Sophie and the Scorching Sicilian (7 page)

It was ironic that the person to open her eyes was a total stranger—and
this
total stranger.

Aiming somewhere midway between pushy and motivated she gave him a direct look. ‘You're serious.'

He gave the appearance of considering the question. ‘Those are my conditions.'

‘Even if I could, Amber would never agree. You've probably already noticed I'm not a front-of-shop person.' Her sweeping gesture took in her creased outfit. ‘I source materials and deal with orders and make sure that… In short, I make lists,' Sophie explained, frowning at the somewhat lame job description she had produced. ‘I'm very good at lists.'

‘You mean you do the work and let others take the credit.' His expression did not suggest he found such a self-sacrificing mentality admirable, and his scorn stung.

Easy for him, she thought. He walked into a room and everything about him screamed dominant male; he didn't have a clue what it felt like to be invisible among her dazzling siblings. As much as she loved them, they were overwhelming.

She felt her resentment rise as she studied his chiselled patrician features. Marco Speranza didn't have the faintest idea what it felt like to blend into the background, and anyway it wasn't even true—she wasn't a doormat!

Her indignation was mixed with unease—was that really the impression she gave?

‘Just because I don't need to be the centre of attention doesn't make me a total doormat.'

Encountering the hostile glitter in her blue eyes Marco smiled.

‘What's so funny?' she asked between clenched teeth as she endured his searching stare.

‘Not a doormat…afraid.' He taunted. He watched her chin go up and smiled. Getting the best out of people in his experience was about providing the correct motivation and knowing which buttons to push.

Sophie avoided arguments and confrontations—she disliked raised voices—but she suddenly realised that there were occasions when a person had to stand up and be counted…or explode!

Her hands balled into fists at her sides.

Dear God, the man was a total stranger and he was acting as if he knew her. First her father, and then this man, telling her what was wrong with her—well, she was sick of it! She was so mad she could hardly see straight as she fixed him with a glittering blue scowl.

‘I'm not afraid!' she yelled. ‘Not all of us need to have people telling us how marvellous we are every two seconds. I don't need my ego stroked to make me feel good about myself, unlike some people.'

A look of utter amazement crossed Marco's face; he had obviously pressed more buttons than he had intended. He studied her with renewed interest—she was definitely not lacking the passion he required.

He arched a brow. ‘Some people?'

Sophie, her chest heaving, allowed her lashes to fall in a concealing curtain over her eyes; the silence that settled between them was as loud as a slamming door.

The door was probably slamming on her career.

She couldn't believe she had actually said those things. It was, she reflected, as if another person had taken over her body. And even more bewildering than this emergence of another persona was the adrenaline rush—her body still hummed with it.

Was it the man or the circumstances that were making her act this way?

Sophie tried to smooth things over. Not that she really expected to succeed; a man like Marco Speranza would never let a mere employee speak to him that way. ‘I don't want to make this personal.' Pity, Sophie, you didn't think that way a minute ago.

‘Do
you
want the job?'

‘Do I want the job?' Sophie echoed. ‘After what I just said?' She was unable to hide her amazement. ‘But I thought…'

‘Thought or hoped?' he asked with a sardonic smile. He
thought that he had seen every interview technique but hers was, he had to admit, unique.

He did not surround himself with yes-men but Marco couldn't recall the last time that someone had challenged him in the work place. A man who wasn't challenged was in danger of becoming complacent and losing his edge.

‘I made a personal comment, and you responded. So long as you do not forget who's the boss, I think we will deal well together…'

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. ‘I don't think it's likely you'll let me.'

‘Do you want the job?' His lashes lifted from the angle of his sharply defined razor-edged cheekbones as he scanned her face. ‘If not, there is little point us continuing this discussion.'

‘Yes!' Sophie heard herself shout, then more moderately and ignoring the voice in her head asking, Are you totally insane? she added, ‘I would like the job, Mr Speranza.' This so
wasn't
going to happen. Amber would voluntarily break a fingernail before she'd let Sophie take control of such a prestigious project.

As if reading her thoughts—that ability was getting distinctly unsettling—Marco moved around his desk, balanced on a corner and stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘Leave your boss to me.' He rose to his feet, tipped his dark head. ‘Come…'

This autocratic decree made Sophie stare—was this man for real?

He didn't snap his fingers but the expectation was much the same. He was clearly accustomed to unquestioning obedience and the force of his personality was such that she suspected he generally got it.

The man had an egotism that made her father look mild mannered and hesitant by comparison.

‘Where?' she said, not moving.

He looked mildly irritated by the question. ‘I have a home to go to if you don't, Miss Balfour.'

He watched her get to her feet and wondered what he had said to fill her expressive eyes with bleak pain? He placed a hand between her shoulder blades and repeated his command. ‘Come.' But this time his manner was gentler.

Sophie had been speared by a jolt of homesickness, but now wanted to respond to the hand that rested lightly between her shoulder blades—the man had no concept of personal body space. Unfortunately, as soon as he touched her everything, including her brain, refused to function. Actually, this was not totally correct; she could smell the soap he used mingled with other less familiar but not unpleasant male scents.

Luckily, the paralysis did not last more than a moment and Sophie didn't feel the inclination to examine the heart-racing breath-catching moment of paralysis too deeply.

It was obviously a postscript to her light-headed moment. Marco Speranza's physical presence was overwhelming and, standing beside him, crushingly devastating, but she wasn't going to faint just because he stood next to her.

She walked through the door into the outer office before him.

‘Perhaps it would be better, Mr Speranza, if you let me explain things to Amber when I get back.' The man and woman who were sitting in the outer office looked up as they entered.

He angled a dark brow and echoed, ‘Get back? Get back where?'

‘Home…' She stopped abruptly, her face falling as she realised home was the one place she was not allowed to go. ‘To London,' she added huskily.

Marco who had seen the flash of deep sadness on her face wondered what had put it there. Though, whatever personal problems this woman had they were none of his business unless they affected her work.

‘I don't think, Miss Balfour, you understand that you have been on my payroll since we shook on this deal. I expect you to start work in the morning.'

S
OPHIE
stared at him in horror.

‘Morning!' she yelped. ‘But that's not possible. I'm only here for the night and I have nothing…' Literally nothing—unless the airline tracked down her lost luggage—not even a toothbrush. ‘And we didn't shake.' It was not something she would have forgotten.

‘You're a very literal-minded young woman,' Marco observed before adding, ‘How young, really?'

‘It's not polite to ask a woman's age, but I wasn't lying—I'm twenty-three.'

She lifted her chin and thought,
If he can ask so can I.
‘How old are you?'

‘In experience, several centuries older than you,
cara
.'

His brow puckered as he studied her face. The exploits of the Balfour heiresses represented everything shallow and superficial that he had turned his back on after the divorce.

It remained a total mystery to him how a daughter of Oscar Balfour could utterly lack the glitter and polish that the Balfour name represented, how she could be so…wholesome and quite annoyingly naive.

The form of address brought a flush to Sophie's cheeks.

Marco saw the flush and produced a smile that did not warm his emerald eyes. ‘The handshake can be remedied.'

Deeply regretting she had been so pedantic, Sophie viewed his extended hand with the sort of enthusiasm she'd had when she'd entered a gym at school.

‘I trust you,' she said, tucking her hand behind her back.

A strangled sound from his subordinate drew Marco's attention to the couple at the desk.

‘I might require you to work this weekend, Francesco.' He had the satisfaction of seeing the couple's faces drop in unison, as he stepped into the lift behind Sophie.

‘Where are you staying?' He stopped beside a long sleek-looking convertible and opened the passenger door.

‘I don't know—I came straight here from the airport. Amber hadn't booked anywhere as she was going to stay with a friend, but she said I should go to…' She reached into the capacious pocket of her loose-fitting jacket and withdrew the notepad inside, turning it to the relevant page.

She squeaked in protest as Marco plucked it from her fingers.

‘A nice enough hotel,' he admitted. ‘But you should stay at…'

The buzz in Sophie's head blocked the name. She had spent her life falling in with the suggestions made by others and felt a surge of uncharacteristic rebellion.

‘Because you say so?'

Marco noted again that the beige English mouse looked decidedly more attractive with an antagonistic glitter in her wide-spaced, dramatically blue eyes.

She would also, he thought, look good in red.

It would bring out the creaminess in her skin tone… When was the last time he had seen a woman without any make-up?

‘You would not find that argument compelling?'

‘That wouldn't be an argument—that would be an order, Mr Speranza.' Something she was guessing he was rather good at doling out.

‘Are you always so pedantic? And make it Marco.'

At one level Sophie knew that her gut reaction to the sug
gestion was disproportionate but she couldn't keep the horror from her voice as she said stiffly, ‘I couldn't possibly.'

‘Step outside your comfort zone, Sophie…' he goaded gently.

Her father had said exactly the same thing to her. Startled by the déjà vu, her eyes flew to his face… There was absolutely no resemblance between the man whose eyes connected with her own and Oscar Balfour.

She lowered her gaze and comforted herself with the thought that the opportunities to use his name were not going to be frequent.

Men like Marco Speranza delegated and she doubted he ever put himself in danger of getting a crease in his suit.

‘I'm so far out of my comfort zone that I'm…' She stopped as a sudden ache of longing for the familiar things she had been forced to leave behind welled up inside her.

‘You're what?'

‘Fine,
Marco
,' she said, curling her tongue around his name with difficulty and trying not to think about the gatehouse.

‘The hotel you speak of will be fully booked as they are hosting a convention. Most of the hotels in the city are full of people who like to dress up as aliens from film and TV.'

Sophie could see a flaw in his explanation. ‘And the hotel you suggest won't be full?'

‘I keep a suite there for business purposes. I'm quite happy to put it at your disposal.'

Business purposes. Was that a polite euphemism for love nest? Would she find a selection of sexy women's clothes in the wardrobes, silk sheets and champagne in the fridge? Her experience was limited, as in zero, and she found her sudden prurient interest in the subject troubling.

She gave a prim smile. ‘I would not like to put you out,' she said, wondering if he ever double-booked the room.

While she was not addicted to the celebrity columns or, for that matter, the financial pages, she would have had to be living
on another planet not to know that even though he had stepped off the celebrity-party circuit and gone reclusive he was rarely seen without female companionship.

It had crossed her mind that the beautiful trophy girlfriends might be a smokescreen—a way of hiding his broken heart from the world. Now having met him she felt it was more likely he just enjoyed shallow sex with beautiful women.

Marco looked amused. ‘You can stop looking so alarmed, Miss Balfour. I am not inviting you to share my bed.'

The mortified colour flew to Sophie's cheeks. ‘I never thought you were!' she choked.

Her emphatic response drew a curious look from him. ‘Why not?'

Sure now that he was mocking her she shot him an unfriendly sideways look as he held open the passenger door for her.

She slid into the passenger seat. ‘Men do not proposition me,' she said flatly.

Marco, his attention caught by the flash of something pale, glanced casually downwards. His drifting gaze stilled. Her skirt had bunched up and the paleness he saw was her thighs. They were rather superior thighs, as were the legs they were attached to, the sort of legs that most women would flaunt in short skirts and heels.

It was none of his business if Sophie Balfour chose to hide them under layers of unattractive clothes, but even a disinterested observer did have to wonder about this woman's hang-ups.

‘But you would like them to? I suggest putting slightly more flesh on show.'

When the flesh in question was as good as hers it made sense.

His eyes drifted downwards once more; the milky paleness of her skin fascinated him.

Belatedly catching the direction of his stare Sophie twitched her rumpled skirt across her knees.

He returned her glare with a look that held no trace of embarrassment and suggested helpfully, ‘Fewer layers, possibly.'

‘Thank you for the fashion advice, but I would not like to be propositioned, especially by you.'

The horror in her voice brought a smile to his lips. ‘Relax, you're safe from my attentions.'

Oh, yes.
I really needed that spelled out,
she thought, wondering what it would be like to
not
be
safe
… To actually be in danger because you aroused the predatory instincts of a man like Marco Speranza?

Her sisters, her beautiful Balfour siblings, would not be
safe
with Marco Speranza; he would not smirk at the thought of luring them to his love nest.

And when he lured, she was guessing not many girls resisted. Her glance brushed his wide mouth, and she thought maybe even fewer than not many. It was easy to see how a woman facing the prospect of being kissed by those lips might forget all about self-respect.

Sophie was very glad, having their best interests at heart, that her sisters were each safely tucked away miles from here. Marco Speranza was quite obviously a very dangerous man.

A man one woman had made a fool of, and he was now punishing the entire female race—or the drop-dead gorgeous ones anyway.

She was safe.

On that depressing note Sophie gave her head a shake to clear her thoughts and she schooled her features into an expression of mock horror. ‘Oh, leave me my dreams,' she drawled.

She heard Marco chuckle as he walked around the car. ‘You have a rich fantasy life, Sophie,' he observed, sliding in beside her.

He looked at her mouth and realised his own life was getting richer the longer he spent in this woman's company.

Sophie kept her eyes trained ahead as the door shut behind him, enclosing them in the luxurious air-conditioned leather
lined cocoon. The tension that she'd been holding in check, ever since she'd woken up and found herself being looked at by a pair of eyes as hard as emeralds, racked up another level.

Conscious that her heart was trying to batter its way through her ribcage, she lifted a hand to her throat and swallowed.

The combination of large man and enclosed space was claustrophobic; only she didn't suffer from claustrophobia—until now.

What I need is more breathing space, she thought, an open window. Breathe deep, she told herself, inhaling deeply and almost immediately regretting it. Her nostrils quivered.

The scent that hung around him was probably no different chemically speaking than the scent that came off any other clean warm male, except the undertones of spicy fragrance that made her nostrils flare was more expensive than one the average man in the street wore.

Sophie had no intention of looking at him. ‘I'm far too busy for fantasies.'

‘And too scared for reality?'

The sly suggestion sent the colour flying to her cheeks. Her decision not to look at him forgotten, she whipped around to glare at him.

‘Look, I'm glad you're giving us the contract,' she admitted, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked, but she was coherent which was good. ‘But I think we should have some ground rules.'

His darkly defined brows lifted towards his ebony hairline. ‘Do I have this right…?
You
want to set ground rules for
me
? I have to tell you that that is not
normally
the way it works.'

‘I don't know how it works. I just know that…' She stopped because actually she didn't know much at all, certainly not why she felt it necessary to start this conversation in the first place.

Keeping her own counsel had always worked for her before.

He arched a questioning brow.

‘Being my employer, which you're not because I work for Amber—'

‘Because your father slept with her.'

‘Being my employer,' she gritted doggedly, pursuing the thought to the end. ‘Doesn't give you the right to…to…' Stamp around in my head with your size tens. ‘Be personal.'

‘You are a role model of professional detachment for us all.'

Sophie flashed him a look of seething dislike.

To her relief it did not take long to reach the hotel. Marco escorted her into the foyer where the decor matched the art-deco thirties architecture outside.

Marco watched her as she looked around; when she wasn't being guarded Sophie Balfour had one of the most expressive faces he had ever seen. For a woman who had presumably been raised in the lap of luxury she possessed an almost child-like appreciation. ‘You approve?'

‘It's really nice,' she said, her blue eyes glowing with pleasure as she examined the luxurious space. ‘I'm a fan of art deco.'

‘In its historical context,' he said with a cautionary note in his voice.

‘Don't worry, I won't be tempted to install black PVC and leopard-skin prints in the bedrooms of your palazzo.'

He met her innocent look with a smile. ‘I feel reassured. Luca will look after you,' he said, nodding in the direction of the dapper-looking suited figure who was approaching them. ‘So try not to start a fight before I return.'

The charge startled Sophie.
‘Me!'

He smiled and looked more attractive and dangerous than in Sophie's opinion any man had a right to look.

Well, it had been quite an experience meeting Marco Speranza and seeing him smile, but it was one that she could put behind her now, which was just as well.

His personality was so overwhelming that it was hard to concentrate on anything else, and if she was to make a success
of this job and prove herself—do her small part in retrieving the good name of the Balfours—she didn't need any distractions.

And Marco Speranza was a big distraction!

At the door he paused and turned back. Sophie, who was feeling dead on her feet, tensed.

‘Be ready at eight…' He paused. She looked so small and utterly exhausted standing there that he adjusted his timetable. ‘Be ready at eleven-thirty.' The decision had nothing to do with sympathy. It was purely practical; he needed her alert and functioning when he showed her what needed to be done.

‘Eleven-thirty, of course,' Sophie said, hiding her relief as for a split second she had thought he had said eight.

‘It is an hour's drive to the palazzo.'

‘You're coming!' Sophie was startled; she had assumed that Marco Speranza would delegate such a task to one of his underlings, one that she had hoped would have a less deleterious effect on her nervous system.

‘You look disappointed.'

‘No, of course not,' Sophie denied unconvincingly.

‘I would like to see your reaction to my home and hear your ideas.' He turned to the dapper-looking man, sliding seamlessly into Italian as they shook hands.

‘Tell Luca if you need anything. I will see you in the morning, Sophia.' He tilted his head and moved away.

‘Sophie,' she called after him, not liking the Latin treatment of her name—it implied an intimacy that didn't exist.

Marco didn't stop but turned his head to fling a grin at her over his shoulder.