Interview with a Playboy
Kathryn Ross
He wondered how it would feel to kiss her…
As soon as the thought crossed his mind he dismissed it. She was a journalist…a breed he despised! They were hard-bitten—uncaring—trouble-stirring…
Isobel’s heart was pounding as if she had run a long-distance marathon. She felt shaky and hot inside. And the worst thing was the feeling of pleasure that had blazed inside her just from the lightest brush of his fingertips. It had never happened to her before with anyone. And the fact that it had happened so easily, and with such a casual touch, with Marco was horrifying.
He was Marco Lombardi, one of the most notorious womanisers on the planet, and she couldn’t afford to forget that even for a minute.
About the Author
KATHRYN ROSS was born in Zambia, where her parents happened to live at that time. Educated in Ireland and England, she now lives in a village near Blackpool, Lancashire. Kathryn is a professional beauty therapist, but writing is her first love. As a child she wrote adventure stories, and at thirteen was editor of her school magazine. Happily, ten writing years later, DESIGNED WITH LOVE was accepted by Mills & Boon. A romantic Sagittarian, she loves travelling to exotic locations.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE MEDITERRANEAN’S WIFE BY CONTRACT ITALIAN MARRIAGE: IN NAME ONLY
INTERVIEW
WITH A PLAYBOY
BY
KATHRYN ROSS
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘WELL, look who has just walked into the reception area,’ Marco Lombardi murmured with a gleam of pleasure in his voice.
They’d been in the middle of studying an intensely intricate set of financial records, but his accountant looked up from the sheets of paper and curiously followed his boss’s gaze towards the security monitors on the wall.
‘Isn’t that the reporter who has been hanging around the Sienna building for the last couple of days?’ he said with a frown.
‘Indeed it is.’ Marco smiled. ‘But don’t worry, John, she’s here by invitation.’
‘Invitation? You mean you are allowing her in to see you?’
‘You could say that,’ Marco replied, somewhat amused by the other man’s astonished tone.
‘But you hate the press—you never give interviews!’
‘Very true, but I’ve had a rethink.’
John stared at him in disbelief. The Italian multi-millionaire had always fiercely guarded his privacy, and since his divorce two years ago his attitude towards the press had toughened even further.
And yet here he was, inviting in the one journalist who in his opinion was trouble with a capital T. She always seemed to be nosing around at the moment; everywhere he went Ms Keyes was there, asking questions about their takeover of the Sienna confectionery company. A deal that was supposed to be secret and was in the last sensitive stages of negotiation. It was a perfectly legitimate deal, but the woman somehow made him feel they were doing something wrong.
‘So…why…?’ John asked finally, as his thoughts crystallised and he remembered that this was Marco Lombardi he was talking to—a man renowned for being astute.
‘There’s an old saying, John, about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Let’s just say I’m putting it into practice.’
John glanced back towards the monitor again. But he didn’t really understand. He noticed Isobel Keyes was glancing impatiently at her watch. ‘So what time is her appointment? Do you want me to take this paperwork away and work on it in the other office?’
‘No.’ Marco returned to the figures in front of him. ‘Ms Keyes can wait; she’s very lucky to have been invited here in the first place. So we will start as we mean to go on.’
‘Ah!’ Suddenly John understood. ‘You’re giving her the runaround until the deal is signed.’
‘Not exactly. Keeping her occupied might be the more correct terminology.’ Marco smiled. ‘Now, let’s concentrate on what’s important, shall we?’
As John opened the top file he couldn’t help but feel a dart of sympathy for the young woman waiting outside in her prim business suit. Right now she was probably feeling pretty pleased with herself for gaining an interview with the elusive multi-millionaire. But she didn’t stand a chance in hell if she was thinking of pitting her wits against Marco Lombardi.
Isobel was not in any way pleased about this situation. An hour ago she’d been on the verge of finding out exactly what was going on within the Sienna company. She’d been granted an interview with one of the Sienna shareholders, and then at the last minute the interview had been cancelled and out of the blue her editor had ordered her to drop the story.
‘I’ve got something better for you,’ Claudia had gushed with excitement. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from our editorial director. Can you believe it? Marco Lombardi has agreed to give the Daily Banner an exclusive interview!’
Isobel had indeed been stunned. She’d tried to get an interview with Marco on a few occasions and had never got past his secretary. ‘Is he going to talk to me about his plans for taking over the Sienna confectionery company?’ she’d asked hopefully.
‘Isobel, forget about pursuing the business side of the story. What we want is a personal insight into Marco’s life, and the real facts behind his divorce. That’s the story readers really want, and it will be like gold dust for the paper.’
The word smokescreen came to mind.
Isobel clenched and unclenched her hands. She knew most journalists would have been ecstatic to get an interview with the handsome Italian. But she was a serious reporter, not a tattler of gossip. She didn’t want to do an in-depth interview about Marco’s love-life! She wanted to write a real story about people’s jobs being on the line.
As far as she was concerned her paper had struck a deal with the devil—but, as usual, commercial considerations ruled the day, she reminded herself angrily.
‘You can go up now, Ms Keyes.’ The receptionist smiled over at her. ‘Mr Lombardi’s office is on the top floor.’
Hallelujah, Isobel thought sardonically as she glanced at her watch. He’d only been keeping her waiting for over an hour. And of course he had done that on purpose too.
As the lift swept her upwards, Isobel tried to compose herself. She had no choice now but to swallow her principles and give the paper the article they wanted, but it really did infuriate her. Because Marco was the type of man she despised. The type of man who did exactly as he pleased, regardless of the consequences, regardless of who he might hurt. And she had reason to know that more than most—because this was the man who had bought out her grandfather’s firm eleven years ago, and had then systematically torn it apart, breaking her grandfather’s heart in the process.
As far as she was concerned, Marco was a ruthless charlatan. And frankly she couldn’t understand why there was so much speculation over his divorce. The reason he’d split with his wife seemed blindingly obvious to Isobel—he’d always been a womaniser. So much so that people had been stunned when he had announced he was getting married. And since his divorce he’d been pictured in the press with a different woman every week. Some sections of the press had even dubbed him a heartbreaker, for heaven’s sake!
As the lift doors swished open Isobel took a deep breath and reminded herself—as she always did when working on a story—that she couldn’t allow preconceived ideas to cloud her judgement.
‘This way, Ms Keyes.’ A secretary stepped forward to open a door into an office with sweeping panoramic views out across London. But it wasn’t the view that held Isobel’s attention. It was the man seated behind the large desk
She had heard so much about him over the years that now, suddenly face to face with her nemesis, she felt slightly unnerved.
Marco was absorbed in some paperwork and didn’t look up as she approached slowly. ‘Ah, Ms Keyes, I presume.’ He murmured the words absently, as if he were only half aware of her presence. His English pronunciation was perfect, but more disturbingly she noticed that his velvet Italian accent sizzled with sex appeal.
He was wearing a white shirt left casually open at the strong column of his neck. Isobel noticed how the colour contrasted with the olive tones of his skin and the dark silky thickness of his hair.
She stopped next to the desk, and at the same time he looked up and their eyes locked. Inexplicably, her heart seemed to do a very peculiar flip.
He was incredibly good-looking, she thought hazily. His bone structure was strong, giving him an aura of determination and power, but it was his eyes that held her spellbound: they were the most amazing eyes she had ever seen—dark, smouldering, and extraordinarily intense.
She didn’t know why she was so taken aback by him—it wasn’t as if she hadn’t already known he was attractive. There were snatched photographs of the thirty-five-year-old in the press all the time. And women were always raving about how handsome he was. But Isobel had always maintained that she couldn’t quite see what all the fuss was about—she didn’t like the guy, and as far as she was concerned a lack of moral substance overshadowed mere good-looks any day. It was therefore a total shock to find herself so….mesmerised.
‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable.’ He waved her towards the chair opposite him, and she had to shake herself mentally.
What the hell was wrong with her? She was staring at him like an idiot! And meanwhile she was well aware that his eyes had moved over her with a look that could only at best be described as quizzically indifferent. No surprise there.
Isobel knew there was no way she could match up to the women Marco would be drawn to—for a start his ex-wife was a film star, rated as one of the world’s most beautiful women. By comparison Isobel was nothing—just a Plain Jane. Her clothes were businesslike, her figure bordered on being too curvaceous, and her long dark hair—although shiny and well cut—was held back from her face in a manner that was purely practical.
But that was her style. She didn’t want to be overtly feminine or glamorous. She wanted to get on with her work and to be treated seriously. And she certainly didn’t want to attract men like Marco Lombardi, she reminded herself fiercely. Her father had been a womaniser, and she knew how someone like that could devastate lives.
The reminder helped to snap her back to reality.
‘So, Mr Lombardi, it seems you have succeeded in diverting attention away from your proposed bid to buy Sienna,’ she remarked crisply as she took the seat opposite.
Marco had been about to finish his paperwork and keep her waiting a little longer, but he found himself looking over at her again. ‘Have I, indeed?’ he countered wryly. Her cool, businesslike tones surprised him. Most women flirted with him. Even when they were being businesslike they softened their questions with a fluttering of eyelashes and a surfeit of smiles. Isobel Keyes, it seemed, wasn’t going to conform on either front.
‘You know very well that you have,’ she retaliated. ‘And we both know it’s the only reason I’ve been granted this interview.’
Interesting, he thought as he gave her demure appearance another quick glance.
His first assessment of her, when he’d seen her on the security monitors, had been that she was a staid little mouse—someone who would probably be easily fobbed off with an interview. Now he was busy reassessing her.
‘You seem very certain about your facts.’
‘I am certain.’ She angled her chin up a little. ‘I saw your accountant at the Sienna offices this morning.’
‘You probably did. He’s a free agent—he can go where he wants.’
‘He goes where you send him,’ she countered quickly.
He hadn’t noticed her eyes until now. The feisty sparkle in them made them glow a deep emerald-green.
His gaze swept slowly over her face again. He’d originally thought that she was in her late twenties—probably because he hadn’t looked at her that closely. But now he realised that it was just the way she was dressed that made her seem older, and that she was possibly nearer to twenty-one. Nice skin too. She might have been passably attractive if she made more of an effort with herself. The hairstyle did nothing for her, and she was wearing little or no make-up. As for the clothes… His eyes swept downwards. They were verging on boring.
No Italian woman would be caught dead in a blouse like that…especially with it buttoned right up to the neck! Her waist was small, and she appeared well endowed. That blouse would definitely benefit from being unbuttoned a few notches, he thought distractedly.
Isobel suddenly noticed his sweeping assessment of her appearance, and as his dark eyes moved boldly back to her face she found herself heating up inside with consternation. Why was he looking at her like that? It was almost as if he were weighing up her desirability.
The thought made her heat up even more.
Hell, she was blushing! How embarrassing was that, when she disliked Marco so intensely? She wouldn’t be interested in him if he was the last man left in the universe, and she knew damn well that Marco would never be interested in her!
Maybe he looked at every woman like that—or maybe he was trying to distract her from their conversation. Now, that was a possibility.
‘So, are you trying to tell me that you have no interest in buying Sienna Confectionery?’ She sat up a little straighter in her chair.
Marco smiled slowly. He had to admire her tenacity, but it was time he reined her in. ‘I take it you want to make this a business interview?’ he murmured smoothly.
‘No!’ Her skin flared with even more heat as she imagined the hullabaloo at the paper if she ignored the brief they’d given her. ‘I was just saying that…I know what is going on.’
His lips curved in an almost derogatory smile. Then he reached for the phone on his desk. ‘Deirdre, arrange for my limousine to pick me up outside in ten minutes.’
Isobel could feel her heart thudding nervously against her chest. ‘Are you going to bail out on me because I dared question you on a subject you don’t want to discuss?’ She forced herself to hold his gaze, but inside she was suddenly terrified. Hell, if she mucked up with this interview she could find herself out of a job! The paper was desperate for an exclusive—in fact every paper in the land was desperate for an interview with Marco. Her kudos as a reporter would be out of the window if she messed this up.
Marco didn’t answer her straight away, and her nerves stretched as she thought about the hefty mortgage she had taken on when she had moved apartments last year. She needed this job.
‘Look, Mr Lombardi, I’ll be honest with you. I’d rather do a business interview—because that’s what I do. I’m a business correspondent. But the Daily Banner, in its wisdom, has sent me here because you’ve done a deal with them. You said you’d give the paper an exclusive glimpse into your life. So how about it? Because if I don’t get this story… Well…’
‘You’re in trouble.’ He finished her sentence for her and smiled. ‘Why, Ms Keyes, are you throwing yourself on my mercy?’
He knew damn well that she was in a predicament—because he’d placed her in it, she thought furiously. With difficulty, she tried to remain calm. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
He noticed how the husky admission almost stuck in her throat, and one dark eyebrow lifted mockingly.
‘Did you bring your passport?’
‘My passport?’ The question caught her off guard, and she stared at him in apprehension. ‘Why would I need that?’
‘I offered your paper an exclusive glimpse into my life, Ms Keyes—and I travel quite extensively.’ As he was talking to her Marco was packing away his papers into a briefcase. ‘I have meetings in Italy and in Nice tomorrow, and I’m leaving in just under an hour. So if you want your story you’re going to have to tag along with me.’
‘Nobody told me that! I was told you were inviting me into your home—’
‘I am. My home is in the South of France.’
‘But you have a place here—in Kensington!’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘Don’t you?’
Marco closed his case and looked over at her. ‘I also have houses in Paris, Rome and Barbados, but I’m based on the Riviera.’
‘I see.’ She swallowed hard on a tight knot of panic. ‘Well, unfortunately I haven’t packed for a trip to France, and I have no passport with me.’
Marco almost felt sorry for her—almost, but not quite. Because she was a journalist, and as far as he was concerned journalists were the piranhas of this world, feeding off other people’s lives. ‘Seems like you are in a bit of a bind, then, doesn’t it? Your editor will be disappointed.’ He noticed impassively that she seemed to lose all colour from her face at that.
‘Look, if you could drive to the airport via my apartment it would take me fifteen—maybe twenty minutes tops to throw my stuff together,’ she suggested in desperation.
‘I don’t have twenty minutes to spare,’ Marco told her tersely as he rose to his feet and reached for the jacket of his suit. ‘But in the interests of goodwill I’ll give you five.’
As Isobel looked up at him she saw the gleam of amusement in the darkness of his eyes, and she realised that he’d never had any intention of leaving her behind. He was playing with her as a cat would play with a mouse before pouncing for the kill.
She suddenly wanted to run a million miles from him—because this didn’t bode well for her interview.
‘When you’re ready,’ he grated impatiently as she made no move to stand up.
Hurriedly she got to her feet. What else could she do but go along with this?
CHAPTER TWO
AS ISOBEL followed Marco out of the Lombardi offices, a group of waiting paparazzi across the road sprang into life. There were insistent shouts for them to look over towards the cameras, and calls for Marco to answer questions. They wanted to know where he was going, who Isobel was, if he had spoken to his ex-wife recently.
Marco seemed unfazed by the situation and made no comment, but the intrusion took Isobel by surprise. She wasn’t used to being on this side of press attention, and the flash photography and the unrelenting questions felt aggressive. She was almost glad to reach the seclusion of Marco’s limousine, with its smoked glass windows.
‘Friends of yours?’ Marco asked sardonically as he climbed in behind her and took a seat opposite.
‘No, of course not!’ The question startled her. ‘I have absolutely nothing to do with them! They’re like a pack of hyenas.’
‘Your point being…?’
She was starting to get used to that derisive dry edge to his voice. ‘My point being that is not my style of journalism.’
‘Ah, yes, I forgot—you are a serious reporter, only interested in business.’
She raised her chin slightly. ‘And I’m good at my job—well, I must be, mustn’t I? It’s the only reason you’ve agreed to give my paper an exclusive.’
‘I hate to burst your bubble,’ he drawled, ‘but the main reason I’ve decided to give the press an exclusive is because of incidents like the one you have just witnessed, where I’m constantly pestered by reporters who want to know everything about me down to what I’ve had for my breakfast.’
Isobel had to agree that the situation had been unpleasant. She glanced out of the window and noticed that even though the chauffeur had pulled the limousine out into traffic the paparazzi were following on motorbikes.
‘And then there are the important business deals that have been wholly jeopardised by unwarranted press attention and ill-timed sensationalistic reporting,’ Marco continued sardonically. ‘Ring any bells?’
She frowned. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting—’
‘I’m not suggesting anything.’ He cut across her firmly. ‘I’m telling you why I’ve taken the decision to give a one-off in-depth interview—I’m hoping it’s going to be an interview to end all interviews. And that I shall get some peace and quiet after it.’
‘And you just happened to offer this opportunity to the Daily Banner?’ she asked archly.
‘I did my homework. And surprisingly your name has cropped up quite a few times over the last say…eighteen months. There was your report about my deal with the Alexia retail group…a few less than flattering columns about my takeover of a supermarket chain, and a very scathing article about my—I quote—“domination of the Rolands Group”. Shall I go on?’
‘No, you have no need to go on, I get the picture,’ Isobel muttered hastily. OK, she had singled his business out for some in-depth coverage last year, but only because he had done a lot of buying and selling, and she had always done her research. ‘I never said you had done anything wrong or illegal. Nothing I’ve written has been untrue.’
‘But it has verged on scaremongering.’
‘I’m a business correspondent. It’s my job to report to the public about what is going on.’
He nodded. ‘And now it is your job to follow me around and report on that.’
She stared at him. ‘Like a kind of punishment?’ The words fell from her lips before she could stop them.
Marco stared at her, and then he laughed. ‘I feel I should remind you at this point that every journalist in the land would probably love to change places with you right now.’
His arrogance was extremely infuriating—and so was the fact that he was probably right. ‘Yes, I do realise that.’ She glared at him. ‘And I’m not complaining. I’m just saying—’
‘That you are a serious journalist who would rather write about my business ventures than my dietary requirements?’ he finished for her, his eyes glinting with amusement.
‘Yes, exactly. I mean, let’s face it, the world hardly needs another celeb interview, does it?’ She spoke impulsively. and then hastily tried to correct the mistake. ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t want to interview you—because of course I do!’
‘Relax—I know exactly what you mean. And I’m more than happy to talk about my businesses and my rise to the top of the financial markets. In fact, that is what I would like to focus on.’
Isobel was sure any business information he gave her would be very one-sided, and she wanted to say, Yeah, right in a very derogatory tone, but she didn’t dare.
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,’ she said instead. ‘Because it turns out that most people are only interested in your lovelife.’
‘Is that so?’ His dark eyes held with hers.
‘Yes… Bizarre, but there it is.’
Marco smiled. He was starting to like Ms Isobel Keyes. Had he hit the jackpot and engaged the one journalist who wasn’t interested in digging the dirt on his marriage?
‘So what exactly is the story with your divorce?’ she asked suddenly, her green eyes narrowing. ‘Because everyone thought that you and Lucinda did seem like the perfect couple.’
No—he hadn’t hit the jackpot, he berated himself. Like every other journalist she was a breed apart—a sub-species for whom no subject was too personal to have a good dig around in.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ms Keyes,’ he said coolly.
Was it her imagination, or was his expression suddenly shuttered? Certainly the gleam of amusement in his voice had disappeared. Strange… She had expected that reaction when she talked about his business dealings, not his relationships.
Maybe he just didn’t like the fact that the press knew he was a womaniser? Maybe that was another reason he had agreed to this interview—to try and reinvent himself?
Well, if he thought she was going to fall for that he had a shock coming, she thought fiercely.
The limousine was slowing down. And as she looked out she realised they were pulling up outside her flat.
‘OK, I won’t be long,’ she murmured as the chauffeur got out and opened the passenger door for her.
One of her neighbours was walking past, and the woman almost fell over in surprise when she saw Isobel getting out of a limousine, closely followed by Marco Lombardi.
‘Don’t you think it might be better if you waited in the limousine?’ Isobel said nervously as he walked with her towards the front door.
‘No, I don’t. What’s the matter? Are you frightened there might be gossip about us?’
‘Of course not!’ She slanted a look up at him and noticed that the amusement was back in the darkness of his gaze. Yes, he probably thought that was oh-so-funny. As if anyone would seriously think that he would be interested in her when he had his pick of the world’s most glamorous women.
The paparazzi had roared into the road now, and the usually quiet cul-de-sac was suddenly chaotic as once again they started to take photographs, shouting for Marco to look over.
Isobel was so flustered that she could hardly get her key in the lock fast enough, and calmly Marco reached to take it from her. The touch of his hand against hers was a shock to the system, and she jerked away from him abruptly.
‘There you go.’ He pushed the door open for her and looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. ‘Are the press rattling you?’
‘No, of course not.’ The truth of the matter was that the paparazzi weren’t bothering her half as much as he was.
‘After you, then.’
‘Thanks.’ What on earth was wrong with her? Isobel wondered angrily as she stepped past him into the hallway. It was as if her senses were all on heightened alert around him.
And she had never felt more nervous in all her life as he followed her up the stairs to her first-floor flat.
She supposed it was just the strangeness of the situation. She’d disliked this man for so long from a distance, and now here he was stepping into her sitting room, acting as if he had every right to be here. In fact, his presence seemed to dominate the small flat.
Isobel watched as his gaze moved slowly over his surroundings, and for some reason she found herself looking at the place through his eyes.
The rooms weren’t what you would call spacious, and her second-hand furniture looked shabby in the cold grey light of the afternoon. She was willing to bet that Marco’s designer Italian suit had cost more money than all her possessions lumped together.
The thought brought her back to reality. OK, she didn’t have a lot of money, but that was no reason to feel embarrassed or ashamed. She’d had no helping hand in life—she’d come from a poverty-stricken background and worked hard to get to where she was now. What was more, she had always treated people fairly along the way—which was more than Marco could say.
He’d practically bankrupted her grandfather’s business, until the old man had been forced to sell out to him because he just couldn’t afford to compete with him. And then as soon as Marco had taken over the firm he’d lost no time in restructuring—which had basically meant firing most of the staff. Isobel’s father had been amongst the people in the first wave of redundancies.
She could still remember the shock in her father’s eyes when he’d come home to tell them. She remembered how he’d sat at the kitchen table and buried his head in his hands. He’d kept saying that there had been no need to make people redundant—that the company was very profitable. And her grandfather had said the same.
‘It’s greed, Isobel,’ he had said. ‘Some people aren’t content with making a healthy profit. They’re only happy when they are making an obscene profit.’
Isobel remembered those words as she looked over at Marco. He’d been a couple of years older than she was now—about twenty-four—when he’d bought her grandfather’s firm and sacked half the workforce. And then he’d gone on to sell the business twelve months later for a very obscene profit, as far as Isobel was concerned.
And it seemed Marco had repeated this move in other businesses time and time again, making him a multi-millionaire before the age of thirty.
She wondered if he ever had pangs of conscience about the way he made his money.
As soon as the thought crossed her mind she dismissed it as absurd. Marco wasn’t the type to think deeply about other people’s feelings. As demonstrated by the way he’d walked out on his wife after just eighteen months of marriage, and the way he changed the women in his life faster than some people changed the sheets on the bed.
Something he had in common with her father, as it turned out.
She turned away from him. ‘I’ll just throw a few things in a bag, I won’t be long.’
‘See that you’re not,’ he said laconically. ‘I meant it when I said you’d got five minutes.’
Hurriedly she moved through to her bedroom and opened the wardrobe. What on earth should she pack for a night in the South of France? she wondered. She didn’t have a lot of summer gear, but then it probably wouldn’t be that hot as it was only May.
She glanced around as there was a knock on the door and it opened behind her. ‘Four minutes and counting,’ Marco told her as he leaned against the doorframe.
‘For heaven’s sake, I’m going as fast as I can.’ She flung a pair of jeans and a T-shirt into an overnight case, and then moved to rifle through her nightwear and her underwear drawer. ‘Do you think you could give me a moment’s privacy?’ she asked through gritted teeth as she looked around at him.
‘Don’t mind me.’ He smiled, but instead of moving out of her room he came further in, and walked over towards the window to look out.
At least he had his back to her, but the guy had an unmitigated gall, she thought furiously. She selected a nightshirt and some underwear and threw it in the case.
‘Don’t forget your passport,’ he reminded her nonchalantly. ‘That’s all that really matters.’
‘Of course I won’t.’
‘Good.’ He adjusted the blinds a little, so that he could look down to the road. And she realised that he had only come in here because it was the one room with a clear view out over the front of the property.
‘Are the paparazzi still there?’ she asked curiously.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He snapped the blinds closed and turned to look at her again. ‘So you’d better get a move on—because otherwise you could be splashed all over the front page tomorrow and dubbed my new lover,’ he added lazily.
He watched with amusement as her cheeks flushed bright red.
‘I very much doubt that, Mr Lombardi,’ she told him stiffly, wondering if this was his feeble attempt at trying to dissociate himself from the many women he’d been pictured with since his divorce.
‘Do you? Why is that?’
‘Because…’ What kind of question was that to ask her? she wondered in annoyance. ‘Well…because I am very obviously not your type.’
‘Aren’t you?’ He looked across at her teasingly.
‘No, I’m not!’ She was starting to think he enjoyed winding her up. ‘Everyone knows that you go for very glamorous blondes,’ she added snappily, and tried to return her attention to her suitcase. But she was finding it really hard to concentrate on packing now; she was far too distracted by the way he was watching her. ‘And just for the record you’re not my type either,’ she added for good measure as she glanced up at him.
He didn’t look in the least bit bothered. In fact one dark eyebrow was raised mockingly, as if he didn’t believe that for one moment. The guy was far too sure of himself, she thought heatedly. Probably because no woman had ever said no to him.
‘And do you think that it matters for one moment that you are not my usual type?’ he asked.
‘Matters—in what way?’ She was confused for a moment.
‘Well, the press sensationalise everything. You could be my maiden aunt and they would still think there was something going on between us.’
‘That is not true!’
His dark eyes gleamed. ‘Spoken like a loyal member of the press.’
‘Well, maybe I am.’ She shrugged. ‘But I know we are not that easily bamboozled.’
‘Bamboozled enough to think I only go for blondes,’ he said with a smile. ‘When in actual fact I have a penchant for the odd brunette.’
She felt her body burn as his dark gaze swept slowly over her. She knew he was only joking, but she found the intensity of his gaze wholly unnerving,
He was a total wind-up merchant, she thought uncomfortably as she turned away. There was no way on God’s earth that he would ever be interested in her—nor her in him, she reminded herself fiercely. She knew it—he knew it—and pretending anything else even for a bit of fun was just hideously embarrassing. They were at different ends of a very wide spectrum.
She closed her case with a thud. ‘I’ll just go and get my toiletries, and then I’m ready.’
Marco watched as she hurried away from him. He didn’t think he had ever met a woman so determined not to flirt with him, he thought with a smile. The strange thing was that the more she backed away from him the more intrigued he became.
He glanced idly around at her possessions. From what he could judge she seemed to live here alone. The place was almost minimalist in design, plainly furnished and yet striking. A bit like its owner, he thought with amusement. His gaze moved over to her workstation in the corner. The desk was tidy, but a huge stack of paper and notebooks led him to believe she probably did a lot of work from home. There were a few reference books—huge, serious tomes on economics. Was that her bedtime reading? he wondered with a grin.
There were also a couple of photographs in frames, and he glanced at them. One was of a woman in her fifties and the other was of an older guy of about seventy. Were they her parents? Her father looked much older than her mother. Marco looked more closely. Actually, the guy looked familiar.
Isobel came back into the room, and Marco turned his attention to more important things. He had a lot of paperwork to do, and a flight to catch. ‘Time is marching on,’ he reminded her, glancing at his watch.
‘Yes, I do realise that—and I’m ready when you are.’ She put the cosmetics bag into her case and zipped it up.
‘Really? Well, I’m impressed,’ he said with a smile. ‘You have half a minute to spare and…’ his gaze moved to the case in her hand ‘…probably the smallest amount of luggage of any woman I’ve ever taken away for the weekend.’
Did he have to make everything sound so damn intimate? she wondered uncomfortably. ‘Well, that’s because you’re not taking me away for the weekend.’
‘I think you’ll find that I am,’ he countered with a smile.
‘We are going away on a business trip for one night,’ she maintained firmly. ‘And as today is only Thursday, that hardly qualifies even marginally as going away for the weekend.’
She really was an enigma, Marco thought with amusement. Most women fell over themselves to spend time with him, and yet she seemed almost horrorstruck by the thought.
‘You can make your own way home tomorrow, if you wish,’ he said easily. ‘But I doubt your in-depth interview will be complete.’
As she looked over at him her eyes seemed to be impossibly wide and too large for her face. ‘Well, we shall just have to try and move things along faster,’ she said with determination.
‘You can try.’ He grinned. ‘But I have a lot of business to attend to over the next forty-eight hours, so you will have to fit in around me. I think it would probably be more realistic to say that you will be in France until at least Monday.’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’
‘Not at all.’
Their eyes seemed to clash across the small dividing space between them.
She didn’t want to spend a few days with him. The very thought of it made her blood pressure go into hyper-drive.
‘I really don’t think I will be able to stay that long,’ she murmured uncomfortably.
‘Well, as I said, it’s up to you.’ He shrugged.
But it wasn’t up to her, was it? she thought nervously. And he knew that—knew that she would be forced to hang around until she got the story that her paper expected. A story that would be superficial at best.
And meanwhile he would finalise his deal for Sienna and start to take the company apart at the seams. Because that was what he did.
Isobel glanced away from him.
She hated that he could get away with it. Hated the fact that he was cocooned by his wealth—the type who seemed to glide though life unaffected by other people’s problems.
But she didn’t have to let him get away with it, she thought suddenly. Just because she could no longer write about his business dealings in depth, it didn’t mean she couldn’t expose him in her article for the uncaring, arrogant womaniser that he was.
Feeling a little bit better at the thought, she reached for her suitcase.
Marco thought that he was being oh-so-clever, but she would have the last laugh, she told herself firmly.
CHAPTER THREE
USUALLY when Isobel travelled through airports she had to wait in queues to check in, and then there would be more queues to get through Security and onto the plane. Travelling with Marco, however, was a whole new experience. There was to be no mundane waiting around for Marco. He breezed through everything at VIP level, and people couldn’t do enough for him. It was Yes, Mr Lombardi—No, Mr Lombardi—Nothing is too much trouble, Mr Lombardi.
Isobel was absolutely amazed by the speed of the whole process—from check-in to getting aboard the aircraft. And then when they did step on board she was even more astounded to find it was his company jet and that they were the only passengers.
Just another little glimpse into the excesses of Marco Lombardi’s world, she thought as she looked around.
They were soon travelling at thirty thousand feet, seated opposite each other in comfortable black leather seats that were larger than her sofa at home. Marco had swivelled his chair slightly, so that he could take advantage of the conference facilities aboard, and since take-off he’d been in a meeting with his corporate strategist in Rome, to discuss a project they were working on in Italy.
Isobel would have loved to know more details, but unfortunately that was all Marco had told her, and she couldn’t understand anything he was saying because he was speaking in Italian. For a while she’d tried to pass the time by reading one of the newspapers the cabin crew had handed out to them earlier, but she’d found it hard to concentrate because she had been drawn to listening to Marco as he talked, mesmerised by the attractive, deep tones.
There was something deeply passionate about the Italian language. Marco sounded fiercely intent one moment and almost lyrically provocative the next. So much so that she found herself not only listening, but also covertly watching him. The accent combined with his good looks was a powerfully compelling combination…hard to pull away from.
No man had a right to be so sexually attractive, she thought distractedly. Especially a man who was so completely ruthless. But…hell, he really was gorgeous.
He glanced over at that moment and caught her watching him, and as their eyes met she felt a surge of heat so intense it made her feel dizzy.
How pathetic was that? she thought angrily, looking swiftly away. She should be focusing her mind on structuring the article she wanted to write about him, on revealing the true Marco Lombardi—not on idly admiring his looks!
Being handsome didn’t mean a thing. Her father had been a good-looking man, suave, sophisticated, a definite hit with women. Even as a young child Isobel had noticed the way women smiled at him. She had been fiercely proud of her handsome dad—had hero-worshiped him.
And she had been naively unaware that the only reason he’d stayed around was the lure of her grandfather’s money.
When his father-in-law had sold the business and he had been made redundant Martin Keyes had been self-pitying at first. But two months down the line, when her grandfather had died and it had been revealed that all his fortune had gone on death duties and taxes, he had been furious. Isobel had heard the arguments raging into the night. Had heard his parting shots to her mother—that the lure of the family business had been all that had kept him in the marriage, and that he felt as if he had wasted twelve years of his life. Then she had heard the slam of the door.
When she’d gone downstairs her mother had been sitting on the floor, sobbing. ‘He said he never loved us, Isobel,’ she had cried.
She could still remember that moment vividly—her mother’s heart-rending sobs, the shock and the feeling of fear and helplessness, and also the knowledge that she had to be strong for her mum’s sake.
Life had been tough after that. Her mother had struggled to cope, both financially and emotionally, and for the first year Isobel had found it hard to believe that her dad had truly abandoned them completely. She’d dreamed he would come back, that he hadn’t meant those cruel words. Her birthday and Christmas had come and gone without any contact. Then one day quite suddenly, without warning, she’d seen him again outside her school gates. She’d thought he was waiting for her and her heart had leapt. But he hadn’t been waiting for her. He’d been with another woman, and as Isobel had watched from a distance she’d seen a child from one of the junior classes running towards them. As Isobel had slowly approached they’d all got into a Mercedes parked at the kerb and driven away.
The really awful thing was that her father had seen her—but he hadn’t even acknowledged her with so much as a smile. It was as if she had ceased to exist and was just a stranger.
She’d grown up that day. There had been no more daydreams of a happy-ever-after. And she supposed it had made her into the person she was today—independent and a realist. Certainly not the type to be drawn to a man just because of his looks.
Marco had finished his conversation and was packing some of his papers away.
‘We have about twenty minutes before we land,’ he said to her suddenly. ‘Would you like a drink?’
Even before she answered him he was summoning one of the cabin crew.
‘I’ll have a whisky, please, Michelle,’ he said easily as a member of staff appeared instantly beside him. Then he looked over at Isobel enquiringly.
‘Just an orange juice, please.’
Marco turned his chair around to face her and she felt as if she was in a sophisticated bar somewhere—not on an aircraft heading out to the Mediterranean.
‘We seem to be ahead of schedule,’ Marco said as he looked at his watch. ‘Which means we will be arriving before it gets dark. That’s good. It will give you a chance to catch a little of the spectacular scenery along the coastline.’
‘That would be nice. I can add a description of arriving at your house to my article. Do you live far from Nice Airport?’
‘My residence is nearer to the Italian border—about half an hour’s drive away. But we will be flying into my private airstrip just ten minutes away from the house.’
‘You have your own airstrip?’
‘Yes. Sometimes the roads are very busy getting in and out of Nice, so it frees up a little time—makes life easier.’ He shrugged in that Latin way of his.
‘You are a man in a hurry,’ she reflected wryly, and he laughed.
‘It’s certainly true that there are never enough hours in the day.’
He had a very attractive laugh, and his eyes were warm as they fell on her—so warm, in fact, that for a moment she found herself forgetting what she wanted to say next.
The stewardess brought their drinks. Isobel noticed how she smiled at Marco when he thanked her.
He probably had that affect on every woman he looked at, she thought.
She was about to pour some orange juice into her glass, but he did it for her. ‘I take it you don’t drink?’ he asked conversationally as he passed her glass over to her.
‘Thanks. I do, but not when I’m working.’ She forced herself to sound businesslike. OK, jetting into the South of France with this man was probably every woman’s dream, but she had to stay focused. Marco Lombardi wasn’t the type of man to relax with. He was too smooth…too practised at getting exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted from her was probably to lull her into a false sense of alliance so that she would write about how wonderful he was. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t that easily fooled.
She just wished he wouldn’t look at her with such close attention. She sat up rigidly in her seat, ramrod-straight, and tried to cultivate a definite no-nonsense look in her eyes. ‘So, do you travel around the world a lot in your private jet?’
‘You sound like you are going to shine a light in my eyes and cross-examine me on my carbon footprint,’ he murmured in amusement.
‘Do I…? Well, that wasn’t my intention.’ She shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. ‘I’m just trying to gather a few facts about you for my readers, that’s all.’
‘Hmm…’ He lounged back and looked at her for a long moment, and she could feel her heart suddenly starting to speed up.
‘Tell me, do you ever relax?’ he asked.
The suddenly personal question took her aback. ‘Yes, of course I do, Mr Lombardi. But as I said, not—’
‘When you are working.’ He finished the sentence for her, a gleam of amusement in his expression. ‘OK, that’s fine. But I’ve got a suggestion to make. I think, as we are about to spend a few days and nights together at my home, that we should drop the formalities—don’t you?’
The words combined with that sexy Italian accent made alarm bells start to ring inside her. Did he have to make the situation sound quite so…intimate? she wondered apprehensively.
‘So you can call me Marco,’ he continued without waiting for a reply, ‘and I’ll call you Izzy. ‘
‘Actually, nobody calls me Izzy,’ she interrupted.
‘Good. I like to be different.’
He smiled as he noticed the fire in her eyes, the flare of heightened colour in her cheeks. It was strange, but he found himself enjoying rattling that cool edge of reserve that she seemed determined to hide behind. ‘We’ll be starting our descent into the sunny Côte d’Azur in a few minutes, and it is not the continental way to be so uptight,’ he added.
‘I’m not uptight, Mr Lombardi—’
‘Marco,’ he corrected her softly. ‘Go on you can say it… Marco…’ He enunciated the name playfully, his Italian accent rolling attractively over it.
‘OK…Marco.’ She shrugged, and then for good measure added, ‘Now you try ISOBEL…’ She rolled her tongue over her name with the same emphasis, and then slanted him a defiant look that made him laugh.
‘You see? You are getting into the continental spirit of things already,’ he teased.
Their eyes held for a moment, then he smiled at her.
It was the oddest thing, but she suddenly felt a most disturbing jolt in the pit of her stomach—as if she had stepped off a cliff and was plummeting fast to the ground.
‘Anyway, I…I think we are getting a bit off track,’ she murmured, trying desperately to gather her senses again.
‘Are we?’
‘Yes, it’s best…you know…to keep things strictly businesslike.’
There was a defensive, almost fierce glitter in her eyes now as she looked at him, but there was also an underlying glimmer of vulnerability. It was almost as if she was scared of lowering her guard around him, he thought suddenly.
The notion intrigued him, and for a moment his gaze moved over the creamy perfection of her skin, the cupid’s bow of her mouth, then lower to the full soft curves of her figure hidden beneath that buttoned up blouse.
Their eyes met again, and she looked even more self-conscious.
Was it an act or not? There was something very alluring about that mix of wide-eyed innocence and hostile attitude. As if she could give as good as she could get—a wary kitten that might purr most agreeably if handled correctly.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind it irritated him! She was a member of the press—and there was nothing vulnerable about a journalist who was hungry for a story, he reminded himself firmly.
‘Don’t worry, Izzy, I won’t allow us to get too far off track,’ he grated mockingly.
The pilot’s voice interrupted them, to say they were starting their final descent and would be touching down in precisely fifteen minutes.
Isobel watched as Marco reached to pick up the rest of the papers he’d been working on earlier.
When his eyes had slipped down over her body she’d felt so hot inside that she could hardly breathe. And she felt foolish now…foolish for imagining for one moment that he was flirting with her.
In reality he was probably laughing at her. The little plain mouse who melted when he smiled at her.
The thought made her burn with embarrassment—because she had melted.
Acknowledging that fact even for a moment made her feel very ill at ease, and angrily she tried to dismiss it.
She was here to get a story, and she was totally focused.
As Marco put his work away into his briefcase the plane hit an air pocket, and a few sheets from a report slid across the polished surface of the table and fell onto the floor at her feet.
She bent to pick them up for him, and couldn’t resist glancing at the pages as she did. Unfortunately they were all in Italian, but she managed to catch the printed heading: ‘Porzione’.
She looked over at Marco as she handed it back to him. ‘What is that?’
‘Nothing that needs to concern you,’ he said, tucking it safely away into his briefcase.
Which almost certainly meant it would concern her, she thought sardonically. It was probably some poor unfortunate company that he was about to gobble up and spit out.
‘Don’t forget to fasten your safety belt,’ he said as he settled back into his seat.
‘No, I won’t. Thanks.’ She buckled up, and then glanced away from him out of the window.
Sitting opposite him like this was completely unnerving; there was just something about him that put all of her sensory nerve-endings on high alert.
Porzione—she tried to focus on practicalities, telling herself that she should remember the name and look it up on the internet later. OK, she wasn’t supposed to write about his business dealings, but that didn’t stop her doing a little research and maybe adding a line here and there about his ruthless takeover deals.
She tried to focus on that, and on the bright blue of the sky, on the sound of the engines as the powerful jet geared up for landing—on anything except that moment of attraction she had felt for Marco a little while ago.
It was her imagination, she told herself fiercely. She would never fall under the spell of a man who was a known heartbreaker. And she didn’t buy all that stuff that people spouted about desire overruling common sense. Maybe that happened to other people, but it wasn’t going to happen to her. She was far too practical for that; she always weighed everything up logically. Probably because she’d seen from her own childhood just what could happen if you fell for the wrong man.
Isobel’s mother had never really recovered from her divorce. She’d suffered from depression for a long time afterwards, with Isobel taking on the role of carer at some points. Once in a weak moment she’d even confessed to Isobel that she was still in love with her ex-husband.
How could you love someone who had treated you so badly? That confession had shocked Isobel beyond words. And she had always vowed that she would never allow a man to get her into that state, and that she would always be in control of her emotions.
She had pretty much kept to that vow. As a student at university she’d had a few boyfriends, but she’d always kept them at a distance—never allowing anyone to get too close and never getting into the whole casual sex scene. Instead she had thrown herself into her work. Coming from a single parent family, money had been tight. She’d had just one shot at getting her degree, and she’d been determined not to mess it up by getting sidetracked by a man.
After graduating she’d met Rob, and even though she’d liked him straight away she’d still kept her heart in reserve. Building her career had seemed more important. The thing about Rob was that he had seemed so safe and uncomplicated. He’d stayed around in the background, and little by little he had worked his way into her life. He’d gently told her that he didn’t mind waiting until she was ready to make love, and that he respected her and admired her. He had even said that he held the same moral codes as her. That he knew all about heartbreak as his mother had walked out on him when he was young.
She’d felt sympathy for him when he told her that. And she’d started to trust him. Looking back, she supposed he’d become almost like a best friend. When he’d kissed her there had been no explosions of passion, but he’d made her laugh and he’d made her feel safe. And when he’d proposed to her it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to say yes.
But Rob hadn’t been the safe, reliable guy she had believed him to be. All those things he’d told her about fidelity being important had been lies. And when she’d caught him in his lies he had turned nasty—had told her that she’d driven him to it, that she was frigid.
Just thinking about it now brought a fresh dart of pain. It only went to show that no matter how careful you were there were no guarantees against heartache.
She closed her eyes for a few moments. At least she had found out her mistake before she had married him.
They were slowly starting to lose altitude, and the plane was juddering as currents of air hit it.
She’d been right all along: the best thing was to concentrate on a career, on being independent.
She opened her eyes and to her consternation found herself looking directly into Marco’s dark, steady gaze. Immediately she felt the tug of some unfamiliar emotion twisting and turning deep inside her.
What was that? she wondered angrily. Because it wasn’t desire. Even if he did have the sexiest eyes of any man she had ever met.
Hastily she looked away from him. Thoughts like that did not help this situation, she told herself angrily.
They were going through light, swirling clouds now. Then suddenly she could see the vivid sparkle of the Mediterranean beneath her, and ahead the shadowy outlines of the coast.
There were mountains rising sharply, and large swathes of forest.
Lower and lower they came, the engines whining softly, until Isobel thought that they might land in the sea. But just as she was starting to panic they skimmed in over a white beach and she saw a runway ahead.
A few minutes later they had touched down smoothly. And with a roar of the brakes they taxied to a halt.
‘We are a bit early, but there should be a car outside to pick us up in five minutes,’ Marco said casually as he unfastened his seat belt and stood up.
Isobel also got to her feet, and then wished she hadn’t as she suddenly found herself too close to him in the confined space.
As he reached for his briefcase she sidestepped him so that she could open the overhead compartment and get her bag.
‘Wait—I’ll do that for you,’ he offered, glancing around.
‘No need. I’ve got it.’ Hurriedly she opened the compartment, but the next moment a case slid out smacking into her shoulder.
‘Are you OK?’ Marco caught it before it could do any further damage, and swung it to the floor.
‘Yes…’ She grimaced and put a hand to her shoulder. ‘I think so.’
‘Let me look at you.’ To her consternation, Marco put a hand on her arm and turned her to face him.
‘No, really—I’m fine!’ It was the weirdest thing, but the touch of his hand against her other arm made it throb more violently than her shoulder.
‘It’s torn your blouse.’ Marco said as he looked at her. ‘And you’re bleeding.’
She glanced down and saw that he was right; there was a small crimson stain on the pristine white of her linen blouse. ‘It’s OK—it’s only a scratch. I’ll be fine.’
‘It seems to be a bit more than a scratch. Do you want me to look at it for you?’
The mere suggestion was enough to make her temperature shoot through the roof of the plane. ‘I most certainly do not!’
Her prim refusal amused him somewhat. ‘Izzy, the cut is just fractionally below your collarbone. You will only have to unfasten the top three buttons of your blouse—it’s hardly a striptease.’
The words made her skin flare with heat. ‘It’s fine… Really… I…’
He completely ignored her. ‘Michelle, will you bring the first aid kit, please?’ he called over his shoulder to the woman who had served them their drinks. Immediately she disappeared down to the bottom of the plane to comply. ‘Now, let’s have a look.’ He turned his attention firmly back to her.
‘Marco, I said I was fine—’ She froze as he reached for the top button on her blouse and started to undo it.
Her heart was beating so loudly now that she felt it was filling the whole aircraft.
‘Marco, I can do it myself!’
‘At least you don’t have any difficulty saying my name any more.’ His dark eyes locked with hers and his lips twisted into a lazily attractive smile. For a panic-stricken moment she thought he was going to move on to the next button, but thankfully he didn’t. He dropped his hands. ‘Go ahead, then… You unfasten the buttons.’
‘I’ll do it later.’
‘It’s two little buttons, Izzy… Are you scared of me?’ His eyebrow rose mockingly.
‘No! Why would I be scared of you?’ Angrily she reached up to comply—she was damned if she was going to let him think she was scared of him!
He noticed that her hands were trembling. He’d never had this effect on a woman before. He frowned as he saw the shadows in her eyes as she looked up at him… What was she so scared of? he wondered curiously.
‘There! Happy?’ She glared at him.
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ He said the words derisively, and noticed how she blushed even more, but this time she looked more humiliated than shy. He frowned and wished for some reason that he hadn’t said that.
OK, she was a bit of a Plain Jane, and nowhere in the league of the women he usually dated, but there was also something…interesting about her.
Curiously he reached out and lightly stroked his hand over her collarbone, pushing the blouse back further until he could see the wound.
She wasn’t prepared for the touch of his fingers against her skin; it sent a dart of sensual pleasure racing through her unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Horrified by her reaction to him, she could only stare up at him in consternation.
In the stillness of the cabin it was almost as if time stood still.
Marco smiled as he saw the flare of desire deep in the depths of her green eyes. Now he knew why she looked so scared…she definitely wasn’t as immune to him as she’d been pretending all afternoon. That amused him…and for some strange reason even pleased him.
He noticed how she moistened her lips nervously, could see her breathing quickening by the rise and fall of her chest.
He wondered how it would feel to kiss her…
As soon as the thought crossed his mind he dismissed it. She was a journalist, for heaven’s sake…one of a breed he despised! They were hard-bitten, uncaring, trouble-stirring… He could go on for ever listing the reasons he hated the press.
His gaze moved away from her lips and back to the cut on her collarbone. ‘It’s not deep—so that’s good.’
The stewardess arrived with the first aid box and handed it over to him.
‘Thanks, Michelle. Are the steps down yet?’
‘Yes, sir. We are ready to disembark.’
Marco found a tube of antiseptic cream and some cotton wool and handed it over to Isobel. ‘That should fix you up until you get to the house.’
‘Thanks.’ Isobel was still trying to pull herself together.
What on earth had just happened? she wondered anxiously. Her heart was pounding as if she had run a long-distance marathon, and she felt shaky and hot inside.
And the worst thing was that feeling of pleasure that had blazed inside her just from the lightest brush of his fingertips. That had never happened to her before with anyone. And the fact that it had happened so easily, with such a casual touch, with Marco was horrifying.
That had to be in her imagination…
Numbly Isobel followed Marco from the plane. They seemed to be in the depths of the countryside. There was a vineyard to her left, and the regimented rows of vines stretched up as far as the purple haze of the mountains. Straight ahead of them there was an aircraft hangar, which was the only building in the vicinity.
Heat shimmered in a misty, watery illusion—like a stream running across the Tarmac.
That heat haze was like her attraction to Marco, Isobel told herself firmly. It looked real, but it was just an illusion—nonexistent. Just because you thought you could see something it didn’t mean it was really there.
She glanced over towards him. He was holding the jacket of his suit casually over one shoulder, and he looked extremely relaxed—every inch the Mediterranean millionaire, completely at home amidst the rugged terrain. She would have liked to describe him as pretentious, with his company jet behind him and his staff bringing the luggage out for him, but in all honesty he looked too casually indifferent for that.
She remembered the gentle touch of his fingers against her skin, remembered the heat in his eyes, and her stomach flipped.
What the hell was the matter with her? Hastily she looked away again. He was Marco Lombardi, one of the most notorious womanisers on the planet, and she couldn’t afford to forget that even for a minute.
There was a car approaching. She could hear the low, throaty murmur before she saw it, and then a limousine pulled up from around the side of the aircraft hangar and a chauffeur jumped out to open the passenger doors for them.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE road from the airstrip out to Marco’s villa was a narrow, winding path that seemed to hug the side of the mountain, and every now and then as they rounded a corner there were sheer perpendicular drops down towards the Mediterranean. It was so spectacular that Isobel found herself holding tight to the edge of the seat as vertigo started to set in.
She didn’t know what was more nerve-racking—the drive, or the fact that as they rounded corners her body seemed to keep sliding against Marco’s. She wished she’d sat opposite to him now, but he’d advised against it, saying that she would see the view better facing forward and also that it helped to ward off any feelings of travel sickness.
Isobel didn’t usually get travel sick, but she had to admit that these roads would test the strongest constitution.
‘You were right about the coastline being dramatic,’ she said as they rounded another corner and she took in an even more amazing view. They were winding their way downwards now, and she could see glimpses of golden beaches and villas tucked away behind lush tropical greenery.
‘Yes, it’s a lovely part of the world.’ He flicked a glance over at her, noticing with amusement how she was desperately trying not to allow her body to fall against his as the car rounded a particularly narrow bend. For a moment his gaze moved lower. She’d left the top buttons of her blouse unfastened and had folded the collar over—probably so that it hid the stain and the tear in the material. But the small change made all the difference to her appearance; her curves were shown to better advantage and she looked less staid…almost sexy.
His phone rang, and impatiently he reached to answer it. He really had more important things to think about than a pesky reporter.
Marco was speaking in French, Isobel realised distractedly, and he was completely fluent, by the sounds of it. ‘How many languages do you speak?’ she asked him as soon as he had ended the call.
‘Five. It helps in business.’
‘Really? Wow!’ She couldn’t help but be impressed. ‘I wish I could speak a second language, never mind a fifth! I did French for years at school, but I still struggle to have a conversation in it.’
‘You’ll have to practise while you are here,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It’s just a matter of usage. When you have to speak it every day it starts to get easier.’
The limousine turned off the road, and Isobel tried to turn her attention away from him and back to what was happening. But it was hard. Because—she hated to admit it—she found him quite fascinating.
Electric gates folded back, allowing them to enter, and they drove along a wide sweeping driveway lined with giant palm trees. The gardens were very well tended. It was probably a full-time job for a team of gardeners, she thought as she looked out at the tropical shrubs and flowers blazing amidst lawns as smooth as a bowling green. They rounded a corner and suddenly a huge sprawling white mansion opened up before them.
It was built on two levels, and encircled by open verandas that looked out over an Olympic-size infinity pool, its blue waters seeming to merge perfectly with the colour of the Mediterranean.
‘Nice house,’ Isobel remarked. ‘Are you sure it’s big enough for you?’
Amusement glinted in the darkness of his eyes. ‘You know, now you come to mention it, I suppose it is a bit on the small side.’
They pulled to a halt by the front door, and she reached for the door handle and got out before the chauffeur could come around to open it for her.
The heat of the late afternoon was heavy and silent; the only sound was the swish of waves against the shore beneath them. Isobel turned her head and saw a path leading down to a private beach. She also noticed the oceangoing yacht moored at the end of a long jetty.
‘Is that another of your toys?’ she asked Marco as he stepped out from the vehicle behind her.
He followed her gaze down towards the sea. ‘It’s a working toy. I use her for business, but also for pleasure. Sometimes it’s good to unwind out at sea, away from everything and everyone.’
For a moment as she looked up at him she thought she saw a glimpse of sadness in the darkness of his eyes, as if at times he needed the solace of being alone out at sea. Then he turned and smiled at her, and she realised that the idea was ludicrous. Marco, international jet-set playboy, would never need solace! What was she thinking?
‘Come on—I’ll show you up to your room.’ He turned away from her and led her into the house.
The entrance hall was palatial; it had a huge, sweeping circular staircase, and vast windows that towered above her like the windows of a cathedral. It was all very modern and new in design. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked curiously as she followed him upstairs.
‘About two years now.’
‘So you bought the house just after your divorce?’ She was finding it difficult to keep up with him because he was striding along the corridor at quite a pace.
‘Around that time, yes.’ He opened a door and then waited for her to catch up with him, so that she could precede him into the room.
Her eyes widened. It was decorated in shades of cream and turquoise, and was probably the largest and most luxurious bedroom she had ever been in. The bed alone looked as if it would sleep about twelve people, and there was a walk-in closet that was as big as her entire bedroom at home. The skirt, jeans and the few tops that she’d brought with her were going to look very lonely in there, she thought wryly.
‘If this is supposed to be the spare bedroom, the master bedroom must be awesome,’ she said as she glanced out of the folding glass doors at the veranda and the spectacular view of the sea.
‘Come and have a look, if you want,’ he invited. ‘I’m right next door.’
She looked over and caught the gleam of mischief in the darkness of his eyes. She found herself blushing. ‘Eh…no, thanks. I think my article can do without that particular piece of information.’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.’ He laughed. ‘OK, I’ll leave you to settle in and I’ll see you downstairs for dinner in shall we say…?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘About an hour?’
‘Yes…an hour is fine by me.’ Isobel tried to sound confidently upbeat about the prospect of dining with him but her nerves were jangling. She really didn’t want to have dinner with him, in fact she’d rather have hidden away from him up here until morning—but that was ridiculous. She had to spend time with him in order to get to know him and gather all the information she needed for her article. What on earth was wrong with her? It was just work, she reminded herself sternly.
As Marco left the room the chauffeur brought her suitcase in. Then she was left alone.
For a while she wandered around, investigating her surroundings. The en suite bathroom was completely mirrored, and it had a Jacuzzi hot tub positioned so that you could lie and look out on the veranda and the view of the sea. Maybe she’d do that later. Her shoulder was still a little sore, so it might help. But for the time being she decided to make do with bathing the wound and putting on some more antiseptic. As she pulled her blouse back to examine the damage in the mirror, the memory of Marco’s hand touching her skin suddenly flared from nowhere. Hurriedly she blanked the memory out. Why did she keep thinking about that?
What she should be concentrating on was her article.
Deciding to busy herself before dinner, she got her pen and notebook and went to sit outside on the veranda.
It was about six in the evening, but the day was still warm and a delicious little breeze rustled through the palm trees. For a while she just sat there admiring the view, thinking back over the day.
Let’s see, what do I already know about Marco? she mused. Apart from the fact that he’s a ruthless wheeler-dealer.
On impulse, she took out her phone and decided to look on the internet for the name of the company that she had seen on his papers today. What was it…? Porzione…
She typed the name into a search engine and waited, but there was nothing except a charity for disabled children. She glanced at it brief ly. It also supported families with premature babies, and did some very good work counselling couples dealing with the death of a child, but it was clearly nothing to do with Marco. Maybe she’d spelt it wrong. She was about to close the box, but before she did so something made her type Marco’s name into the mix.
Immediately his name flashed up on screen as the founder and director of Porzione, and she sat back in her chair. Why would Marco have founded a children’s charity?
Curiously she typed in Marco’s name followed by just the word charity, to see what else came up. To her surprise his name was associated with a very long list of charitable organisations.
Strange how that was never mentioned in the media—but then judging by the way she’d had to search for his name it seemed he liked to keep a low profile. And of course, stories about charities probably didn’t sell as well as stories about his love-life.
A curl of guilt stirred inside her. Why hadn’t she discovered this before? She drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair as she thought about her findings. A lot of big businessmen donated to charity, she told herself sensibly. And just because Marco donated money to good causes it didn’t make him a good person. It was probably some kind of tax dodge, anyway.
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