Kitabı oku: «Interview With A Playboy», sayfa 2

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.’