Sophie and the Scorching Sicilian (6 page)

I
T WAS
very confusing; one moment he was propped up against the window with languid ease, and the next Marco Speranza was at her side, his hand on her shoulder as he forced her into a Phillipe Starck chair.

Actually, there was very little force involved. Her knees folded; it had been a v
ery
long day.

‘Nice chair.' Sophie was not sure if she spoke out loud or not. ‘But not in here.' A great piece but it just didn't mesh with the rest of the decor.

‘Always the critic. Water.' She had lost all colour and her intense pallor brought the vivid blue of her eyes into sharp contrast.

His lean dark features blurred before her eyes as she shook her head; even blurred he looked pretty incredible. ‘I'm not thirsty.'

‘If you drink this I will burn the damn chair.' Marco took her fingers and folded them around the glass before guiding it to her lips and saying harshly, ‘Drink!'

Left with little choice she obeyed him.

‘Better?' he asked, touching his thumb to a small trickle of water at the corner of her mouth.

The soft touch sent a secret shiver down her spine. ‘I'm fine,' she said, hoping that the breathiness in her voice was down to her wobbly moment and not the light touch.

Much to Sophie's relief his hand fell away from her face,
but his disturbing hard emerald gaze lingered another few uncomfortable moments on her mouth.

‘Well, you don't look it.'

Her chin went up. ‘I'm fine,' she insisted, utterly mortified by this display of weakness. ‘Totally fine. I just… Don't burn the chair—it's very nice…'

‘But it offends your aesthetic sensitivities in this setting.'

‘I'm not sensitive.' As to contradict this statement her nerve endings acted in an inappropriate and over-the-top—actually
painful
—way to the faint brush of his fingertips against the inside of her wrist as he relinquished his supportive grip on the glass.

‘I don't make a habit of
almost
fainting. It's just…I can't skip meals.'

She seemed perfectly serious and Marco, who was accustomed to women who only ate carbs on days without a
D
in them, glanced towards the crumbs on the empty plate.

Sophie intercepted the direction of his gaze and said defensively, ‘That was not a proper meal—it was sandwiches.'

The twitch of his lips suggested she was about to lose the credibility she had struggled so hard to establish so Sophie plunged on without pause, veering sharply away from the subject of her appetite that was as unfashionable as her figure.

‘We can do the job, and we can do it well. Check out our track record.'

He still looked distracted, probably shocked by the idea of a woman actually eating… The article she had read on the plane had included a large and growing back catalogue of disposable girlfriends, none of whom looked like they had ever eaten a full meal in their lives. Clearly, they considered starvation not too high a price to pay for being seen on the arm of someone as famous and rich as Marco Speranza, she thought cynically.

Her cynicism wobbled slightly as her glance moved over the strong angular contours of his face, coming to rest on the firm sensual curve of his mouth.

He had money and fame but he also had animal magnetism oozing out of his perfect pores—and he had that mouth.

Maybe they weren't so stupid.

You're staring at his mouth, Sophie.

Maybe he's just very good in bed?

Focus
, Sophie, she told herself as she dodged his gaze and brushed an invisible speck from her creased and crumpled jacket.

He wasn't a mind reader; it just
seemed
as if those eerie green eyes of his—no man should have eyelashes that long—could see into her head. Still, if he even suspected that she was wondering, even in a dispassionate sort of way, about his sexual performance…!

Sophie cleared her throat and said in her best professional voice ‘You won't find a firm that is better or more innovative.'

‘Promises are cheap,' Marco said, thinking that her sultry, husky little voice just didn't match the rest of her, though her lips, cherry red in her pale face, did have possibilities. She had the sort of complexion that a Victorian lady would have given her best ostrich feather to possess.

‘We are not.' Pleased with her swift retort she gave a regal smile and added, ‘You pay for quality.' There was nothing Sophie liked better than a bargain.

‘And if you don't give us a chance it will be your loss!' she warned, thinking,
Mine too
, as she crossed her fingers.

Marco, who had been studying his interlinked fingers, suddenly looked down and held her eyes.

The moment probably only lasted a moment but for Sophie, with a bucketful of heart-racing adrenaline still swirling in her veins and her nerve stretched to breaking point, it felt like a lifetime.

‘Look, I meant it—I don't make a habit of having dizzy spells, and contrary to appearances I happen to be a very organised person.' Organisation was the one thing she could do, and to see the scepticism on his face was tough to swallow.

But she wasn't here to court Marco Speranza's good opinion. This wasn't personal—it didn't matter what Marco Speranza thought of her; it mattered that he signed on the dotted line and she chalked up lots of brownie points.

It mattered that she lived up to the confidence her father had in her.

‘But this isn't about me—I'm just the messenger.' Wasn't it the messenger that got shot? ‘You wouldn't have to see me at all.'

He didn't look as relieved as she had anticipated. Maybe he didn't believe her? ‘I'm strictly a back-room person.' If she pulled this off, that might change. She felt a surprising spurt of excitement at a possibility that would have once given her nightmares.

‘You make it sound as though they keep you in a cupboard. Do they let you out on special occasions?

Sophie smiled, assuming he didn't expect her to reply to this frivolous comment.

Don't look too desperate, Sophie…desperate is not a good sales tool, she told herself as she met his eyes projecting, she sincerely hoped, professional competence.

Siren sex appeal might have been more effective, she thought with a silent sigh, but a girl had to use what she had.

Her smile stayed painted in place as she watched under the sweep of her lashes as he walked across to his desk.

He closed the lid of the laptop with a decisive click and lifted his head. ‘All right,' he said slowly.

Sophie's jaw dropped.

She looked, he reflected, as surprised as he felt to hear his response.

It wasn't one thing that had changed his mind but a combination; the plans were rubbish but she had ideas and enthusiasm.

She has what you have lost, Marco—she has passion!

And nice legs—
excellent
legs.

Sophie stared at him warily. ‘We've got the job?'

Marco angled a brow. ‘Do you want it?'

A wide smile spread across her pale features, transforming her face into a vision of sparkling animation as she jumped to her feet.

‘Yes, of course, that's…that's just…You won't be sorry, Mr Speranza,' she said eagerly as she grabbed his hand between the two of her own and pumped it up and down. Then, aware he was looking at her very strangely, she dropped it and gave a self-conscious shrug. ‘Sorry, I'm just so happy.'

‘Before you spontaneously combust I must tell you there is one condition.'

Sophie's smile stayed glued in place but her eyes were wary.
I should have known there was going to be a catch
, she thought, deciding whatever he asks for no matter how preposterous nod and say yes. He's the client—just remember, Sophie, the customer is always right.

‘I reserve the right to terminate the arrangement if I am not happy.'

‘Of course.' Sophie pulled out her notebook and turned to a fresh page.

‘And you will personally oversee the project.'

Sophie assumed she had misheard. ‘Sorry, I didn't quite…'

‘I wish for you to personally oversee the project.'

Sophie looked up. She made herself smile at his joke and tilted her head back to look up into his lean face, her eyes drawn to the small scar beside his mouth—the only flaw in his otherwise perfect face—and she wondered how he got it.

‘Seriously, Mr Speranza, I'm sure we can accommodate all your needs.'

The earnest assurance brought Marco's gaze to her face. ‘That is good to know,' he drawled.

Sophie recognised the amused glint in his eyes and translated his drawled retort as
thanks but no thanks.

Sarcastic rat!

She schooled her features into a neutral mask; the mortified
flush that rose up her neck until her entire face burned she had no control over.

‘I admire confidence in a woman, Miss Balfour.'

Not half as much as he admired long legs and making love naked on a beach, if his ex-wife's no-holds-barred account of their passionate marriage in a recent interview in a celebrity publication was anything to go by.

‘However, I don't think you'd know where to begin,' he said, although…what did they say about still waters running deep? It was possible that prim exterior hid a fiery and passionate nature.

Possible but not likely, though that mouth…?

Even though Sophie knew he wasn't serious, she couldn't help imagining what it would feel like to be presented with such an opportunity. It could make a person's career or, of course, break it if you blew it or got sacked, but she didn't have to worry about that. She had done what was asked of her—she had got him. She still couldn't figure out what had swung the decision in her favour, but the worry and the kudos were all her boss's—and Amber was welcome to it, and to the pleasure of being forced to smile at this man with an ego that matched the size of his bank balance.

‘Seriously, Mr Speranza…'

‘Seriously, Miss Balfour.'

‘No…no…I mean, that's not possible. I don't do that sort of thing. I'm very junior and I only got the job because Amber had a thing with my dad.'

During the pause that followed her disclosure—way too much information, Sophie—she tried without success to read his expression.

‘My,' he drawled. ‘You really know how to sell yourself, don't you?'

This time she could read his expression and, while she generally had no problem laughing at herself, when the person
she'd be joining in with was this man, all she could manage was a clenched smile.

‘I'm working on it,' she gritted through her teeth.

‘I heard the British upper classes don't move their mouths when they speak…' And in her case it was a pretty mouth. ‘But until now I didn't believe it.' He leaned back in his hair with languid ease. ‘One of the reasons I didn't show you the door—'

Sophie waited for the punchline and when it didn't come said, ‘Because I'm underqualified but well connected?'

‘—is because you don't say what I want to hear.'

‘I was trying to,' she retorted with feeling.

Marco threw back his head and laughed.

Hearing the deep husky sound the couple in the adjoining office, who had been debating whether to go in and see what was happening, exchanged startled looks.

Sophie, who had no idea that Marco Speranza laughing in the work place was not a usual event, was startled for other reasons—Marco Speranza had a sense of humour!

That and a low, husky, uninhibited laugh that made the downy hair on her skin stand on end. Laughter softened the lines of his austerely beautiful face and made him look younger and almost approachable.

‘One? What were the others?'

There was a pause as he appeared to consider the question and her face.

Sophie found his unblinking scrutiny deeply unsettling.

‘You don't carry any baggage… You're fresh…'

The situation would change; experience would put cynicism in her eyes and etch lines onto her smooth skin, but right now her eyes were clear…and her skin… Feeling suddenly, incredibly old and jaundiced, he felt an unexpected stab of something that was close to envy.

When had he last experienced the sort of enthusiasm that shone in her eyes?

‘People in your profession frequently fall into the trap of thinking in terms of what is fashionable. I am not interested in the latest colour charts—I feel passionate about my home,' he declared, feeling hypocritical.

The fact was he was not capable about feeling passionate about anything. During his marriage he had become adept at hiding his feelings from his spiteful wife, who got a sick kick out of inflicting pain. At some point he hadn't needed to hide them any more as there hadn't been anything to hide.

Had those feelings died or were they in cold storage? The fact that he was capable of objectively considering each possibility made Marco suspect the former was true.

‘I want someone to work on it who is capable of…' He paused and thought,
Capable of reminding me how I once felt.
His eyes slid from her face and he said abruptly, ‘I am a Sicilian.'

As if that said it all. ‘I'm not.'

Marco's glance drifted to her mouth and he felt things shift inside him. ‘You spoke very eloquently, with passion.'

‘That wasn't passion, that was desperation.'

A flicker of irritation crossed his lean face but some of the tension left his shoulders. ‘This constant self-deprecation can get wearing.' However, looking at her mouth did not.

Sophie opened her mouth to retort and closed it again, not because she'd just remembered he was the client and the client was always right, but because
he
was right.

It had started as a protective mechanism—get in there before someone else did. Endless casual comments, not normally intended to wound, about her figure, her hair, her lack of small talk…The list was endless and they did hurt, so it was now almost a reflex to pull herself down before anyone else got the chance.