, but there was none to be seen.

‘Oh, well!' she said, lifting the bottle to her lips, and with a reckless, ‘Cheers!' took a daring swallow.

Shaking her head as the bubbles slid down her throat she grimaced as she set the bottle back on the table. Safe, shy, hide-in-the-kitchen Sophie would never have done that, but this was the new improved version capable of being irresponsible.

‘Excellent, exactly what you need, Sophie.' She took another swallow and shuddered. The new improved version didn't like the taste either, but on principle—she was hazy on what principle—she swallowed. ‘Cheers to me, perfect hostess, party animal, low-maintenance wife material.'

She bit her lip on the quivering addition and the defiance died from her face.

‘Tell me,' she began, directing the question around the empty ballroom.

‘Tell you what?'

Sophie gasped and spun around in her seat, her knee catching the chair beside her own and sending it tumbling over.

That you love me, she thought.

Marco unpeeled himself from the wall he was leaning on and stood there, looking the epitome of what all women secretly wanted and what all men wanted to be—dark, brooding and utterly gorgeous.

And he wants to marry me! She stared at him, committing his image to memory, each proud line of his face. The knowledge that she had to walk away and never see him again lay like a lead weight in her heart.

What if I can't do it?

Sophie felt a moment of pure fear, but pushed it away and glared at him.

‘Do you have to creep up like that?' she snapped, thinking maybe they could have sex one last time… That sort of thinking, Sophie, is the direction that leads to total lack of self-respect.

Marco raised a brow. ‘You were too busy talking to yourself to hear me,' he observed, bending down to lift the overturned chair. Setting it upright he straddled it, his hands resting on the back.

‘So your mother is gone?' she said brightly.

Marco's lips tightened. ‘Finally.' For once she had been inclined to linger.

‘A Balfour,' her escort had said as he got into the car. ‘I couldn't be more delighted for you.'

His mother bestowed her gracious commendation. ‘You have my total approval, Marco.'

The irony was not wasted on Marco, who had spent his childhood trying to gain parental approval, or at least parental attention, but had now neither wanted or needed either for many years.

‘Approval for what?'

‘A Balfour,' the boyfriend had said again to himself. ‘Well, well, I might just drop Oscar a line. From his point of view this is very good timing. A wedding is always good press…the feel-good factor. Yes, a Balfour could be a very useful connection for you…'

Marco's hands clenched at his sides. He could contain himself no longer. It was that damned name, the same name that Sophie had been trying to live up to all her life. She'd spent all those years thinking she wasn't good enough to be a Balfour when the truth was she was too damned good!

In his opinion the Balfours needed to be given a few home truths and he would have no problem delivering them.

‘Will you stop saying that!' Marco had shouted at his mother and her friend.

His mother's smile had faded, and she had cast a bewildered look towards her escort. ‘Stop saying what, Marco?' Displays of emotion from her self-contained son were not something she was accustomed to.

‘
Balfour!
You will not judge her on her name. No, actually,' he said, reconsidering his comment. ‘You will not judge her at all. Her name is irrelevant—she is Sophie. I don't give a damn who her father is.' He drew a breath and added quietly, ‘She is
herself
, which is better than I deserve.'

Having delivered this parting shot and aware that his mother was staring at him open mouthed, he had bid them both an abrupt and cold goodnight and walked away, wondering at the impulse that had made him speak out but glad he had.

Sophie was so stressed, waiting for him to speak, that she almost reached for the bottle again; the tension was unbearable—was he going to bring up the proposal or was he already having second thoughts? His enigmatic green eyes continued to move over her face; the silence stretched, the atmosphere thickened some more.

Sophie held his gaze, her sense of desperation growing with each nerve-racking second, until she could bear the silence no longer. Her lashes swept downwards and she expelled the breath trapped in her chest in a series of fractured sighs.

‘So your mother enjoyed herself?' She winced, hearing the manic brightness in her tone. It was hard to tell if Marco had
noticed; he looked… Abstracted was the closest she could come to describe the way he was behaving.

He shrugged with fluid grace and dragged a hand along the dark shadow on his jaw.

The action brought Sophie's eyes to the stubble. Her thoughts drifted back to…God, it was only this morning! It seemed like several lifetimes ago that she had woken in his arms determined to enjoy every second of the time they spent together, with no marriage proposals to present her with a major moral dilemma.

Only that morning he had questioned with concern the faint red marks on her breasts, suggesting, quite ludicrously, that she consult a doctor.

Then she had said, ‘What a good idea, because I've nothing much to do today other than co-ordinate the caterers, arrange to increase the security at the south gate, organise the musicians transport because the coach company—'

Oblivious, it seemed, to her sarcasm he had cut across her increasingly overwrought list.

‘You can delegate.'

Sophie had dropped the hand she had used to tick off the list of her tasks and stared at him, then realised where his eyes were focused and grabbed a sheet to cover her naked breasts. ‘Now why didn't I think of that? I know you think you're the only one who's indispensable, but actually today I'm—'

‘Calm down.'

The languid advice had made her grate her teeth.

‘We can cancel, if necessary.'

‘You think that's funny, I suppose?'

‘I will arrange a medical consult this morning.'

That was the point where she had realised he wasn't joking and that he had suffered a sense of humour by-pass. Clearly, though he hid it well, he was feeling the pressure of the forthcoming party too, so she had explained in an embarrassed rush
that he needn't worry…she didn't have anything contagious. His important guests wouldn't be contracting some rare disease.

What she had was not catching, although an epidemic of love might be interesting to observe.

‘It's just your…' One hand remained clutched to the sheet pressed to her breasts as she had pointed at his face. ‘Last night you hadn't shaved.'

He still hadn't, and the heavy dusting of stubble gave him a distinctly piratical air that she did not find unattractive. ‘My skin is a bit sensitive.' He had been instantly contrite and promised to always shave in future.

It was then that Sophie had rather self-consciously explained that she liked the feel of his beard on her skin and it wasn't really
painful
, just…

Marco, his green eyes gleaming with wicked laughter, had let her struggle for words a while longer before he had helped her out.

‘Arousing?'

The low throaty suggestion had been made in an indecently sexy voice and she had forgiven the laughter shining in his eyes because there had been other, warmer things mingled with it.

And when he had pulled the sheet from her grasp and asked how
much
she liked the feel…things from there had taken a predictable course.

She had been running late and playing catch up all day because the extra hour he had suggested in bed had turned into two.

Struggling to focus on the here and now Sophie pushed away the graphic erotic images that crowded into her head and said, ‘And now your mother's off to America.'

‘Is she?' Marco said, sounding uninterested.

‘The stage tour.' She had talked about little else all night. ‘Don't you care?' She couldn't help but feel sad about the relationship he had with his parents.

Her family might be dysfunctional and school had been a nightmare but she had always been surrounded by love, and her
heart ached for the lonely little boy Marco had been. If she ever had children she would make sure they knew they were loved and wanted and not farm them out to other people or send them to school when they were virtually babies.

‘No, I don't care. Although I feel I should mention that she and her banker friend think us getting married is an excellent move. You have no idea what a weight that is off my mind.'

‘You had absolutely no right to tell them we were getting married.'

‘I didn't.'

Sophie ran a tongue across her dry lips and directed a suspicious glare at him. ‘Then why did they act as if we…?' She stopped and directed a cranky look at him. ‘Will you stop smouldering at me, it's…it's…'

‘Smouldering?' he echoed, amusement briefly lightening the intensity of his stare.

‘Yes, smoulder…you smoulder…'

‘And you don't like it?'

Her eyes fell from the glitter in his but not before the trembling in her limbs had reached her core…
Because I do like it
, she thought, pressing a hand flat to her stomach. The pressure did nothing to ease the liquid heat deep inside.

‘I can't concentrate.'

‘Tell you what…I'll stop smouldering if you stop looking at me with those big blue hungry eyes.'

The eyes under discussion flew to his face. ‘I do not have…' She stopped, unable to repeat the phrase which, considering the level of carnal knowledge he had of her, was faintly ludicrous.

He arched a sardonic brow. ‘Why do you think my mother assumed we were an item?'

‘I don't know, what have you been saying?' If he thought he could force her hand that way, he was about to learn how wrong he was. Of course, if he had chosen a persuasive route that involved touch and his mouth she would have felt a lot less secure.

‘I say as little as possible to my mother. There's very little point as no subject that doesn't feature her actually gets her attention.'

An unwelcome image flashed into her head of a little boy ignored by selfish egocentric parents who were totally wrapped up in their own lives.

‘It might be an idea if you told your family about us before my mother goes into networking mode.'

‘Tell my…? What…?'

‘The banker thinks the Balfours have useful connections and my mother has always wanted to be invited to the Balfour Ball.'

‘She can have my ticket. I spent the last one in the kitchen.'

‘And look at you now.'

To Sophie's dismay he accepted his own invitation, his eyes scrolling slowly upwards from her toes. By the time his glittering gaze reached her face her breathing was all over the place, but then, she thought with a spurt of resentment, he knows exactly what he can do to me and he doesn't have to even touch me to do it.

She gritted her teeth and lowered her gaze. ‘It's a lovely dress. Mia has excellent taste.'

‘You have an
excellent
body,' he drawled. ‘And I think I like Mia better than the rest of your family.'

Sophie felt the colour mount in her cheeks and, annoyed with herself, kept her voice flat as she redirected the conversation. ‘You don't know my family.' And she didn't warm to the idea of him liking Mia.

‘I suppose I'll have to meet the Balfours when we're married.' And he would make it clear to them that the days of treating his wife like an extra in their exotic lives was over, he thought grimly.

Imagining the effect Marco would have on her gorgeous sisters Sophie felt queasy. As for the effect they might have on him she wasn't going there! ‘You're never going to meet my family,' she told him with total confidence.

‘Why, are you ashamed of me?' His glance slid to the bottle she was pushing around in circles on the table. ‘Have you been drinking that?'

She slung him a look of fake defiance. ‘It was a shame to let it go to waste.'

‘You know you can't drink.'

It always amused him that she got giggly after one glass of wine, a refreshing change from Allegra's excesses.

The reproach drew a laugh from Sophie's aching throat. ‘There were lots of things I thought I couldn't do, but I'm surprising myself every day.'

‘I was going to ask, have you looked at the contract, but I can see there would be no point if you've been drinking.'

‘There is no point and, for the record, Mr Moral Majority, I haven't been drinking…
yet
…' Sophie added, throwing him a look of sparkling challenge before she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a swallow.

‘Elegant,' he admired.

Sophie's eyes narrowed. ‘And if I want to get blind drunk I will!' she announced, fixing him with a belligerent glare. ‘Actually, I'll do what I damn well please, just like you. I've no intention of reading the contract because I've no intention of marrying you.'

‘
Accidenti!
You
are
drunk.'