The Balfour Legacy

She wasn’t in Balfour, she was in Sicily, and awake, but the strong sense of disorientation lingered. Everything that could go wrong had; her luggage was probably in Outer Mongolia and that was the least of her problems.

The ache stayed where it was like a lead weight in her chest as she struggled to shrug off the last tenacious strands of sleep…maybe just a dream but it had felt so real.

She could still smell the vanilla of her mother’s scones.

She inhaled and thought…not vanilla, something more subtly spicy and rather delicious. Pressing a hand to the back of her head as she tried to relieve the crick in her neck. She carefully unfolded her legs, causing the voluminous folds of her sprigged-cotton ankle-length skirt to bunch around her waist as she wriggled her toes.

About to reveal his presence Marco paused. His visitor might not be pretty and she might have a very odd taste in clothes, but she did have surprisingly good legs; if the creamy pallor of her flesh were any indication they had never seen the light of day.

He felt his curiosity stir—did that creamy pallor extend all over?

God, how long had she been asleep?

If Marco Speranza had walked in and found her snoring…that really would have made a great impression, she thought, cringing at the mental image. She stretched again, flexing the kinks out of her spine, then wincing as her elbow caught a jarring blow on the coffee pot on the table beside her.

‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed, as the contents of the half-full pot fell with a crash to the floor where it shattered.

‘Of course, it shattered—this is the day from hell!’ Gritting her teeth Sophie fell on her knees beside the broken glass and spilled liquid that was becoming a spreading stain on the thick white carpet.

Sitting back on her heels she closed her eyes.

Despite a lot of wishing when she opened them again she was still there. Why, she wondered, patting the coffee stain ineffectually with a tissue from her pocket, do these things happen to me?

Marco, who had watched her waking moments up to this point in silence, decided it was necessary to intercede—before she sliced off a finger.

Stepping forward he took firm hold of the hand that held the shard of splintered glass.

‘What?’ Sophie turned her head and watched with saucer-wide eyes as the glass was removed from her fingers. Shock made her compliant as she was then pulled unceremoniously to her feet.

Sophie’s wide gaze stayed on the long brown extremely strong fingers circling her wrist and continued upwards, moving over a section of golden-skinned forearm, dark against the pale cuff complete with discreet but obviously expensive cufflinks.

She had to tilt her head back to see the man who wore them and then as she met his eyes she immediately wished she hadn’t made the effort. His eyes were green, deep dark green flecked with tiny specks of gold, and they regarded her with an air of critical disdain.

The sort of critical disdain reserved for the use of someone who was perfect—and physically, he was—when looking at someone who wasn’t.

She had already known that Marco Speranza was good-looking, but neither the grainy tabloid shots of him on the notice board or the more glossy images in celebrity magazines had been able to convey just how good-looking he actually was.

They had not conveyed the restless vitality, the overpowering aura of raw masculinity he exuded. She had never encountered a man who was so blatantly sexual; just looking at him put very uncharacteristic thoughts into her head. She had never in her life looked at a stranger’s mouth and wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by him.

Sophie had spent a lot of time around beautiful people, but the man currently regarding her with an air of irritated disdain was something very special.

He was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.

‘You’re late,’ she blurted, the second thing that popped into her head; it could have been worse, as the first had been, Are you a good kisser?

One dark brow sketched upwards as he released her hand. ‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.’

Sophie nursed her hand against her chest. The impression his fingers left on her skin was so real that she expected to see the imprint glowing like a brand.

The skin on her narrow wrist was pale and unblemished.

Some of Amber’s advice came back to her. ‘You’re a woman, Sophie…’ Midway through, her boss had stopped short, maybe reconsidering the statement before adding, ‘Men always respond well to subtle flattery. You have to stroke their egos.’

The woman had clearly never met Marco Speranza! His ego was probably so massive that she doubted she could reach it.

‘I’m sorry. I fell asleep.’

‘I noticed.’ His sardonic tone made her flush in embarrassment and she bit her lip and wondered, Was my mouth open? Have I been drooling?

She watched uncertainly as Marco Speranza lowered himself into the leather chair behind his big desk and opened his laptop, and decided upon reflection it was better she didn’t know.

‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey,’ he said, not looking at her.

She regarded his dark head with dismay. ‘That’s it…you’re not interested in my ideas?’

He leaned back in his chair and, pushing it back from the desk, looked at her through hooded eyes. ‘I only deal with serious professionals.’

‘I’m…we’re serious professionals,’ she protested.

He gave a thin-lipped smile and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But!’

‘Your firm sent you.’ His green eyes swept upwards from her feet to her face. He gave a fluid shrug and turned his attention back to the computer screen. Then as if he changed his mind he lifted his head and added, ‘They sent a child. I’d say that that gives me a very good idea at how seriously your firm wants this job.’

‘I’m twenty-three and I assure you I’m qualified, Mr Speranza.’

He gave another languid shrug and drawled, ‘I will take your word on both counts.’ Though the twenty-three part still seemed doubtful to him.

His attention refocused on the screen of the open laptop on his desk; he was not looking at her.

For Marco Speranza she no longer existed.

Keeping her head up Sophie took a step towards the door. She could retain what shred of dignity she had left and be graceful in defeat.

What was the point in fighting?

Marco Speranza had made up his mind the moment he laid eyes on her. She had taken two steps when she realised she was falling back into a pattern of behaviour—graceful defeat translated as failure.

Her father had faith in her; her sisters would not have wimped out this way but she wasn’t even trying. They’d all be kind when she crawled back with her tail between her legs but she knew that privately they’d be disappointed.

What did she have to lose?

The frustration welled up inside her and expanded, a solid presence in her chest, until she felt as though she couldn’t breathe.

Jaw set she turned and walked back to the desk. ‘You haven’t given me a chance!’ she accused loudly.

Marco Speranza’s eyes lifted from the laptop.

The astonishment in his face might on another occasion have made her laugh, but Sophie, who was hearing the disappointment in her father’s voice when he realised his faith in her had been misplaced, planted her hands on her hips.

‘Well, did you?’ she demanded belligerently. ‘You wrote me off the moment you walked in here.’

The hands-on-the-hip stance was not good when you did not want to draw attention to their unfortunate width, but Sophie was beyond caring if he thought she was chunky. Chances were he had not even noticed she was female, let alone that she had horribly generous curves.

He didn’t bother denying it. ‘I do that when people are so committed they fall asleep. And can you really expect to be taken seriously, appearing in someone’s office dressed as you are?’ He stopped twirling the pen in his long fingers and laid it on the table. ‘You know, I think you’ll go farther if you invest in a comb…’ he mused.

Her cobalt-blue eyes—the intense colour reminded him of the sea along the Ionian coast—slid from his and as he watched she bit into her trembling lower lip.

Marco suddenly felt less than thrilled with his clever comeback; the moment he had allowed things to become personal he had lost the moral and every other sort of high ground. This English girl was enough to try the patience of a saint, but nothing excused behaviour that had drifted worryingly close to bullying.

‘Look, if you have notes, sketches, leave them. I will look at them and get back to your boss.’

Anticipating a certain amount of tearful gratitude for his generous compromise he was taken aback when the eyes that lifted slowly to his were not misty with gratitude but sparking with anger.

‘How dare you patronise me!’

Sophie’s first reaction to his scathing put-down had been to laugh, then with a sudden flash of insight she realised that this was yet another coping mechanism.

People had been making her a joke all her life, and she had been letting them. She had been telling herself she didn’t care.

Sophie suddenly realised she did care—she cared a lot.

‘Patronise!’ This woman gave unreasonable a whole new meaning.

‘All you’ve done is sneer and look down your nose at me. People like you make me sick—people who think they are entitled to what they want, when they want it, just because of what their name is. Well, I hate that world and I don’t want to live in it.’

‘Where do you want to live?’

Sophie’s blue eyes narrowed warily. ‘We are not talking about me.’

‘My mistake,’ Marco drawled, thinking that even if she had a presentation that was mind-blowing he would be insane to take someone on his payroll who had such obvious issues. ‘Do you ever pause for breath when you speak?’

‘I only babble when I get nervous.’

‘And I make you nervous?’

She glared and thought, You’d like that, wouldn’t you? ‘You make me…’ She stopped, conscious of something that bore a worrying similarity to exhilaration circulating in her veins.

She was not enjoying this! He was a horrible man and she hated arguing. He was just so convinced he was right, when in reality he was so wide of the mark that he was not even on the right page. The man was infuriating.

‘You only value things that are beautiful.’

He blinked at the accusation.

‘You!’ she declared, waving a condemnatory finger at him. ‘Judge by appearances…!’ The last time she’d said this much was when she had drank too much—if two glasses of champagne deserved that title—after her nephew Oliver’s christening.

She had fallen into the fountain; people were still teasing her about it.

The transformation from mouse-like timidity to bristling bosom-heaving antagonism interested Marco as much as the charge.

‘What else am I meant to judge you on?’ he asked, watching the finger that was being waved in his direction and thinking appearances in this instance were definitely deceptive.

This reasonable question made Sophie pause. ‘You said my outfit meant you couldn’t take me seriously.’

‘That was rude—I was out of order, but I’ve had a bad day.’

‘You’ve had a bad day!’ she squeaked, throwing up her hands. ‘You,’ she told him with husky quivering emphasis, ‘know nothing about bad days, and for your information it’s nothing to do with my clothes. I have sisters, as I’m sure you know, who could make a bin sack look fashionable and sexy.’

‘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.

Chapter Five

SHE 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 amusement 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.’