Sophie and the Scorching Sicilian (2 page)

Sophie dropped her arm. ‘I'm Sophie…Sophie Balfour—I'm meant to be here…working… I… My father…'

‘
You
are Sophie Balfour?' The blonde woman looked openly sceptical.

Sophie who had encountered this response before nodded and repressed the impulse to say,
No, I'm an impostor! I kid
napped the real Sophie Balfour!
‘Yes. I think you were expecting me.'

‘I was expecting…'

The woman didn't finish the sentence; she didn't need to. It was no struggle to fill in the blanks—she'd been expecting someone with glamour and style.

And she got me.

The blonde compressed her red-painted lips. If there had been any movement possible in her forehead—Sophie had seen more lines on a newborn baby than on this woman's smooth face—she would definitely have been frowning, but she made a quick recovery and produced a strained smile.

‘I'm Amber Charles. Your father tells me you're very talented.'

Sophie gave a self-deprecating shrug, but there was animation in her expression as she admitted, ‘I enjoy colour and texture…' She stopped, the animation fading when she realised that the svelte designer was regarding the colour and texture of her outfit with a look of growing horror.

She glanced down, genuinely not sure what she was wearing.

‘I've got my CV.' Her school grades would not put an admiring light in the other woman's eyes.

Sophie had shown no talent for anything academic, or for that matter anything sporting at Westfields, and she had often wished she'd had the guts to run away from the place like Kat. But instead she had kept a low profile and waited for the day she could leave.

Amber held up a hand and shook her head. ‘I'm sure they're excellent.'

Want to bet? Sophie thought, and smiled.

‘A high level of girls from Westfields go to Oxbridge. My cousin's daughter graduates next summer—she adores it. Which university did you attend?'

‘Actually, I didn't go to university.'

The pencilled brows lifted.

‘I did a home-study course,' she explained, wondering if she ought to say she passed with flying colours.

‘How…nice.'

Sophie watched her boss struggle to smile; clearly her dad had been economic with the details when he wangled her a job with his ex-flame.

‘Well, Sophie, what are we going to do with you?'

From her expression Sophie was thinking it possible that
vanish
was her first choice.

‘You may be talented…'

Sophie knew she ought to rush into this doubtful pause and confidently announce she was actually not just talented but a bit of a genius, but selling herself was not her thing.

‘…but it's not enough to have talent…'

‘It isn't?'

‘Of course not, this is a very competitive market and we have to do everything. Appearances, I'm afraid, are equally important. Our clients expect a certain… You know, I think you'd be happier working behind the scenes.'

‘So you want me to work behind the scenes?'

Sophie, who knew this translated as
I can't risk having a client see you
, was not offended; this was the best news she had had all day.

Unbending slightly as it became clear Sophie was not going to be difficult, Amber inclined her head in assent. ‘You know, my dear, you should smile more often. It makes you look almost pretty.'

M
ARCO
left his car and walked the last mile up the winding driveway that led to the palazzo that had been in his family for centuries.

In his pocket he carried the heavy key to the massive front door that he had locked a year ago.

Locked and walked away from without a backward glance. At the time he had told himself the gesture was symbolic; he had been locking the door on his mistakes, his humiliation, his broken marriage.

He had told himself that it was about moving forward, leaving the past behind and getting on with his life. It was logical to channel his energies, to streamline.
Streamlining
, he mused with a contemptuous grimace, had a much more palatable ring to it than
running away
.

His strategy might have been based on self-delusion but his goal had been financial gain and it had worked.

Cutting himself off from the multitude of society social events that he had always believed his duty to attend, as guardian of the ancient name of Speranza, had left him with more time to devote to new business ventures—and they had been successful beyond the most wildly optimistic predictions.

No longer required by a moral code—outdated but genetically imprinted—to respect his marriage vows even while his wife had
flaunted her infidelities, Marco had found time to date, though
date
perhaps implied an intimacy that went beyond the bedroom, and his liaisons with a series of attractive women had not.

If he was aware of a certain post-coital emptiness Marco felt no desire to fill the void with any emotional complications. Emptiness was a lot easier to live with than romantic involvement, and not being the certifiably insane romantic he had been when he had married Allegra, there was no way he was about to hand some woman his heart so that she could stomp on it with her delicate heels.

No,
that
part of his new life was no mistake, but running away from his responsibilities had been; he could see that now. He owed a duty to his name and the people who served his family, some for generations. He was ashamed of the selfish and cowardly impulse that had made him turn his back on them just because he didn't want the constant reminders of his failure.

His jaw firmed as his keen gaze swept the scene ahead. Others should not suffer for his failings. The duty that was as much an integral part of Marco's genetic make-up as the colour of his eyes had brought him back today—duty and a desire to regain something he had…
lost
?

Could a man know he had lost something and be unable to name it? Marco, not inclined towards such philosophical debate, had no idea but he did know that his pulse rate did not quicken with anticipation as he approached his home as it once had; he recognised the familiar sights and smells but he did not
feel
them as he once had.

He had always been passionately proud of his inheritance. When had that passion become duty? he wondered as he paused and looked down at his ancestral home.

The home he had brought his bride to, the home he had walked away from the day she ran off with his best friend and he had filed for divorce.

He pushed away the black thoughts from a year ago—in the
history of this ancient building it was a blink of an eye; in his life more than enough time to lick his wounds as any longer would smack of self-indulgence. His pride had been injured, but a man did not regain self-respect by running away, and any bad memories these walls held for him now would be easier to live with than Allegra had been!

The marriage had been a disaster from the start, but it wasn't her drinking and infidelity that had sickened him most; it had been the fact he had fallen for her sweet innocent act.

And there were other memories here.

This was where he had spent his childhood.

He had roamed the estate and enjoyed a degree of freedom that he might not have had his parents been more hands-on.

But his actress mother was often away on location. His father, a distant figure, had been around more frequently, but having left a promising law career to enter politics, where his integrity made him as many enemies as allies, his family came a very poor second to being a public crusading figure.

Perhaps one more enemy, Marco thought, his eyes growing bleak as he recalled the grim day in the nineties when he had learnt from a news broadcast that there had been an assassination.

One bullet—his father had died instantly and the title had come to Marco.

‘Marchese.'

Marco was startled from his dark reflections by the form of address he did not use in his professional life.

‘Alberto!' A smile of genuine pleasure tugged his mobile mouth into an upward curve that softened the austerity of his classically cut features as he moved forward, his hand outstretched in welcome.

The other man jumped out of the open-topped vehiclewith an agility that many men twenty years his junior would have envied and came to shake his hand.

‘You are looking well, Alberto,' Marco approved truthfully.

‘As are you.'

He clapped the younger man on the shoulder and felt the hard muscles under his fingers.

The younger man's expensive suit did not hide a soft belly; it hid a body that was hard and tough from riding and from indulging in the sort of extreme sports that Alberto did not totally approve of.

He was relieved to see that the city life of high finance—a man should not spend his days indoors—had not softened Marco Speranza, but sorry that there was a hardness and cynicism in his green eyes that had not been there in his youth.

But then a man who had been through what he had was allowed a little cynicism.

‘You are keeping an eye on the new man?'

The estate manager Marco had taken on had been in the post for three years now but to Alberto, whose family had served Marco's for generations, the younger man would always be
new.

‘He is a hard worker.'

Marco grinned. ‘Praise indeed coming from you, Alberto, and how is Natalia?' Marco's voice softened as he said the name.

In her official capacity as cook Alberto's wife had ruled the kitchen when Marco had been growing up; in her unofficial capacity she had been the person who had comforted him on the occasions when a mother would normally have offered hugs.

Even when his own mother had been around, she did not do hugs except when there was a camera to record the moment of maternal devotion.

‘She is well,
Marchese
.' Alberto angled a questioning look up at the tall man. ‘And she would like to see you…?'

Marco heard the question and felt a fresh stab of guilt. He had neglected many things, including old friends, when he had cut himself off in the scandalous aftermath of the divorce.

‘And she will,' he promised. ‘But not today, I'm afraid.' He flicked his cuff and glanced at his watch, mentally calculating
how long the journey back to Palermo would take him. ‘I have a meeting in Naples.'

‘You have been missed.'

Aware of the reproach in the other man's voice Marco nodded; he felt he deserved it. For a while the palazzo had been a battleground, and involved in the bitter war of attrition he had forgotten it was also his home.

Marco admitted this with a humility that would have made his business competitors stare. ‘I was wrong to stay away. I have missed being here, so I'm here today to see what needs doing.'

‘You are coming home?'

What sort of home? Marco struggled to maintain his positive expression as his eyes lifted to the Renaissance facade. Fortunately no major structural work needed to be done, he told himself, concentrating on the fabric of the building, not on the dark emotions he experienced when he looked at his ancestral home.

Would he ever be able to wipe away the shadows left by his failed marriage? Would he ever be able to look at this building and think of it as a home in the true sense of the word? It would take more than a fresh coat of paint, though being a pragmatic man he thought that would be a start.

‘Yes, but first I want to make it…habitable.'

Alberto nodded in total understanding. Too much understanding, for Marco's liking; pity, even from an old friend, was not something he enjoyed.

‘I just need to find someone who understands what this building deserves.'

Someone who felt as he did about preserving its integrity; someone capable of feeling passionate about their work…
to compensate for his own lack of it
… He tore his eyes away from the facade and said, ‘And of course a new housekeeper—do you think Natalia would consider it?'

During one of his absences Allegra had ousted Natalia from her kitchen and replaced her with a French chef. On his return
Marco had sacked the chef and tried to persuade Natalia to return, but she had steadfastly refused to enter the palazzo while Allegra was mistress there.

Allegra had retaliated for his actions by getting drunk in public and being photographed half naked in the back of a cab with a boy who worked in the nightclub she had just fallen out of at four in the morning.

So it had been a win–win situation.

Alberto beamed, and said, ‘I think it might be possible…'

Marco pulled the key from his pocket, inhaled and approached the door.

His instructions had been that the place was not to be touched and they had been followed to the letter; barring the dust, it was all just as it had been.

A walk through the building did not lift his mood. In his youth this had been a showplace; now the whole building had a pervading air of gloom and neglect that the grandeur of the architecture and furnishing could not hide.

Had it always been this dark and depressing? he wondered as he pulled aside a dusty drape to let in some light. The light revealed damp patches on the high, carved ceiling and this fresh physical evidence of his neglect deepened the frown on his wide brow.

He cursed softly under his breath, and as he strode purposefully out into the sunlight and the waiting Alberto, Marco determined to bring light and life back into his home.

‘All I need is to find someone I trust, who appreciates what this building deserves.'

 

It had not seemed a major problem to find such a person when he'd said it, but a week later, and after six pitches by possible candidates that had left him totally unmoved, Marco was realising he might have to cast his net wider.

Recalling a comment by someone who had spent last
summer in London concerning a firm they had used to refurbish their penthouse flat—they had been very complimentary—he picked up his phone to speak to his PA.

He gave her the limited information he had, not doubting for a moment that she would be able to provide him with all the information he required; she was absolutely perfect, if you discounted the fact she was about to take maternity leave.