by Kim Lawrence
His little ingénue was flirting and enjoying it.
Marco experienced a moment of chilling déjà vu. He had already married one woman who had appeared all sweetness and innocence and then watched her turn into a money-hungry tramp with all the morals of a call girl.
Was his judgement fatally flawed?
As Marco took a step forward, struggling with a level of rage he had never before experienced, Sophie, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes sparkling, was whisked past him in the arms of an admiring middle-aged man, whose wife called a warning out to Sophie to mind her feet.
Marco, a low growl still vibrating in his throat, stopped dead. He had been comparing Sophie to Allegra. What sort of insanity was that?
He experienced a wave of utter revulsion as he dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. How could he have thought even for one insanely jealous moment that there was a parallel between the two women?
If he let the Allegra experience poison his mind and ruin his chances of ever having a relationship that wasn’t based on mutual suspicion she really would have won.
Allegra would have done anything, said anything, to be what she imagined he wanted—to get his ring on her finger. Sophie did not say what he wanted to hear or what would make her look good in his eyes; she said what was in her heart and that, he knew, was a preciously rare quality.
Allegra had used her sexuality and her body as weapons; she had been crude and coarse and vicious. Sophie was not using her sexuality to taunt him or any other man—she was discovering it and enjoying it!
And why shouldn’t she?
Sophie had spent her life being overlooked by her family, had been the butt of endless family jokes, he thought, his anger against the self-obsessed Balfours momentarily submerging his self-disgust.
However, knowing that Sophie deserved the attention she was receiving did not make it easier to watch her charm the men who were drawn like moths to the flame of her warmth and glowing beauty.
It was murder, and a constant struggle, fighting the compulsion to go into full chest-beating mode and drag her away.
He resisted because he trusted Sophie, but he did not trust himself to go near her without making a total fool of himself.
Having had very little experience of being the centre of attention, it took Sophie half an hour to catch on to the fact that she was.
She wouldn’t have been human if, after a lifetime of being the plain Jane in a brood of beauties, she hadn’t enjoyed the novelty of the experience. But beneath the smiles and superficial gaiety she remained miserable, because the one man she wanted to tell her she was beautiful and irresistible didn’t seem to want to come near her.
Having personally waved goodbye to the last VIP helicopter Sophie let her perfect hostess’s smile slip and, nodding to the patrolling security guards, made her way back to the palazzo. Her path was lit by the lanterns that she had rescued weeks earlier from one of the rubbish skips.
Restored and filled with flickering flames they created exactly the ambience she had hoped for, but Sophie’s thoughts were a long way from considering the pretty picture they made.
The night had been a dazzling success; she had been propositioned four times and two had come from men who were not drunk or married. And—Sophie expelled a shaky breath and felt the anger lick through her—she had also received a marriage proposal!
She had been aware of Marco watching her tonight, his brooding presence had dominated the event and her thoughts—so no change there, she thought miserably.
He had not been looking exactly happy and after that first dance and his crazy suggestion he had not come near her, though she’d caught the tail end of some of his sneery glares.
Maybe he was regretting his proposal? If you could call it that, she thought, her fists balling as she recalled his casual offhand suggestion and the contract that lay unread. On the other hand he might just be piqued because she hadn’t immediately fallen over herself to accept his offer…?
And she could understand his surprise, looking at it from his point of view. She had not exactly tried to play hard to get; she had been a total pushover, the perfect low-maintenance wife, it seemed.
She picked up her skirts and walked past the coach that was waiting for the stragglers from the orchestra, pausing to speak to the coach driver before she approached the curved sweep of stone steps that led up to the impressive entrance.
She glanced upwards; the massive double doors were flung open and the light spilled outwards, illuminating the banks of flowers that tumbled over the stone-flagged terrace onto the steps.
For a moment she felt a twinge of professional pride that almost immediately tipped over into sadness.
The problem was that this had got very personal.
This was Marco’s home and she had wanted to make it a place he loved, a place where he could bring up his family. She had succeeded, and in a way that success had made her the author of her own misery.
This was Marco’s retreat from the eyes of the world; it had hurt to think about him sharing it with someone, and now she had a chance to be that someone.
She had been tempted, but only for a moment.
She paused as a small laugh was drawn from her throat and she suddenly realised how much she had changed. Not so long ago she would have taken what he had offered, because she was plain, plump Sophie, who couldn’t expect any more. She was Sophie, who didn’t deserve the love of a man like Marco Speranza.
But now she knew that she deserved more.
She deserved a husband who loved her.
As she put her foot on the first step, three figures appeared through the double doors and paused on the veranda.
‘Great—just what I need.’ She took the next steps slowly.
‘Here she is now.’ Carlotta Speranza, the chandeliers of diamonds on her ears swinging, moved gracefully forward before Sophie had reached the top and bent forward to kiss the air either side of her cheeks. No physical contact was involved, but Sophie had already noted that physical contact was not her thing. ‘Such a clever girl—you’re very lucky, Marco,’ she remarked, turning back to her son.
Before Sophie could reply the Speranza car pulled up on the gravel in the floodlit forecourt. The uniformed driver got out to open the passenger doors.
Sophie picked up her skirts and used the distraction it afforded to negotiate that final step and slip past them into the palazzo.
She stood for a moment framed in the doorway, the light reflecting the gold highlights in her shining hair. ‘Goodnight. Excuse me, I’m a little cold.’ She nodded towards the older couple and added, ‘It was very nice to meet you both.’ Then without waiting for a response she went inside.
Her heels clicked in the silence of the doorway; the last two musicians walked past and made their goodnights.
Then she was alone.
Sophie walked into the now-empty ballroom; the contrast with earlier was dramatic. The tables were cleared, the white linen cloths removed; the flowers destined for a local hospital had been taken away and the army of caterers had all retreated to the kitchen.
She sat down at an empty table, kicked off her shoes, stretched her toes and sniffed a flower arrangement that had presumably been deemed too wilted to make the move.
She felt pretty wilted herself, wilted and defeated. Elbows on the table she propped her chin in her hands.
You could see why he thought it was a done deal. All she’d done so far was fall in with his plans. Work for me, plan my party for me, sleep with me, fall in love with me…well, not the last. Marco had certainly not asked her to do that and, had he known, she had no doubt he would be appalled.
Marco, it seemed, was a one-woman man and he had given his heart to the gorgeous and, as far as Sophie was concerned, poisonous Allegra, and she had stamped all over it with her size sixes. Yet still when she clicked her fingers he came running.
Men were stupid, she reflected bitterly, and they wouldn’t know a good woman if they fell over
one—cancel that—they would run in the opposite direction if they recognised one, or marry her and look for their excitement elsewhere.
That was clearly Marco’s grand plan.
Dropping her head onto the table she let out a long sibilant sigh and crossed one ankle over the other. ‘Ouch!’ Rubbing her shin she looked under the table to see what she’d hit herself on.
When she identified the culprit, a contemplative smile played around her lips.
‘Why not?’ she said, dragging out the champagne bucket that had been missed. She set it on the table and extracted the bottle from the water dotted with pieces of half-melted ice.
After a slight tussle she managed to pop the cork, sending froth all over the dress. Pressing a hand to the fizzing top she looked around for a glass, but there was none to be seen.
‘Oh, well!’ she said, lifting the bottle to her lips, and with a reckless, ‘Cheers!’ took a daring swallow.
Shaking her head as the bubbles slid down her throat she grimaced as she set the bottle back on the table. Safe, shy, hide-in-the-kitchen Sophie would never have done that, but this was the new improved version capable of being irresponsible.
‘Excellent, exactly what you need, Sophie.’ She took another swallow and shuddered. The new improved version didn’t like the taste either, but on principle—she was hazy on what principle—she swallowed. ‘Cheers to me, perfect hostess, party animal, low-maintenance wife material.’
She bit her lip on the quivering addition and the defiance died from her face.
‘Tell me,’ she began, directing the question around the empty ballroom.
‘Tell you what?’
Sophie gasped and spun around in her seat, her knee catching the chair beside her own and sending it tumbling over.
That you love me, she thought.
Marco unpeeled himself from the wall he was leaning on and stood there, looking the epitome of what all women secretly wanted and what all men wanted to be—dark, brooding and utterly gorgeous.
And he wants to marry me! She stared at him, committing his image to memory, each proud line of his face. The knowledge that she had to walk away and never see him again lay like a lead weight in her heart.
What if I can’t do it?
Sophie felt a moment of pure fear, but pushed it away and glared at him.
‘Do you have to creep up like that?’ she snapped, thinking maybe they could have sex one last time… That sort of thinking, Sophie, is the direction that leads to total lack of self-respect.
Marco raised a brow. ‘You were too busy talking to yourself to hear me,’ he observed, bending down to lift the overturned chair. Setting it upright he straddled it, his hands resting on the back.
‘So your mother is gone?’ she said brightly.
Marco’s lips tightened. ‘Finally.’ For once she had been inclined to linger.
‘A Balfour,’ her escort had said as he got into the car. ‘I couldn’t be more delighted for you.’
His mother bestowed her gracious commendation. ‘You have my total approval, Marco.’
The irony was not wasted on Marco, who had spent his childhood trying to gain parental approval, or at least parental attention, but had now neither wanted or needed either for many years.
‘Approval for what?’
‘A Balfour,’ the boyfriend had said again to himself. ‘Well, well, I might just drop Oscar a line. From his point of view this is very good timing. A wedding is always good press…the feel-good factor. Yes, a Balfour could be a very useful connection for you…’
Marco’s hands clenched at his sides. He could contain himself no longer. It was that damned name, the same name that Sophie had been trying to live up to all her life. She’d spent all those years thinking she wasn’t good enough to be a Balfour when the truth was she was too damned good!
In his opinion the Balfours needed to be given a few home truths and he would have no problem delivering them.
‘Will you stop saying that!’ Marco had shouted at his mother and her friend.
His mother’s smile had faded, and she had cast a bewildered look towards her escort. ‘Stop saying what, Marco?’ Displays of emotion from her self-contained son were not something she was accustomed to.
‘Balfour! You will not judge her on her name. No, actually,’ he said, reconsidering his comment. ‘You will not judge her at all. Her name is irrelevant—she is Sophie. I don’t give a damn who her father is.’ He drew a breath and added quietly, ‘She is herself, which is better than I deserve.’
Having delivered this parting shot and aware that his mother was staring at him open mouthed, he had bid them both an abrupt and cold goodnight and walked away, wondering at the impulse that had made him speak out but glad he had.
Sophie was so stressed, waiting for him to speak, that she almost reached for the bottle again; the tension was unbearable—was he going to bring up the proposal or was he already having second thoughts? His enigmatic green eyes continued to move over her face; the silence stretched, the atmosphere thickened some more.
Sophie held his gaze, her sense of desperation growing with each nerve-racking second, until she could bear the silence no longer. Her lashes swept downwards and she expelled the breath trapped in her chest in a series of fractured sighs.
‘So your mother enjoyed herself?’ She winced, hearing the manic brightness in her tone. It was hard to tell if Marco had noticed; he looked… Abstracted was the closest she could come to describe the way he was behaving.
He shrugged with fluid grace and dragged a hand along the dark shadow on his jaw.
The action brought Sophie’s eyes to the stubble. Her thoughts drifted back to…God, it was only this morning! It seemed like several lifetimes ago that she had woken in his arms determined to enjoy every second of the time they spent together, with no marriage proposals to present her with a major moral dilemma.
Only that morning he had questioned with concern the faint red marks on her breasts, suggesting, quite ludicrously, that she consult a doctor.
Then she had said, ‘What a good idea, because I’ve nothing much to do today other than co-ordinate the caterers, arrange to increase the security at the south gate, organise the musicians transport because the coach company—’
Oblivious, it seemed, to her sarcasm he had cut across her increasingly overwrought list.
‘You can delegate.’
Sophie had dropped the hand she had used to tick off the list of her tasks and stared at him, then realised where his eyes were focused and grabbed a sheet to cover her naked breasts. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that? I know you think you’re the only one who’s indispensable, but actually today I’m—’
‘Calm down.’
The languid advice had made her grate her teeth.
‘We can cancel, if necessary.’
‘You think that’s funny, I suppose?’
‘I will arrange a medical consult this morning.’
That was the point where she had realised he wasn’t joking and that he had suffered a sense of humour by-pass. Clearly, though he hid it well, he was feeling the pressure of the forthcoming party too, so she had explained in an embarrassed rush that he needn’t worry…she didn’t have anything contagious. His important guests wouldn’t be contracting some rare disease.
What she had was not catching, although an epidemic of love might be interesting to observe.
‘It’s just your…’ One hand remained clutched to the sheet pressed to her breasts as she had pointed at his face. ‘Last night you hadn’t shaved.’
He still hadn’t, and the heavy dusting of stubble gave him a distinctly piratical air that she did not find unattractive. ‘My skin is a bit sensitive.’ He had been instantly contrite and promised to always shave in future.
It was then that Sophie had rather self-consciously explained that she liked the feel of his beard on her skin and it wasn’t really painful, just…
Marco, his green eyes gleaming with wicked laughter, had
let her struggle for words a while longer before he had helped her out.
‘Arousing?’
The low throaty suggestion had been made in an indecently sexy voice and she had forgiven the laughter shining in his eyes because there had been other, warmer things mingled with it.
And when he had pulled the sheet from her grasp and asked how much she liked the feel…things from there had taken a predictable course.
She had been running late and playing catch up all day because the extra hour he had suggested in bed had turned into two.
Struggling to focus on the here and now Sophie pushed away the graphic erotic images that crowded into her head and said, ‘And now your mother’s off to America.’
‘Is she?’ Marco said, sounding uninterested.
‘The stage tour.’ She had talked about little else all night. ‘Don’t you care?’ She couldn’t help but feel sad about the relationship he had with his parents.
Her family might be dysfunctional and school had been a nightmare but she had always been surrounded by love, and her heart ached for the lonely little boy Marco had been. If she ever had children she would make sure they knew they were loved and wanted and not farm them out to other people or send them to school when they were virtually babies.
‘No, I don’t care. Although I feel I should mention that she and her banker friend think us getting married is an excellent move. You have no idea what a weight that is off my mind.’
‘You had absolutely no right to tell them we were getting married.’
‘I didn’t.’
Sophie ran a tongue across her dry lips and directed a suspicious glare at him. ‘Then why did they act as if we…?’ She stopped and directed a cranky look at him. ‘Will you stop smouldering at me, it’s…it’s…’
‘Smouldering?’ he echoed, amusement briefly lightening the intensity of his stare.
‘Yes, smoulder…you smoulder…’
‘And you don’t like it?’
Her eyes fell from the glitter in his but not before the trembling in her limbs had reached her core… Because I do like it, she thought, pressing a hand flat to her stomach. The pressure did nothing to ease the liquid heat deep inside.
