Sophie's Seduction

‘And I make you nervous?’

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

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

‘You only value things that are beautiful.’

He blinked at the accusation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So you decided not to compete.’

Her mouth was already open to refute the ludicrous claim, but a look of doubt spread slowly across Sophie’s face. She closed her mouth with a snap. It wasn’t true…was it? The man was a total stranger; how could he have a clue as to what made her tick?

‘It’s not about competition, it’s about recognising I’m not…’ An image of her sisters flashed before her eyes, each beautiful and talented in their own unique and very photogenic way, and she thought again, Is he right?

With a tiny shake of her head she dismissed the idea and stuck out her chin.

‘I’m not like them.’ If she was, he wouldn’t be ignoring her…only he wasn’t; there was an interest of the clinical variety in the green eyes that rested on her flushed face.

‘Why are you sure I know you have sisters?’

‘Because I’m a Balfour.’ His blank expression was not one that Sophie had ever encountered previously after revealing her identity. Thrown by the response, her next words held a note of disbelief. ‘My father is Oscar Balfour.’

Sophie gave a self-deprecating shrug that turned out to be unneeded. Marco Speranza’s brows lifted in recognition of the name, though he still did not look impressed.

‘I have never met the man, though obviously I know his reputation. I’m sure I would be more au fait with your sisters if I read the sort of scandal sheets that chart their exploits.’

‘Well, you appear in them often enough!’ Sophie retorted, stung by his superior attitude. Before their break up, he and his gorgeous wife must have been one of the most photographed couples on the planet. ‘And my sisters do not ask to be photographed.’ Though admittedly they did not go out of their way to avoid it either.

‘Why are we discussing your sisters?’

Sophie looked at him, nonplussed by the question. Over the years she had become philosophical about men seeking her out for this specific reason and here was one who sounded bored by the subject. If he had been displaying any more interest in her it would have been her dream scenario.

But he wasn’t.

In fact, playing the Balfour card had not given her any advantage with this man.

‘I’m sure your sisters are fascinating, but right now—’ he glanced significantly at the watch on his wrist and turned back to his laptop ‘—I have several items that require my attention.’

Sophie stemmed the flow of anger with a firm shake of her head, the action causing a glossy hank of hair she had just secured behind her ear to fall into her eyes, and with an impatient grimace she pushed it back with her forearm from her flushed cheek before anchoring it once again behind her ear. She gritted her teeth. ‘God, I think I might just cut it all off.’

‘Your hair?’

‘You’re not interested in my hair and you’re not interested on what’s inside—yes, I get that,’ she told him, thinking that the last thing she wanted was Marco Speranza with his disturbing eyes being privy to her insecurities.

‘You really don’t need to labour the point, and as for what you should judge me on, how about—and I know this might be a novel idea—ability?’ The sarcasm faded from her voice as she added, ‘Unless you get some kind of kick out of making people feel inadequate and stupid!’

The emotional throb in her voice dragged Marco’s attention from her thick hair that on closer scrutiny proved not to be one colour but interwoven strands of several colours that ran the spectrum from soft butter gold to pale coffee.

His fingers flexed on the polished surface of his desk as he suddenly imagined spearing his fingers into the lush mass. ‘You wouldn’t suit short hair.’

Startled by the husky observation she lifted a hand to her head.

His green eyes returned to the wild waves. ‘A trim possibly,’ he conceded.

Sophie shook her head. Why were they talking about her hair? ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

She watched a flicker of some emotion, impossible to decipher, ripple across the reflective surface of his remarkable green eyes before he shrugged.

‘I’m making a constructive comment. Is the colour real?’

Baffled by his question and suspecting some sort of hidden insult, Sophie said defiantly, ‘Yes. This is all me.’ She flashed him a cold look that tipped into confusion as their glances connected. ‘Take me or leave me,’ she finished breathlessly.

Chapter Five

SHE saw the startled look spread across his face and realised she had just given him the opening for a massive put-down.

Her heart raced with a confusing cocktail of emotions—trepidation, proving she had not totally lost it; exhilaration, proving it was a close-run thing. If he laughs I will die of sheer mortification, she thought, but he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t actually do anything.

‘Not literally,’ she hastened to assure him. ‘I wasn’t…’ She cleared her throat and added awkwardly, ‘Propositioning you.’

Observing the faint twitching of his sensually sculpted mobile lips, Sophie was discovering that for some inexplicable reason his mouth exerted an almost magnetic pull. He’s thinking what a great story to produce at a dull moment during a dinner party, she thought. This dumpy, dowdy Balfour chick asked me to take her. Well, maybe not chick; she couldn’t really see Marco Speranza saying chick in that deep sexy Italian accent of his.

Of course, if she’d been sleek and glossy and had long legs and wore a short skirt he wouldn’t have been laughing. If she had been any other Balfour girl he wouldn’t have been laughing.

Not that he actually was laughing, she realised, studying his face and wondering if wanting to know what it felt like to be lusted after just once in her life made her very shallow or just human.

When he finally responded there was no hint of the amusement she had anticipated in his dry comeback. ‘I think I’m disappointed.’

She knew he was being sarcastic but it didn’t show on his face. His expression was about as easy to read as a granite wall but much, much better to look at.

Sophie realised she was staring at his sensual mouth again and, after a struggle, managed to redirect her gaze to the open neck of his shirt where the skin of his throat was smooth and bronzed a tasty…no, toasty gold.