Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘What’s he done to upset you? You don’t usually take dislikes to people like this.’
‘I’m not usually forced into their company,’ she said with ill-humour. ‘Mummy has asked the great man to paint me.’
That really startled Helen. ‘A Luke Vittorio portrait…’
‘That’s what I said. Oh, he’ll say no, of course, but I don’t like the idea of him dissecting each little part of me before he rejects me. He’s so damned arrogant!’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound very sure. I’ll tell you what, come over tomorrow afternoon and you can meet him.’
Helen sat up, smiling eagerly. ‘Really?’ she asked excitedly.
‘Yes, and welcome to him.’
Her friend laughed. ‘Let’s go and have a game of tennis, you can run off some of this steam. Stay for lunch and then go home when Mr Vittorio is safely installed in your house. Mum and Dad have gone out for the day shopping, so we have the house to ourselves.’
They played tennis for a couple of hours before going back to Helen’s and making themselves a hamburger each. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Sophie set off for home. She really couldn’t delay any longer, she would have to change before meeting Luke Vittorio.
Her stepmother would be furious if she presented herself in tee-shirt and tight denims, and her hair was completely wild from her exertions on the tennis court. Her face was completely bare of make-up, her skin smooth and creamy, her lips a healthy pink, her violet eyes glowing as she enjoyed her ride back to her home.
She enjoyed the ride back much more than the ride to Helen’s, freewheeling down the long hill that had taken such effort to get up before lunch. What breeze there was whipped through her long silver-blonde hair, her eyes glowing with pleasure.
She was almost on top of the car turning out of the side road before she saw it, and she felt sure the driver of the Mercedes hadn’t seen her at all. The car was turning in from the right and she swerved precariously to avoid it, crashing up the grass verge to land in an undignified heap in a newly ploughed field.
The ground was soft to land on, but nevertheless Sophie felt shaken by the fall, peering over the tiny hedgerow at her bicycle, the wheels still spinning noisily. She sat up, rubbing her elbows which seemed to have taken the main pressure of her fall.
She looked up as a shadow fell across her, unaware of the dusty marks on her now pale cheeks, and her eyes widened with shock as she recognised the driver of the car she had swerved to avoid. Luke Vittorio!
There could be no mistaking that muscular physique clothed in fitted black silk shirt and thigh-hugging black trousers, the forbidding mouth with the full sensuous bottom lip, the hawk-like nose, the magnetic brown eyes, and the dark overlong-styled hair. He was much taller than she had imagined, well over six feet, and his skin was naturally dark instead of tanned, but there could be no doubt that this was indeed Luke Vittorio.
Sophie scrambled to her feet, hurriedly brushing down her denims so that she didn’t have to look into that dark, compelling face.
‘You are unhurt?’ His voice was deep and husky, deeply accented despite his having lived in England and America for the last twenty years.
‘Only a little bruised,’ she muttered, her head bent as she studiously brushed off every bit of dust on her denims.
Nothing had prepared her for the flesh-and-blood sensuality of this man, the blatant sexuality that must surely affect every woman he came into contact with, the deep husky voice that had sexy intonations. There was something wholly primitive about the man, something untamed and untameable, and he had shaken her more than falling off her bicycle had done.
One long sensitive hand came out to grasp her forearm, his shirt sleeves turned back to just below his elbows to reveal the dark hairs against his swarthy skin, made to look even darker by the broad gold wrist-watch on his arm. Sophie couldn’t take her eyes off his hand, a long tapered hand with thin sensitive fingers, an artist’s hand.
‘You are sure you are unharmed?’ he persisted.
Sophie looked up to meet the blaze of his mesmerising brown eyes head on, deep brown eyes with a lighter brown circle around the iris. ‘I’m fine,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I just didn’t see you until it was too late.’
The hand dropped away from her arm. ‘I am well aware of that.’ His voice was curt, losing its silky quality. ‘You were completely out of control as you came down that hill. I am only surprised there was not more damage done than there was.’
His censure angered Sophie, all the more so because she knew he was right. ‘To me or to your car?’ she asked sarcastically, her head thrown back, her hair streaming down her back.
‘Both,’ he answered abruptly. ‘Is your bicycle still workable?’
She picked it up, noticing the slightly bent handlebars but determined not to tell this arrogant man. ‘It seems all right to me,’ she told him moodily.
He nodded impatiently. ‘Would you like me to drive you anywhere?’
Sophie frowned. ‘What for?’
Luke Vittorio sighed. ‘I did not know if you felt too shaken to cycle the rest of the way to your home. You live on one of the hillside farms, perhaps?’
She almost laughed at his wrong assessment of her. He obviously considered her to be a simple farm girl, the thought of her being the daughter of Simon and Rosemary Bedford not even crossing his mind. It wasn’t surprising considering her clothes and the fact that she was riding a dilapidated bicycle, nevertheless she found his condescension annoying, determined not to tell him of her identity and surprise him at dinner this evening. She would love to see this man squirm, and perhaps this incident had given her the ammunition to do just that.
‘I live not far from here,’ she evaded. ‘I can make it there all right.’
‘Perhaps you had better give me your address anyway.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why?’
‘You may suffer some delayed injury. I will of course check up on your health.’
Sophie smiled, a taunting smile that held little humour. ‘If I suffer any delayed injury you can be sure I’ll let you know, Mr Vittorio.’
His brown eyes narrowed speculatively, sweeping over her slender figure, violet eyes and long silver-blonde hair with slow insolence. ‘You know who I am?’
She gave a short laugh. ‘It would be hard not to. You’re a celebrity.’
He appeared unimpressed by her attempt at breathless adoration. ‘Nevertheless, I think it would be better if I knew where you live.’
‘There’s really no need.’ She concentrated on checking her cycle over, her hair falling forward in a straight gleaming curtain. ‘There’s really nothing wrong with me.’
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Your hair, is it natural?’
Her head shot up at the unexpectedness of his question. ‘Well, it isn’t dyed, if that’s what you mean,’ she said resentfully.
‘And violet eyes,’ he mused.
She was surprised he had noticed her hair, let alone the colour of her eyes. The artist in him again, she supposed. ‘They’re natural too, I’m afraid,’ she answered tauntingly.
‘I did not presume they were not.’
‘But you doubt the naturalness of my hair.’
He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I was merely curious.’
Sophie’s attention was caught by the girl stepping elegantly out of the passenger side of the Mercedes, a girl who was instantly recognisable as Eve Jeffers. This girl was so beautiful, her features so perfect, her hair a black shining cap, her figure faultless, that she almost didn’t look real.
She came to stand next to Luke Vittorio, her lacquered nails resting intimately in the crook of his arm. ‘It’s getting late, Luke darling,’ she purred in a voice that grated on Sophie’s nerve-endings. ‘We should be on our way.’
Sophie bristled angrily. No concern for her health here, not even a polite query. This girl might be beau
tiful, but there was something about her that Sophie didn’t like; perhaps it was the coldness in her eyes or the faint hardness to her mouth, but whatever it was she didn’t like her.
Luke Vittorio nodded. ‘You go back to the car, I will be with you in a moment.’
‘We wouldn’t want to keep our beautiful hostess waiting.’ Eve arched an eyebrow at him. ‘I’m sure she’s just longing for you to arrive.’
Luke’s mouth tightened. ‘Go back to the car, Eve. I want no more of your innuendoes today,’ he added harshly.
‘I’m sure Rosemary wouldn’t consider them innuendoes,’ she purred. ‘And then there’s that brat of hers to look at,’ she taunted before walking gracefully back to the car.
Sophie’s anger had been increasing by the second. What did this girl mean by these remarks about her stepmother? Of course Rosemary was looking forward to her weekend guests’ arrival, but why should the model imply that she was especially looking forward to Luke Vittorio being there? She didn’t like the implication behind that at all—or the implication that she was a brat.
He turned back to her. ‘So you will not tell me where you live?’
‘There’s no need.’ He would know soon enough! And so would Eve Jeffers, although she felt sure the other girl wouldn’t give a damn.
‘Very well,’ he nodded curtly, before turning and walking away.
Sophie watched the car speed out of sight before making some attempt to straighten the handlebars on her bicycle. They wouldn’t straighten up completely, but at least it was rideable now. She would get Martin to have a look at it when she reached home.
The Mercedes was parked alongside several other cars in the driveway as she pedalled round to the back of the house to enter through the kitchen. Her stepmother would never forgive her if she let any of the guests see her like this.
Joycy was arranging the tea things as she came into the room, but stopped what she was doing to stare at Sophie. ‘What happened to you?’
She put a selfconscious hand up to her hair. ‘Nothing. Why?’
‘Your face is covered in dirt. What have you been doing?’
‘I had a slight accident on my bicycle,’ Sophie admitted sheepishly.
‘Again?’ Joycy shook her head. ‘I’ve told you so many times not to use that contraption. It wobbles terribly and the brakes don’t work properly.’
Sophie knew that, now. If the brakes had been working properly she wouldn’t have come off the damn thing. ‘Perhaps Martin could take a look at it for me.’ Martin was Joycy’s husband, and her father’s chauffeur and butler.
Joycy laughed. ‘If I remember correctly the last time he looked at it he told you it was ready for the scrap heap.’
‘But I have to have transport of some kind.’
‘Martin is the chauffeur.’
‘Transport of my own,’ Sophie said patiently. ‘While you take the tea things into the lounge I think I’ll try and sneak up to my room.’ She ran one of her dusty hands down her denims. ‘I’m not really presentable.’
‘You certainly aren’t! You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?’
‘Only dented my pride a little. Flying over the handlebars of a bike isn’t exactly the height of elegance.’
Joycy frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little pale.’
Sophie grinned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind one or two of your delicious scones to tide me over until dinner.’
‘There can’t be much wrong with you if you still have your appetite.’ Joycy picked up the tray in preparation to leaving. ‘You know where they are.’
Sophie took two of the still warm scones out of the tin, buttering them hurriedly before making her way to her room. She was going to look her very best tonight, show Luke Vittorio exactly what he would be turning down when he refused to paint her. She would show him that it wasn’t only women like Eve Jeffers and her stepmother who could look beautiful. She could look quite attractive herself if she really tried, and tonight she intended trying.
She washed her hair first, drying it before she took a long leisurely bath. She came out of the bathroom smelling deliciously of pine bath-oil, the delicate perfume absorbed into her skin. The next thing to do was curl and style her hair, the natural staightness of it soon taking on a more attractive wave, two wings of hair pulled back at her temples from the centre parting to be secured loosely by two gold slides. The simplicity of the style emphasised her high cheekbones, enlarging her wide violet eyes.
She wasn’t the sort of girl who usually bothered with all the feminine foibles, spending most of her life as a tomboy, but today she was making a special effort. She manicured and painted her nails a light peach colour before applying a light powdering of make-up, the lip gloss she wore exactly matching the nail varnish and the dress she had decided to wear. Her eyelashes were naturally long and dark, but she applied a light dusting of brown eye-shadow to add depth.
The peach dress was one her stepmother had taken her out and bought for her on one of her rare visits up to see her in town. Rosemary had indulged her for once, preening visibly as the saleswoman assumed them to be sisters.
The gown was Grecian in style, with a wide band of silver brocade surrounding her narrow waist. The light tan she had acquired during the last couple of months was shown to advantage against the peach chiffon, a thin delicate gold chain about her throat the only jewellery she wore.
What her stepmother and father would make of this transition she could only guess, but for all her natural poise and confidence it took great effort to go down to dinner that evening.
She smiled politely at several of the people she recognised who were gathered in the lounge, accepting the sherry Martin handed her with a broad wink in his direction. He frowned at her levity before turning away. Dear Martin, how she loved to tease him!
Luke Vittorio was already deeply engrossed in conversation with a group of people on the other side of the room, although perhaps that wasn’t quite the right description. There was a tolerant smile on his dark face, but Sophie felt sure he regarded the woman talking to him with amused contempt. It was there in his eyes, in his very stance, and Sophie felt sorry for the woman as she obviously tried to make an impression on him.
He looked even more attractive than he had this afternoon, the blue velvet jacket fitting tautly across his wide powerful shoulders, the white shirt flamboyantly frilled at the front although not effeminately so. He wore black trousers, his legs long and muscular beneath the fitted material.
‘So we meet again after all.’
She turned sharply at the sound of that huskily accented voice, the man she had been talking to drifting off as he knew himself overshadowed by the other man. As she had been standing with her back towards him she had no idea how Luke Vittorio had known it was her.
She gave him a cool nod. ‘Mr Vittorio.’
‘Please, call me Luke,’ he invited smoothly. ‘And I may call you—?’
‘You may call me—’
‘Ah, Luke,’ her stepmother came over to them, extraordinarily beautiful in the flowing red figure-hugging gown. ‘I see you’ve met my little Sophie.’
Sophie cringed, feeling about five years old. But then her stepmother would probably have preferred it if she were, much less ageing to herself. She looked up into the narrowed brown eyes of Luke Vittorio with defiance. ‘Mr Vittorio and I haven’t yet introduced ourselves, Mummy,’ and she gave him a challenging smile.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE had felt sure he was taken aback by her identity, but there was no evidence of it now in his chillingly handsome face. ‘This is your daughter, Rosemary?’ he queried softly.
Her stepmother gave a brittle laugh. ‘This is my stepdaughter, yes.’
Those deep brown eyes were levelled on Sophie again. ‘I did not realise.’
‘Do introduce yourself properly, Sophie,’ Rosemary gave her an angry glare. ‘I have to go and save your father from Monty again. He will insist on talking for hours about hor
se-racing,’ she explained to Luke, ’and Simon has no interest in it at all.’
‘You did not think it necessary to introduce yourself this afternoon?’ Luke Vittorio asked abruptly once her stepmother had left them in a haze of her cloying perfume.
Sophie placed her empty sherry glass down on the side-table with relaxed calm. ‘Should I have done?’
‘I would have thought it polite, considering you know my reason for being here.’
She arched her eyebrows. ‘Do I?’
‘I would have thought so,’ he said coolly.
Her mouth twisted as she remembered the way her stepmother had said this man was going to ’look her over’. ‘I’m not exactly what you expected, am I?’ she challenged.
His head was held at a haughty angle, his eyes narrowed. ‘And what did I expect?’
‘I believe Miss Jeffers described it as a—brat?’
‘I am not Miss Jeffers.’ His voice was distinctly cool now.
Sophie gave a light laugh. ‘I’m aware of that. But I believe you expected someone a little—younger?’
He nodded distantly, the black sheen of his hair catching the overhead light. ‘Perhaps.’
There was no perhaps about it. She had known as soon as Eve Jeffers had called her a brat that they were expecting a much younger girl, possibly someone of ten or eleven. ‘And what do you think now?’
He shrugged his broad shoulders, muscle rippling beneath his velvet jacket. ‘Your age is irrelevant as to whether I paint you or not. As a matter of interest, how old are you?’
‘I’m not sure my stepmother would want me to tell you that. She’s just old enough to be my real mother.’
He gave a mocking smile. ‘I am sure you are right when you say Rosemary would not like me to know that—she has a way of looking constantly young.’ His admiring eyes followed her stepmother as she flitted about the room talking to her guests.
‘And a stepdaughter of nineteen isn’t very flattering,’ Sophie said abruptly, not liking the way he was looking at Rosemary. It brought back the feeling of uneasiness she had felt at Eve Jeffers’ disparaging remarks about Rosemary this afternoon.
Flame of Desire Page 2
