Sophie and the Scorching Sicilian (10 page)

Her eyes widened as a finger was placed on her lips. ‘Take a deep breath and relax.'

‘I am relaxed.'

‘You're hyperventilating. You were curious, I understand that! Sexual curiosity is what makes the world go around.'

‘If you say so… I mean, mirrors and waterbeds may be your thing but for me they're pretty much…'

Her eyes connected with his, and a whoosh of heat crackled through her body.

‘This isn't my bed,
cara
.'

‘It…' She stopped her brows drawing together in a disconcerted frown as she pulled herself into a sitting position. ‘What did you just call me?'

Lying on his back Marco tucked one hand behind his head and looked up at her. Her heart stumbled and skipped a beat as his eyes brushed her own before sliding down her body. ‘My imagination does not require props.' It required a leash! Just looking at that creamy skin made him want to bury his face in her softness and taste all that sinfully tempting sweetness.

Feeling several hundred degrees hotter than she had when she had removed her outer layers to cool off Sophie looked around frantically for something to cover herself.

‘It's warm, and I was…'

‘Relax.'

She dragged her eyes from his mouth and got as far as his shadowed jaw.

‘I am relaxed!' she heard herself bellow defiantly. ‘Totally relaxed.'

‘Good…no, don't move yet.' He didn't catch her arm but his fingers grazed it; her skin was so sensitized that her nerve
endings reacted to the movement of air. ‘This is comfortable.' He flexed his shoulders.

Sophie, who felt ready to crawl out of her skin, gave a grunt that could at a push have passed as agreement.

‘I haven't been in the saddle for a month and I'm feeling it.'

He would look good on a horse. He would look good on pretty much anything. ‘If you're stiff you should take a hot bath.'

‘I thought it was a cold shower?'

That was it; she was out of here. His earthy laughter ringing in her ears, she tumbled out—elegance was not an option—of the waterbed.

Marco followed suit and stood there, dragging a hand through his dark hair.

Sophie rounded on him. ‘I suppose you think that was funny.'

Bosom heaving, creamy satiny skin, freckles, flashing eyes and
that mouth
—the woman was killing him. ‘I simply mean that there is no hot water at the moment as we have a plumbing situation.'

Sophie said, ‘Oh!' and felt stupid.

‘How did your exploration go? Do you have any questions?'

‘Yes,' Sophie admitted, thinking, Do you still love your wife?

‘I need to know just how far you want me to go….' She closed her eyes as the mortified colour rushed to her cheeks; she couldn't seem to open her mouth without a double entendre escaping. ‘With the palazzo, I mean. Do I need to run every idea by you or…?'

‘I am totally in your hands,
cara
.'

His mockery stung. Did he think that just because she was plain and plump and probably didn't even register a blip on his chart of female and desirable that she didn't have feelings?

His smile faded, leaving in its place an expression nothing like mockery, an expression that sent her sensitive stomach into a spiralling dive.

‘You're a very attractive woman.'

It was an accusation and one she didn't know how to respond to.

‘I mention this because you're going to be living under this roof while the place is filled with workmen—Italian workmen, Sicilian workmen—who need little encouragement.'

Having delivered this lecture he turned abruptly and walked out of the room, leaving her staring in bewilderment after him.

S
OPHIE
listened quietly, betraying no emotion while the man spoke, stabbing the air with an accusing finger towards her, as his attack grew more overtly personal.

Very aware of the eyes watching, though not of the pair of green ones that observed from the shadows, Sophie took a deep breath. She knew that if she did not establish her authority now she never would.

Since day one Franco's resentment at being answerable to a woman and one who was young had been obvious. He made no secret of the fact that he thought he ought to be managing the project and he had lost no opportunity to undermine her, constantly questioning her decisions and making snide references to her lack of experience.

Sophie had tried to ignore him and she had tried to placate him; neither strategy had worked. Now it was crunch time.

‘I always appreciate your advice, Franco, but Roman is right.' She glanced with a smile towards the gangly young man whose adherence to her instructions had made things kick off on this occasion. He stood in front of the partially exposed fresco as though he were willing to physically defend it from attack. ‘Thanks, Roman,' she added. ‘But why don't you take your break now.'

Waiting until the reluctant, protective youth had moved away
she turned back to the angry older man and smiled. She pitched her voice low, but loud enough for the men in the farthest corners of the room to hear, as she added calmly, ‘I did tell Roman that we are stripping back this area by hand. I know it will take longer,' she added before the older man could interrupt. ‘But restoration,' she added quietly, ‘as I'm sure you'd agree, is about preserving when possible and not destroying. And this fresco—' she pointed to the area where the warm, amazingly vibrant colours had been revealed when the layer of crumbling plaster had fallen away that morning ‘—is something we have a duty to preserve.'

The older man flushed with displeasure and took a swaggering step towards her. ‘The
marchese
will not weep when he sees it and it is his money you are wasting…'

Sophie's chin went up another notch at the scornful reminder to her own reaction when the hidden treasure had been revealed. She was not in the least ashamed of her emotional response.

‘The
marchese
has put me in charge, Franco, and I know he hopes we can work together. He values your experience as much as I do.'

In the shadows, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, Marco was torn between a desire to applaud Sophie's sheer guts as she held her ground and his urge to strangle the truculent man he was apparently meant to value so highly.

Sophie Balfour had a quiet dignity that you couldn't teach—God, she had guts—and she looked so damned small with that beefy bear of a guy standing over her that he had to fight down the urge that made him want to rush in and rescue her.

She wouldn't thank him and she would be right; he knew he wouldn't be doing her any favours and that this was one battle she had to fight alone, but this knowledge didn't stop him wanting to rip her persecutor limb from limb.

He never had any time for men who felt threatened by capable women, and Sophie Balfour wasn't just capable, she
was magnificent! And the jeans and T-shirt look suited her, he decided, feeling the usual kick of lust as his eyes slid with slow appreciation over her heavenly curves.

Sophie's steady blue gaze locked onto the older man's dark angry glare as she dropped her voice to a level intended for his ears alone. ‘I would regret it if we could not work harmoniously together on this,' Sophie said, and she paused to let her words sink in. ‘I'll make mistakes,' she conceded. ‘And I hope I'll learn from them, but I'll definitely take responsibility for them, because that's what being the
boss
is about.' The emphasis was slight but she knew he picked it up. ‘Now about the problem with the electrical contractors, do you think we should…?' She turned and after a pause Franco followed her.

Ten minutes later Sophie sank down under a giant oak tree and, head on her trembling knees, expelled a long, shaky breath. Her heart was still pounding like a piston.

‘I called myself the boss.' She covered her face with her hands and began to laugh. ‘Wait until I tell Mia.' Mia of all her sisters would appreciate the joke.

‘Who is Mia?'

‘My sister…' Sophie stopped, her blue eyes flying upwards to the tall man who had materialised out of nowhere. ‘You, here…? I…' She started to rise, then stopped, sinking with a bump to the ground as Marco dropped down, balancing with casual grace on his heels.

Had Franco already taken his complaints to the top? Had Marco come to put her in her place and tell her she was doing everything wrong?

‘How are things going?'

A casually innocent comment?

Or a leading question?

Sophie, lifting a hand to shade her eyes from the sun's glare, regarded his dark handsome face warily. She found it hard to associate anything innocent with someone who possessed a
mouth that sinfully sexual. She pressed her back into the tree bark as a shiver traced a sensuous path down her spine.

‘No problems?' His eyes drifted downwards, attracted by the hint of creamy cleavage and freckles; he wondered if she was wearing sunscreen to protect that glorious satiny skin.

Why, are you thinking of offering to put some on, Marco?

‘What sort of problems?'

‘Industrial unrest?' he said, seeing his finger slide into the shadowy valley between her breasts.

Her eyes flew wide—he knew!

Marco's jaw clenched and the muscles in his throat worked as he wrenched his gaze upwards and loosened his tie. ‘You handled that very well back there.'

This time it was Sophie's mouth that gaped as she scrambled to her feet, shaking. ‘You saw, you heard…'

‘
You
conquered,' he inserted, rising with languid grace to his feet to tower over her. ‘Your father would have been proud.'

Are you?
Sophie only just managed to bite back the response. Why would his opinion matter more to her than that of her father?

‘Do you want me to sack him?'

The casual offer made her stare, horrified. ‘You can't just sack people!'

‘Isn't that what you just threatened to do in so many words?'

‘Then the hiring and firing really is up to me?' Then frightened that question made her sound like some sort of power-hungry megalomaniac she added quickly, ‘Not that I would.'

‘You're the boss.' He placed a hand on the broad tree trunk behind her head. ‘And I think you like it.'

Sophie froze, a tiny choked sound escaping her aching throat as Marco leaned into her; at no point did their bodies touch but the idea was there in her head—
touch me, touch me!

The idea, combined with the heat coming from his lean body and the scent of the cologne he used mixed with the underlying musky male scent of his skin, had a narcotic quality.

It struck a dazed and breathless Sophie that if anyone had seen them from a distance they might have looked like lovers, and having the men think she slept her way into the job would hardly help her credibility.

Might be worth it, though,
mused the shameless voice in her head.

‘You think I like being the boss…?' she echoed, struggling to sound normal and dispassionately curious and sounding anything but.

‘It's good to be in…control,' Marco said, unable to recall the last time he had felt so little in control, certainly of his physical appetites. What was it about this woman that bypassed his brain and tapped into emotions he had put into cold storage years ago? He thought of the rush of pleasure he had felt as he drew up into the forecourt earlier, of the ferocious anger he had felt towards Franco mere moments ago. How long had it been since he had felt so at prey to his changing emotions? So…alive?

What was it that he actually wanted?

He did not trust his feelings, and he tried not to trust her…but he did! That was the problem. She looked at him with those big blue eyes and he lost all objectivity. He had wanted to rip that man into pieces just for being mean to her.

Sophie had to grab the tree to stop her knees folding when without warning he straightened up and stepped back, dragging a hand through his dark hair as he did so. His eyes were suddenly as cool as his manner.

‘Do not let anyone touch the fresco until I've contacted an expert.'

Sophie's head was still spinning at the sudden change in emotional temperature; clearly, the erotic moment had only existed within her overheated imagination.

She felt the heat climb to her cheeks as she made herself meet his clinical gaze.

Marco Speranza being attracted to me…sure, that's so
likely.
In future she decided she would keep her fantasies firmly under control.

‘I have already rung the museum. They're sending someone tomorrow morning to advise.'

He raised a brow. ‘You will let me know what they decide?'

She inclined her head and tried to match his bewilderingly chilly, formal manner as she had promised herself she would.

The man, she decided as she watched him walk away, was too moody for comfort. One minute she felt able to say anything to him and the next he was aloof and standoffish. And he hadn't, she realised, even said why he was there to begin with.

‘Did you have something in particular to…?' she began, raising her voice.

He turned at the sound of her voice, pinning her with a glittering emerald stare and making Sophie lose her train of thought.

‘It might be better if you commuted.'

The abrupt change of subject made her blink.

‘The conditions here are…primitive,' he said, thinking he could not be the only male who had noticed how attractively she filled out jeans and a T-shirt.

‘I like it here! It's convenient.'

Studying her mulish expression in silence for a moment, he shrugged. ‘As you wish. I will be back tomorrow to speak with the experts from the museum.'

Sophie was unable to hide her dismay at the prospect. ‘You will?'

‘I am free.'

Sophie managed a weak smile. ‘That's…great.'

 

It was after midnight when the last kinks were finally smoothed from the contract, the
T
's crossed and the
I
's dotted. The deal was finally, successfully completed and Marco could shrug off his jacket, the success all the more sweet because popular and informed opinion had called it impossible.

It was almost 1:00 a.m. when Marco stepped into the glass elevator.

His team, all on an ebullient high, had already left. He assumed they were heading towards a fashionable nightspot to celebrate. They had invited him, of course, safe in the knowledge that he would refuse.

Marco shared their adrenaline buzz, but company and bright lights were not things he sought at such times; they were things he actively avoided. His tastes and pleasures were simpler—the privacy of his own apartment, his favourite jazz playing and perhaps a glass of brandy were the things he anticipated with pleasure as he drove through the city.

Strange then that when he came to the junction that led to his apartment he carried on driving.

He told himself that it would take him another hour before he reached the palazzo and that it would no doubt be in darkness. However, he continued to drive, deliberately not thinking about the impulse that made him do so until he reached the newly reinstated gated entrance to the estate.

 

The work was three weeks in now and it was going well. Sophie knew the timescale down to the nearest minute; it was one of many details circulating in her overactive brain. She had been terrified that the sheer size of this project would overwhelm her, but juggling information, tasks, times and dates was actually, she had discovered, quite a buzz.

So was the fact that she was good at it.

The ballroom had been the biggest job they faced, but well worth the effort, and what the painstaking process of removing layers of paint and grime had revealed was better than anyone, including the stonemasons, had anticipated.

There were only two places where the original stucco needed replacing.

Sophie had used every suitable Italian word of praise for the
team of stonemasons who had worked diligently. Now, as she lay on her back on top of the scaffold tower, she knew they had deserved all of them and more.

Sophie shone her torch at the newly revealed relief work. Standing below, the craftsmanship of those long-dead artisans was impressive, but close to it, it was breathtaking!

 

The place was in darkness. Conscious of a vague sense of dissatisfaction—to call it anticlimax would have been an overstatement—Marco walked in, shrugged and said to himself, ‘What else did you expect, Marco? A red carpet, a band playing?'

A fresh-faced English girl in her transparent nightdress?

Pushing away the intrusive and frankly preposterous suggestion he walked past the rash of ugly builders' skips that competed with the classical statues that lined the driveway.

The oak-banded door swung inwards at a touch; inside was silence and darkness. Marco's eyes strained in the darkness as he reached behind him for the light switch. He flicked it and cursed softly when nothing happened.

Walking cautiously across to the other side of the room he found that a second switch produced a similar non-result. No electricity or a more localised fault? he wondered.

Either way his whim was looking less of a good idea by the second. Some people might make the connection with this sudden outbreak of impetuous choices and the arrival of a certain prim English girl into his life.

Marco did not.

Though a mental image of her sleeping in the old nursery where Natalia had housed her did filter through his mental barrier. It had been a long day and she was definitely a woman who would look better without clothes, though the T-shirt and jeans tightly cinched in at the waist she had been wearing the last time he'd put in an appearance had been a good look too.