EIGHT SISTERS, EIGHT SCANDALOUSLY SEDUCTIVE STORIES

THE
BALFOUR
LEGACY

Scandal on the night of the world-famous one hundredth

Balfour Charity Ball has left the Balfour family in

disarray! Proud patriarch Oscar Balfour knows that

something must be done. His only option is to cut his

daughters off from their lavish lifestyles and send them

out into the real world to stand on their own two feet.

So he dusts off the Balfour family rules and uses his

powerful contacts to place each girl in a situation that will

challenge her particular personality. He is determined

that each of his daughters should learn that money will

not buy happiness – integrity, decorum, strength,

trust…and love are everything!

Each month Mills & Boon is delighted to bring you an

exciting new instalment from The Balfour Legacy.

You won’t want to miss out!

MIA’S SCANDAL – Michelle Reid

KAT’S PRIDE – Sharon Kendrick

EMILY’S INNOCENCE – India Grey

SOPHIE’S SEDUCTION – Kim Lawrence

ZOE’S LESSON – Kate Hewitt

ANNIE’S SECRET – Carole Mortimer

BELLA’S DISGRACE – Sarah Morgan

OLIVIA’S AWAKENING – Margaret Way

Sophie’s Seduction
The Balfour Legacy
Kim Lawrence

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in rural Anglesey. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons and the various stray animals which have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!

To my two boys, who have grown into rather splendid young men

Chapter One

SOPHIE paused at the top of the steps and consulted her notebook. She turned to the pencilled map drawn in her own neat hand before glancing up to double-check the number on the door of the modest Georgian terrace. It was in a street filled with rows of similar houses, but then, as they always said, when it came to property it was all about location.

She shaded her eyes from the July sun as she directed her gaze towards the luxury cars parked along the tree-lined street. They seemed to suggest that, in estate-agent speak, this location could be classed as highly desirable.

She turned her attention back to the building. This was, she decided, definitely the place, though a further search revealed there was nothing as vulgar as a sign to identify it on the door.

Small but exclusive, her father had said, with a growing reputation for excellence. Exactly the sort of place, he had assured Sophie, for her to spread her artistic wings.

‘A springboard for future success!’ he had enthused. ‘You could go places with your talent, Sophie, you just need to get out there and show the world what you can do!’

So, no pressure, then.

Sophie had resisted the temptation to point out that a home-study course in interior decorating didn’t necessarily qualify her to achieve world domination in the field of interior design, not overnight anyway.

There would be no interview, it seemed, and when she had asked when she started the new job, her father’s reply had tipped her over into outright panic.

‘Monday…this Monday…do you think I can?’

Her father had looked stern and Oscar Balfour could look very stern, but not normally with her.

She had never given him cause; she had always towed the line, and there had never been any major dramas in her life. She’d never needed rescuing, or been the subject of embarrassing headlines; there were no unsuitable men in her past…she was an open and fairly boring book.

Depressing when you thought about it.

‘I know you can.’

‘You do?’

‘I know, Sophie, that you and your sisters will not disappoint me. I have faith in you. Your sisters have all accepted a challenge.’

And if she didn’t what did that make her?

‘I know they have.’ And she missed them.

‘This is my fault,’ Oscar Balfour had insisted.

Sophie’s kind heart had ached to see the father she loved hold himself personally responsible and she’d said warmly, though not entirely truthfully, ‘You’ve been a wonderful father.’

As she hugged him she’d seen the tabloid open on his desk. Knowing it contained a particularly vicious editorial, she’d heard herself say, ‘I’ll do it.’

Sophie had left the room with an emotional lump the size of a golf ball in her throat, in a state of shock but determined not to let down her father and sisters; for once in her life she would act like a Balfour.

A week later and the lump was still there, but as she lifted a hand to knock tentatively on the half-open door it had been joined by a tight knot of anxiety lying like a leaden weight in her stomach.

She still felt in shock.

She knew none of this should have come as a surprise. Since the drama of the scandalous events surrounding the annual Balfour Charity Ball, she had watched as one by one her sisters had been sent away to prove themselves in the world without the cushion of the Balfour wealth and influence.

But time had passed and Sophie had waited nervously for her invitation to her father’s study, and when it hadn’t materialised she had relaxed a little, assuming she was safe—then…it came.

The sympathetic look she received from her father’s butler as she let herself in by a side door to the manor had made her wonder, but the tearful hug from the cook had confirmed it—she had not been overlooked.

Her father had, he said, taken his time to find the perfect position for her. Sophie, who knew that her perfect position was at home at the Balfour gatehouse with her mother, had tried to sound suitably appreciative of his efforts.

Sophie glanced at her watch; she was fifteen minutes early for her first day. Wondering if that made her appear eager or desperate she toyed with the idea of taking a walk and coming back later.

No, it was now or never—don’t be a wimp, Sophie, you can do this! Taking a deep breath she was looking around for the bell when she caught the door with her elbow and it swung inwards.

‘Hello!’

There was no reply.

Taking her courage by the scruff of its neck she stepped through the open door. The room she stepped into was laid out like a country house drawing room, the decor aimed at people who had as much money as taste.

The aroma of coffee was her first impression; the second was the lovely and clever use of texture and colour in the soft furnishing. It was clearly a showroom of sorts, though there were no price tags on either the beautifully displayed individual pieces of modern art or the equally fine antique items.

Sophie was both impressed and daunted, as this was a far cry from her little work room at the Balfour gatehouse with her drawing board, colour charts and wallpaper samples.

She brushed her fingertips along a beautiful vibrant-coloured kilim that had been draped over a leather chesterfield and struggled to see herself working here.

‘Hello?’ she called out again.

She was standing there feeling like a spare part and wondering what to do next when she heard the sound of voices; the noise was coming from the far end of the room, but she couldn’t see anyone. With a puzzled frown drawing her feathery brows into a straight line, she moved towards the sound of the voices when she realised that what she had assumed was a wall was actually a portable screen.

The voices were the other side and as she aproached they got louder.

She peered through a gap in the screen and saw another area laid out beyond, lit by a pair of stunning chandeliers. This time the style was strongly Gustavian; pale and deceptively simple, the light airy feel was further enhanced by a stunning antique mirror in an ornate carved white-painted frame that took centre stage.

The building was clearly a great deal larger than it looked from the outside.

She opened her mouth to speak, caught the word Balfour, and closed it again, revealing herself now might cause embarrassment to the people on the other side of the screen. Two women, by the sound of their voices, though all Sophie could see were the tops of their heads above the high back of a wooden bench.

She was about to move to the opposite side of the room when she heard the person who hadn’t yet spoken exclaim, ‘One of the Balfour girls—you’ve got to be kidding! Work here! Do they work? And risk breaking a nail, surely not.’

‘Miaow…if you were a society heiress to a fortune, would you work, darling?’

‘Let me see…’

Sophie heard both girls laugh.

‘But you’d have to share the fortune with…how many sisters are there?’

‘Are we including the one they’ve just discovered?’

Normally a pretty placid person Sophie felt her face flush with anger at this mocking reference—anger she felt on behalf of her half-sister Mia, who was the result of an affair their father had many years ago.

Oscar had welcomed the daughter he hadn’t known about into the family and despite the fact she hadn’t known her for long Sophie felt a special closeness to her beautiful half-Italian sister.

‘And then Zoe Balfour isn’t really a Balfour at all…maybe she’s the one that’s coming here?’ one of the voices speculated.

There was a certain malicious amusement in the voice that responded. ‘Yeah, maybe Daddy’s cut her off now he knows she’s not his. I do wish I could have been a fly on the wall at the 100th Balfour Charity Ball!’

Sophie’s hands clenched into fists at her side as she bit her tongue, longing to set the record straight, but she was hampered by the fact that she couldn’t, without revealing that she’d been eavesdropping.

Sure Zoe had been outed as illegitimate at the Balfour Ball and the ensuing scandal had caused their father’s serious overhaul of his parental style but as far as he and all of them were concerned Zoe was a Balfour no matter what her genetic parentage was.

‘So how many are there?’

‘Six, seven, who knows…but what wouldn’t I give to have their looks and money!’ came the wistful response.

Eight, thought Sophie, silently amending their total, and she seconded their wish, at least for the looks part anyway. The money part had never been a problem for her in that she didn’t have expensive tastes, but what the Balfour name gave her was the luxury of following her instincts.

And Sophie’s instincts drew her like a homing pigeon back to Balfour, where her mother lived in the gatehouse since the tragic death of her second husband. Sophie’s eyes misted as her thoughts touched on the man who had been a second father to his wife’s three daughters.

For a short time Sri Lanka had been home for Sophie but now the Balfour estate in Buckinghamshire was the one place she really felt she belonged, it was the place where there was no pressure to be something she wasn’t.

Unlike her sisters, she wasn’t an instantly recognisable face except to the people who worked on the Balfour estate and the locals in the village.

‘I have never provided you girls with challenges,’ Oscar Balfour had lamented. ‘Children need to be pushed, but it is never too late. I have been a negligent father, but I mean to make amends. Independence, Sophie,’ he’d said, indicating the rule that she would find most valuable, though he warned it would not be easy for her to learn. ‘A member of the Balfour family must strive to develop themselves and not rely on the family name to get them through life.’

‘Which ever one it is you can be sure that we’ll end up stuck with her work and ours.’

Listening to the grunt of assent from the second girl Sophie gritted her teeth and thought she’d show them that this Balfour was not just a pretty face—actually, not a pretty face at all, but that she couldn’t do anything about.

However, she did have a work ethic and she would show them that she wasn’t afraid of hard work.

‘What was Amber thinking, taking her on?’

Sophie, unashamedly eavesdropping now, strained to hear as the other girl lowered her voice to a confidential undertone.

‘You know that diamond bracelet that Amber wears…?’

There was a pause when presumably the other girl had nodded. ‘Well, that was a little parting gift from Oscar Balfour.’

‘Amber and Oscar Balfour…wow! Why didn’t I know that?’

‘It was years ago, and it didn’t last long.’

‘Oscar Balfour…he’s quite attractive for an older man, isn’t he? Actually, quite sexy and he looks like he knows…’

Grimacing, Sophie had no desire to hear the women discussing her father in that sort of detail and covered her ears. When she uncovered them again one girl was saying, ‘And let’s face it—a Balfour girl working here…God, you couldn’t pay for that sort of advertising.’

‘That twin…Bella, the skinny one…?’

‘The impossibly gorgeous one?’

‘All right, the gorgeous one. Do you remember that time she was pictured wearing a dress from that charity shop and the shelves emptied overnight.’

Sophie did remember. She remembered when the subject had been raised during a family dinner.

Zoe had joked that she didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Sophie, she said, had been wearing charity-shop clothes for years.

Sophie had joined in the laughter, even inviting further hilarity by comparing the practicality and comfort of the sports bras she favoured with push ups that consisted of a few scraps of lace. But later in her own room she had looked at her wardrobe, filled with the sorts of clothes—or tents in boring colours, as Annie had once described her style—that made her glamorous sisters despair, and she hadn’t smiled.

The tent situation was not accidental, but her taller, slimmer sisters who did not have breasts that made men snigger and stare would not have understand her decision to hide her ample bosom under voluminous tops.

In a family famed for beauty, grace and wit—the very things that Sophie had missed out on—she had, presumably by way of compensation, been given instead the clumsy gene. A nuisance…yes, but to Sophie’s way of thinking not as much of a blight as having heads turn when you walked into a room the way they did automatically for her sisters.

A Balfour girl who disliked the limelight—a Balfour girl…how she hated that phrase—who was not witty or beautiful, made her something of a freak.

So much so that Sophie sometimes wondered if the real Balfour baby had been left at the hospital the day they brought her home—but she had the Balfour blue eyes, the same piercing Balfour blue of her father’s eyes.

For the average Balfour, being the centre of attention was as commonplace as breathing and something that they took as much for granted.

It was Sophie’s idea of hell.

But she had a solution. It had taken her time but at twenty-three she had just about perfected the art of fading into the background. Being short and on the dumpy side gave her a head start, so now the only time strangers noticed her was when she managed to trip over her own feet, or spill something.

She did both in graceful unison when a voice behind her said, ‘Can I help you?’

Sophie yelped, spun around and dropped her bag on the waxed floorboards. A tall blonde woman dressed in a snug-fitting red sheath that showed off her slim figure watched, one brow raised, as Sophie dropped to her knees and began to pick up the coins that had tipped out of her purse.

‘Sorry…I…’ Pushing her hair back from her flushed face Sophie held out her hand.

The woman looked at it with a lack of enthusiasm.

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 kidnapped 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.’

Chapter Two

MARCO 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.

Chapter Three

SOPHIE had not left work until 8:00 p.m. Taking advantage of the growing realisation that Sophie’s work ethic was a little overdeveloped, people were dumping on her…And what are you going to do about that? asked the voice in her head.

It was a good question but one she had so far avoided; it wasn’t as if her evening had contained any contemplative moments for reflection. She had arrived home to find a large hole in the street outside her flat, and after she’d pretended not to hear the comments about her bottom made by the men inside the hole, she discovered no water or electricity inside her flat.

The electricity had finally come on at eleven; the water still hadn’t. She stopped waiting at twelve, cleaned her teeth with bottled water, finally crawled into her bed and with a sigh of relief turned out the light—not just because every bone in her body ached with exhaustion, but because the bedroom looked better with the light out.

‘Basic, but I have everything I need,’ she had told her mother on the phone, ‘and I’m very near work.’

The work part was playing out a lot better than she had anticipated.

Conversations no longer stopped when she walked into room. Now that had not been nice, but even when she was viewed with extreme suspicion Sophie had kept her head down, concentrated on doing her best no matter how menial the task and smiled at everyone.

The hostility had faded once her co-workers had recognised she was not afraid of hard work—or, possibly, once they had recognised that there was someone who would willingly perform all the tasks nobody else wanted to do while smiling.

Sophie in her turn had discovered something too—she had a real talent for organisation; not quite the artistic spreading of wings her father had intended, but it was a start. She still felt homesick almost all the time but she didn’t allow herself to think about going home.

She dreamt, though—she dreamt of her mum in the kitchen with flour in her nose, the smell of baking in the air…She was having that dream when the shrill sound of the phone cut through the cosy picture of domesticity.

Sophie surfaced and flicked on the lamp before reaching for the phone and snarling crankily, ‘Yes…?’ into the receiver.

‘Sophie, thank God you’re there!’

Sophie, who couldn’t imagine where else she’d be at this time of night, which on reflection made her one of the most tragic twenty-three-year-olds on the planet, pushed her tangled hair from her eyes and frowned.

‘Amber…? Why are you calling me at…’ She glanced at the clock, saw the time and sat up straight, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Everything,’ came the tragic response. ‘But we can do this.’

Sophie who was suspicious of the use of the word we asked, ‘What’s happened?’

‘Just listen, don’t talk. You have to be on the flight to Palermo at five-thirty.’

Pretty sure she was the victim of some elaborate hoax—either that or Amber had been drinking—Sophie leaned back, yawned and said, ‘Of course I do.’

Palermo was the clue; she had made the flight arrangements for Amber herself, and the office had been buzzing for days with the news that they had been contacted by Marco Speranza—the Marco Speranza, people kept saying to Sophie, as though she thought she might be likely to mistake him for another Sicilian billionaire.

Obviously, they had not been personally contacted, but the fact that the invitation to tender for a contract to refurbish his ancestral home had been issued by Marco’s own office had been enough to send the entire office into party mode.

Sophie privately called it mass hysteria, and also a little premature. ‘How many others are tendering?’ Her tentative enquiry had been ignored.

‘Something this prestigious could make us,’ Amber had said as she’d gathered her team together to plan a strategy and draw up plans for a refurb that would knock the utterly gorgeous man’s socks off.

Sophie, who was listening, would have loved to dispute the reverential gorgeous and the utterly but she had seen the photo someone had pinned on the notice board and there was no doubt at all that Marco Speranza was almost too good-looking to be real, unless he had been airbrushed to perfection.

The possibility made her feel unaccountably more cheerful.

Having worked her team into a state of hysterical enthusiasm Amber then smiled and promised, ‘We are going to bury the opposition.’

Sophie’s role in the team involved making tea but she had listened and frankly she had doubts, but aware that her place in the scheme of things did not involve giving an opinion she kept her mouth shut.

Sophie slid back under the covers as a sigh of relief echoed down the line. ‘You know, Sophie, when I first saw you I thought…’ Clearly thinking better of being that frank, Amber allowed herself a generous, ‘You’re an asset.’

‘Thank you.’ Now go away; I want to go to sleep.

‘And I really admire your ability to multitask—maybe you could pack while we talk…?’

‘Look, Amber, I’m going back to sleep now. I’ll laugh at the joke tomorrow, and good luck with the Speranza contract.’

‘No, Sophie, this isn’t a joke. I can’t go. This afternoon I—’

‘You had a dentist’s appointment. I know—it’s in the diary.’

‘No, I had some facial injections and a little liposuction on my thighs…at least, that was the idea, but it went wrong. I had a bad reaction to the anaesthetic and they won’t let me go home—they took away my clothes!’ she wailed.

Sophie’s eyes widened at the confession. ‘Relax, Amber, I’ll contact Vincent.’ Amber’s right hand was up to speed and, if you overlooked his penchant for pink shirts, charming.

‘Do you think I haven’t already tried?’ came the shrill response. ‘He’s gone to York! His partner’s mum has had a heart attack and he’s being supportive.’

Sophie, who had been introduced to Vincent’s partner, said, ‘Oh, how terrible. Colin must be—’

‘Forget about Colin,’ Amber yelled, ‘and get packed.’

‘But Sukie or Emma…’ Sophie could hear the doubt in her own voice. The two women she had heard that first day discussing her both looked the part but neither had had an original thought in their lives.

‘Emma is hopeless.’

You noticed! Sophie thought, surprised.

‘And Sukie got dumped by her boyfriend and downed a bottle of Chardonnay to drown her sorrows. She is hanging over the toilet as we speak,’ Amber observed bitterly.

Sophie grimaced and thought, Thanks for the image.

‘And if you say “poor Sukie” I’ll…My world is falling apart—my entire future depends on a girl who wears sensible shoes. No offence…’ She sniffed between sobs.

The fact that Amber could weep made more of an impact on Sophie than either the insult or the apology.

‘You’re serious.’ The realisation sent a rush of fear through her body. ‘You want me to fly to Sicily and sell this to Marco Speranza’s office?’ This was what fairy tales were made of…or was that nightmares? Maybe she was still asleep and any minute she would wake up and laugh.

‘Not his office—him.’

No, she was definitely awake; even her subconscious was not that inventive!

‘I have a meeting with him personally which is why someone representing this firm has to be there. There is no option—we need this commission, Sophie. The credit crunch has been hard on everyone and I’ve had to write off a couple of big debts after the clients went under…’

About to cut her off and say there was just no way she could do this, something in the other woman’s voice made Sophie pause…Oh, my God, she thought, as she realised what anyone who wasn’t a spoilt, indulged rich kid who’d never had to think about money already would have.

This wasn’t just about kudos. Amber was worried about her business’s survival. Sophie was ashamed that she had been so wrapped up in her own concerns, so self-centred, that it hadn’t even crossed her mind to wonder if maybe she wasn’t the only one who had problems.

‘You can’t ask to reschedule a personal meeting with Marco Speranza.’

Sophie, thinking of her father, admitted, ‘No, I can see that.’ No man got to be that rich and powerful without taking a certain amount of deference for granted.

‘If he thinks we’ve insulted him he could ruin my business. I’ve heard he can be utterly ruthless.’ The sound of a sternly muffled sob echoed down the line.

Sophie heard the sob and folded. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’

Half an hour later she arrived at the office and collected the relevant papers and drawings from where Amber had said they’d be. She tucked them into her overnight bag, planning to read them on the flight.

‘The idea will sell itself,’ Amber had said.

God, I hope so, Sophie thought, because if they’re relying on me we’re stuffed!

‘Isabella, many women come back to work the week after they’ve given birth or when they’ve had a Caesarean.’

His PA forgot her stately calm enough to laugh. ‘Well, I’m not superwoman. I need six months and then I think we might discuss flexible hours.’

Marco put down the phone—the woman had him wound round her finger and she knew it, damn her!

Scowling to himself he left his car and walked into the lift. His temporary PA was scared of him, which might not have been a bad thing if this fear made her efficient, but it didn’t. She gibbered and looked at him as though he was going to eat her and spoke so quietly he couldn’t hear her.

And to make the situation worse he suspected his protégé was falling in love with her.

Love! Marco could not even think the word without a contemptuous sneer forming on his broad brow. Love did not mix well with the smooth running of his office. When he had spent the time and effort to groom Francesco he had taken an ability to keep his personal life separate from the demands of work as a given.

He did not seek to impose his views on his employees—what they did in their free time, including falling in love, did not concern him—but when love affairs crossed the line into the work place it became his concern.

When Marco walked into the office, Francesco broke off his conversation with the young woman whose fingers were flying across the keyboard.

Marco glanced their way but did not speak as he stalked towards the wall lined with files, impatience etched not just in every line of his startlingly good-looking face but in every tense muscle and sinew of his lean, athletic body.

He angled a sardonic brow. ‘Did you want to see me, Francesco?’ he asked, locating the file he was seeking and withdrawing it.

‘No.’

Marco maintained a speaking silence, but though the younger man looked uncomfortable he did not look away. Marco gave a reluctant smile; his protégé was a fool but he was a fool who stood his ground, which was good. There was no place at a senior level for a man he could intimidate.

His smile faded when he turned his attention to the blushing young woman; incompetence always irritated him. ‘I do not wish to be disturbed for the next two hours.’

‘Oh, dear!’

Marco took his hand off the door handle of his office, stopped and swung back. ‘Oh, dear?’ He angled a questioning brow and waited.

Francesco cleared his throat. ‘Slight problem there. Your two-thirty has been here since, well…’ He glanced at his wristwatch which now read six-thirty. ‘Well, two-thirty.’

Marco’s brows drew into a disapproving straight line above the hawkish nose that bisected his chiselled features.

‘I asked for you to reschedule.’

Again it was Francesco who spoke up. ‘We tried, but we couldn’t contact her in time. Miss Balfour had apparently lost her phone.’

Marco’s expression accurately reflected his opinion of people who lost phones. ‘My appointment was not with anyone called Balfour.’

‘Well, that’s who came.’

‘And you put her in my office?’ Marco’s incredulous interrogative glare was directed towards his temporary secretary. ‘You let a total stranger into my office?’

‘That was my idea, Marco, when she wouldn’t go away.’

‘Wouldn’t go away?’ Marco echoed, his glance drifting towards the protective hand that Francesco had placed on the shoulder of his temporary secretary.

The expression in the girl’s eyes seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. Great, he thought, just what I need—an office romance. Which means I either turn a blind eye or come the heavy and be about as popular as the plague.

Fortunately he did not need people to love him.

‘When you say…wouldn’t go away…’

The sardonic inflection in his boss’s voice brought a flush to the younger man’s face but he defended his decision and nodded.

‘And frankly, I didn’t have the heart to throw her out. The kid looked ready to cry when Analise—’ he flashed a warm look at the seated woman and she blushed prettily ‘—suggested she could come back another day.’

‘Kid?’

His secretary finally spoke up. ‘My sister Toni is eighteen and she looks older than her.’

Marco, whose interest in her sister Toni was not immense, struggled to contain his growing impatience while Francesco added the weight of his opinion.

‘She does look very young, Marco. She arrived direct from the airport and she’d lost her bags and she looked—’

‘Pretty?’ It was the other man’s problem if he had a weakness for a pretty face, but when he allowed the Achilles heel to encroach into office hours it became a problem.

‘No, not pretty,’ Francesco said, struggling and failing to recall the features of the young English girl who had arrived looking scared stiff. ‘She wasn’t ugly or anything…Her eyes were blue,’ he added, recalling the electric-blue eyes that had peeked out from under a long floppy fringe.

‘Not pretty…I’m intrigued,’ Marco drawled, sounding in reality both bored and irritated. ‘Call her a cab.’

‘I’ll take her back to her hotel,’ Francesco said to Marco’s retreating back.

Marco turned and stared at his protégé with a perplexed expression. ‘I suppose you gave her lunch too.’

‘Sandwiches.’

‘You’re joking.’

In the office Marco saw that he had not been joking.

The crumbs on the plate testified to the meal.

Chapter Four

MARCO’S first view of his two-thirty was a hank of waving fairish hair hanging over the arm of a leather swivel chair that faced the window. Presumably the occupant was so busy looking at the view she had not heard him enter.

When he cleared his throat it did not cross his mind for an instant that his guest would not respond appropriately to the cue.

When she didn’t, his aggravation levels climbed to a new high. His green eyes narrowed as he walked across the room; skirting the desk that stood between the chair and him he loosened his tie and said, ‘This is not a convenient time. I must ask—’

His hand fell away from his throat and his dark brows tugged into a dark interrogative line. While he did not expect or enjoy people jumping to attention when he walked into a room, he was not accustomed to being ignored.

The frown still in place he walked around the desk and it became clear that his words had fallen on deaf ears, literally.

His two-thirty, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face cushioned on her hands, was fast asleep.

He studied her, and realised Francesco had not lied; she was very young and she was not pretty.

She was small, especially to a man who dated women who did not give him a pain in the neck to kiss, not that he felt any inclination to kiss his sleeping visitor awake.

Maybe there were men around who might have felt inclined to play the prince to her Sleeping Beauty but he doubted it.

Any curves, feminine or otherwise, were hidden in the capacious folds of the shapeless outfit that covered her, though her ankles were slim and her calves slender and shapely.

His view of her face was occluded by the messy mass of pale toffee-coloured hair that lay across her cheek. Her skin, slightly flushed with sleep, had the peachy smooth texture of extreme youth.

However, he did not make the mistake of equating youth with innocence; Allegra had not been much older than this girl when they had met, and her innocent sweetness had hidden a heart of pure malice.

Sophie opened her eyes and blinked, reluctant to relinquish her dream; she had been back home at the gatehouse, in her own room, and an ache of homesickness swelled in her chest.

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.’

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 nervousness 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.

Chapter Six

IT 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 very 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.

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