Sophie and the Scorching Sicilian (5 page)

‘So you decided not to compete.'

Her mouth was already open to refute the ludicrous claim, but a look of doubt spread slowly across Sophie's face. She closed her mouth with a snap. It wasn't true…
was it
? The man was a total stranger; how could he have a clue as to what made her tick?

‘It's not about competition, it's about recognising I'm not…' An image of her sisters flashed before her eyes, each beautiful and talented in their own unique and very photogenic way, and she thought again, Is he right?

With a tiny shake of her head she dismissed the idea and stuck out her chin.

‘I'm not like them.' If she was, he wouldn't be ignoring her…only he wasn't; there was an interest of the clinical variety in the green eyes that rested on her flushed face.

‘Why are you sure I know you have sisters?'

‘Because I'm a Balfour.' His blank expression was not one that Sophie had ever encountered previously after revealing her identity. Thrown by the response, her next words held a note of disbelief. ‘My father is Oscar Balfour.'

Sophie gave a self-deprecating shrug that turned out to be unneeded. Marco Speranza's brows lifted in recognition of the name, though he still did not look impressed.

‘I have never met the man, though obviously I know his reputation. I'm sure I would be more au fait with your sisters if I read the sort of scandal sheets that chart their exploits.'

‘Well,
you
appear in them often enough!' Sophie retorted, stung by his superior attitude. Before their break up, he and his gorgeous wife must have been one of the most photographed couples on the planet. ‘And my sisters do not ask to be photographed.' Though admittedly they did not go out of their way to avoid it either.

‘Why are we discussing your sisters?'

Sophie looked at him, nonplussed by the question. Over the years she had become philosophical about men seeking her out for this specific reason and here was one who sounded bored by the subject. If he had been displaying any more interest in her it would have been her dream scenario.

But he wasn't.

In fact, playing the Balfour card had not given her any advantage with this man.

‘I'm sure your sisters are fascinating, but right now—' he glanced significantly at the watch on his wrist and turned back to his laptop ‘—I have several items that require my attention.'

Sophie stemmed the flow of anger with a firm shake of her head, the action causing a glossy hank of hair she had just secured behind her ear to fall into her eyes, and with an impatient grimace she pushed it back with her forearm from her flushed cheek before anchoring it once again behind her ear. She gritted her teeth. ‘God, I think I might just cut it all off.'

‘Your hair?'

‘You're not interested in my hair and you're not interested on what's inside—yes, I get that,' she told him, thinking that the last thing she wanted was Marco Speranza with his disturbing eyes being privy to her insecurities.

‘You really don't need to labour the point, and as for what you should judge me on, how about—and I know this might be a novel idea—ability?' The sarcasm faded from her voice as she added, ‘Unless you get some kind of kick out of making people feel inadequate and stupid!'

The emotional throb in her voice dragged Marco's attention from her thick hair that on closer scrutiny proved not to be one colour but interwoven strands of several colours that ran the spectrum from soft butter gold to pale coffee.

His fingers flexed on the polished surface of his desk as he suddenly imagined spearing his fingers into the lush mass. ‘You wouldn't suit short hair.'

Startled by the husky observation she lifted a hand to her head.

His green eyes returned to the wild waves. ‘A trim possibly,' he conceded.

Sophie shook her head. Why were they talking about her hair? ‘Are you trying to be funny?'

She watched a flicker of some emotion, impossible to decipher, ripple across the reflective surface of his remarkable green eyes before he shrugged.

‘I'm making a constructive comment. Is the colour real?'

Baffled by his question and suspecting some sort of hidden insult, Sophie said defiantly, ‘Yes. This is all me.' She flashed him a cold look that tipped into confusion as their glances connected. ‘Take me or leave me,' she finished breathlessly.

S
HE
saw the startled look spread across his face and realised she had just given him the opening for a massive put-down.

Her heart raced with a confusing cocktail of emotions—trepidation, proving she had not totally lost it; exhilaration, proving it was a close-run thing.
If he laughs I will die of sheer mortification,
she thought, but he didn't laugh.

He didn't actually do anything.

‘Not literally,' she hastened to assure him. ‘I wasn't…' She cleared her throat and added awkwardly, ‘Propositioning you.'

Observing the faint twitching of his sensually sculpted mobile lips, Sophie was discovering that for some inexplicable reason his mouth exerted an almost magnetic pull. He's thinking what a great story to produce at a dull moment during a dinner party, she thought. This dumpy, dowdy Balfour chick asked me to
take
her. Well, maybe not
chick
; she couldn't really see Marco Speranza saying
chick
in that deep sexy Italian accent of his.

Of course, if she'd been sleek and glossy and had long legs and wore a short skirt he wouldn't have been laughing. If she had been any other Balfour girl he wouldn't have been laughing.

Not that he actually was laughing, she realised, studying his face and wondering if wanting to know what it felt like to be lusted after just once in her life made her very shallow or just human.

When he finally responded there was no hint of the amuse
ment she had anticipated in his dry comeback. ‘I think I'm disappointed.'

She knew he was being sarcastic but it didn't show on his face. His expression was about as easy to read as a granite wall but much,
much
better to look at.

Sophie realised she was staring at his sensual mouth again and, after a struggle, managed to redirect her gaze to the open neck of his shirt where the skin of his throat was smooth and bronzed a tasty…no,
toasty
gold.

The mental correction brought a wary expression to her face as she tried to smile through the shocking stab of lustful longing that took her totally unawares.

She was obviously in desperate need of a sugar hit.

Deciding it was certainly necessary to bring this meeting to a speedy close, Sophie inhaled deeply and pinned a sympathetic expression on her face. ‘Look, I know you're probably upset that Amber didn't attend this meeting in person.'

‘Because the male of the species has a fragile ego?'

Biting back a snippy retort, Sophie smiled. ‘But you really should see what we have to offer. I'm sure you'll be impressed.'

She watched him flick through the corners of the file she had brought and scroll his way through the pages; he did not look impressed.

‘Boring, bland and predictable.'

Sophie was in a dilemma; she actually agreed with his scathing assessment, but she wasn't here to preserve her artistic integrity. She was here to save Amber's business and everyone else's job, and if in the process she proved to her dad that she was more than just a dreamer it would be a massive bonus.

‘First impressions can be wrong.'

Marco, who had been thinking much the same thing himself, inclined his head. ‘You think so.'

‘I know so,' she retorted firmly. ‘And of course that is just a rough draft. Amber always involves the client, any client—and
you're not just any client; you're a very important man.' Though clearly not as important as you think you are, she thought, injecting several more volts of false sincerity into her fixed smile.

The rather startling realisation that he was being patronised slowed Marco's response.

‘She was devastated that she couldn't be here. I wasn't the first choice to make this pitch, or even,' she admitted, ‘the second.'

Sophie had doubts about honesty being the best policy but at this point it seemed she had little to lose by being frank, and the novelty value might even get his attention.

It did, but as those laser-sharp green eyes stilled on her face, she wasn't so sure this was necessarily a good thing.

‘So Miss…Amber…intended to come personally. But despite my…
extreme
importance she is not here.' And her substitute had a very unique sales pitch. The disingenuous act could not possibly be genuine but he had to admit it did have the charm of being not boring.

‘She's not…well, actually her liposuction went wonky.' Sophie was unable to repress a shudder at the mental image. Then realising her frankness might just have tipped over into indiscretion, she tacked on quickly, ‘It was a very minor procedure—people have it done in their lunch hour these days.'

‘I take it you do not speak from personal experience.'

His eyes slid to her legs, now totally obscured by the voluminous skirt and a top that reached her knees, but what he had already seen made it obvious that this was not a procedure that she needed.

But then women frequently endured painful procedures to measure up to some weird ideal of perfection. There was no such thing as perfection, though that glimpse of soft creamy skin on her thighs was actually pretty close.

He was looking at her thighs when he spoke, which just went to prove that the man didn't have a tactful bone in his quite magnificent body. Outraged all over again at his rudeness and
without stopping to think, Sophie snapped, ‘I'm happy with my body the way it is! But of course if I wasn't all right with it, and I didn't already know I was fat, that comment might have hurt!'

Had she just rapped his knuckles? Marco couldn't decide; he had very little room for comparison as it had been many years since even his closest friends had admonished him.

Embarrassed by her outburst—what on earth had got into her?—Sophie screwed up her courage and plunged on. If this was a lost cause, at least she wouldn't go quietly.

She heard herself say, ‘I'm actually very good.'

‘At what?'

At least he hadn't laughed but Sophie, who had already been cringing at her boastful claim, felt panic….

‘I may not have a lot of experience…' You're telling him this…why, exactly?

‘No experience…there's a shocker.'

‘But that's an advantage.'

‘It is?' Marco found he no longer had to feign fascination.

‘Well, I'm open to new ideas. I've not got a closed mind.'

‘Give me an example of your open mind.'

Sophie smiled; if he thought that was going to throw her he could think again. Finally, she could talk about something she knew about.

‘Well, for starters, look at this room.' Sophie's nose wrinkled as her sweeping gesture took in the large oblong space.

His brows lifted; he was almost enjoying himself now. This was unlike any conversation he had had with a woman before. ‘It is not to your liking?'

‘It's all right,' she conceded with a sniff. ‘But do you want
all right
for your ancestral home?' she asked, levelling a challenging look at his face, which gave her precisely zero clues to what he felt about her tactics.

‘I don't do
all right
!' Recognising she hadn't even felt embarrassed saying this, Sophie wondered if it was something to
do with lack of sleep or possibly the fact that every time she looked at Marco Speranza she felt the prickles of antagonism trickle down her spine.

It was irrational to so dislike someone she barely knew.

Marco leaned deeper into his chair and, stretching his long legs out in front of him, crossed one ankle over the other before fixing his hooded gaze on her flushed face.

‘What do you do, Miss Balfour?'

‘I do
exceptional
.' This is insane—Sophie, what are you doing?

‘Exceptional? I'm impressed.' One corner of his mouth lifted as he smiled and rested his chin on the platform provided by his steepled fingers. ‘Well, don't stop now…'

Now genuinely intrigued, Marco pushed his chair from the table and rose to his feet in one fluid motion. ‘I must admit, I thought I already had exceptional.'

I really wish he'd stayed sitting,
Sophie thought as she watched him move across the room, looking like the human version of a jungle cat—elegant, dangerous and casually cruel—until he stood framed by the window with the breathtaking panoramic view of the Old City below.

Not that Sophie was looking at the view. Marco had what could be called presence. Unable to dispel the lithe-jungle-cat analogy, she saw herself in the role of the pathetic defenceless animal he swatted just for the hell of it, and her courage wavered.

You're not defenceless, you're a
Balfour
! Show a bit of backbone for once!

Balfours rose to the challenge and it was encouraging that he hadn't thrown her out yet…possibly just because he enjoyed seeing her squirm, but there was a possibility, outside admittedly, that this wasn't lost yet.

‘So how would you make this space exceptional?'

‘Well, to begin with,' she said, banging her hand on the wall behind her, ‘this would go, as well as those windows.' As she continued to outline the changes she would make, her ner
vousness receded. She knew what she was talking about and her genuine enthusiasm made it surprisingly easy to articulate her creative ideas to someone who was listening with what seemed like genuine interest. Of course, he might just be waiting to pull her legs from under her with one cutting remark, but with the adrenaline buzz humming through her veins Sophie thought it was a risk worth taking.

What do I have to lose?
she asked herself. She pushed past the recognition that at one level she was actually enjoying herself—it was just too bizarre.

Marco watched her as she moved around the room, illustrating her suggestions with gestures, speaking with increasing confidence as the ideas flowed. The change in her demeanour was nothing less than spectacular.

Her entire manner, voice and body language had altered. Gone was the awkward self-conscious hunched-shoulder attitude; her voice was animated, her blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm—an enthusiasm that was so obviously genuine that Marco found himself smiling.

Slick patter and dodgy figures left him cold but he was drawn to the thing that was, in his experience, rare—a mix of genuine enthusiasm, talent and passion.

Sophie Balfour was a revelation.

‘Well, that's what I think anyway,' Sophie said, finally drawing breath as she removed her hand from the wall she had just verbally demolished. ‘The glass would make the most of the marvellous light and the sleek modern lines of the furniture…' Her voice faded as without warning her knees began to shake.

Actually, she was shaking all over.