The Balfour Legacy

And there were other memories here.

This was where he had spent his childhood.

He had roamed the estate and enjoyed a degree of freedom that he might not have had his parents been more hands-on.

But his actress mother was often away on location. His father, a distant figure, had been around more frequently, but having left a promising law career to enter politics, where his integrity made him as many enemies as allies, his family came a very poor second to being a public crusading figure.

Perhaps one more enemy, Marco thought, his eyes growing bleak as he recalled the grim day in the nineties when he had learnt from a news broadcast that there had been an assassination.

One bullet—his father had died instantly and the title had come to Marco.

‘Marchese.’

Marco was startled from his dark reflections by the form of address he did not use in his professional life.

‘Alberto!’ A smile of genuine pleasure tugged his mobile mouth into an upward curve that softened the austerity of his classically cut features as he moved forward, his hand outstretched in welcome.

The other man jumped out of the open-topped vehiclewith an agility that many men twenty years his junior would have envied and came to shake his hand.

‘You are looking well, Alberto,’ Marco approved truthfully.

‘As are you.’

He clapped the younger man on the shoulder and felt the hard muscles under his fingers.

The younger man’s expensive suit did not hide a soft belly; it hid a body that was hard and tough from riding and from indulging in the sort of extreme sports that Alberto did not totally approve of.

He was relieved to see that the city life of high finance—a man should not spend his days indoors—had not softened Marco Speranza, but sorry that there was a hardness and cynicism in his green eyes that had not been there in his youth.

But then a man who had been through what he had was allowed a little cynicism.

’You are keeping an eye on the new man?’

The estate manager Marco had taken on had been in the post for three years now but to Alberto, whose family had served Marco’s for generations, the younger man would always be new.

‘He is a hard worker.’

Marco grinned. ‘Praise indeed coming from you, Alberto, and how is Natalia?’ Marco’s voice softened as he said the name.

In her official capacity as cook Alberto’s wife had ruled the kitchen when Marco had been growing up; in her unofficial capacity she had been the person who had comforted him on the occasions when a mother would normally have offered hugs.

Even when his own mother had been around, she did not do hugs except when there was a camera to record the moment of maternal devotion.

‘She is well, Marchese.’ Alberto angled a questioning look up at the tall man. ‘And she would like to see you…?’

Marco heard the question and felt a fresh stab of guilt. He had neglected many things, including old friends, when he had cut himself off in the scandalous aftermath of the divorce.

‘And she will,’ he promised. ‘But not today, I’m afraid.’ He flicked his cuff and glanced at his watch, mentally calculating how long the journey back to Palermo would take him. ‘I have a meeting in Naples.’

‘You have been missed.’

Aware of the reproach in the other man’s voice Marco nodded; he felt he deserved it. For a while the palazzo had been a battleground, and involved in the bitter war of attrition he had forgotten it was also his home.

Marco admitted this with a humility that would have made his business competitors stare. ‘I was wrong to stay away. I have missed being here, so I’m here today to see what needs doing.’

‘You are coming home?’

What sort of home? Marco struggled to maintain his positive expression as his eyes lifted to the Renaissance facade. Fortunately no major structural work needed to be done, he told himself, concentrating on the fabric of the building, not on the dark emotions he experienced when he looked at his ancestral home.

Would he ever be able to wipe away the shadows left by his failed marriage? Would he ever be able to look at this building and think of it as a home in the true sense of the word? It would take more than a fresh coat of paint, though being a pragmatic man he thought that would be a start.

‘Yes, but first I want to make it…habitable.’

Alberto nodded in total understanding. Too much understanding, for Marco’s liking; pity, even from an old friend, was not something he enjoyed.

‘I just need to find someone who understands what this building deserves.’

Someone who felt as he did about preserving its integrity; someone capable of feeling passionate about their work…to compensate for his own lack of it…He tore his eyes away from the facade and said, ‘And of course a new housekeeper—do you think Natalia would consider it?’

During one of his absences Allegra had ousted Natalia from her kitchen and replaced her with a French chef. On his return Marco had sacked the chef and tried to persuade Natalia to return, but she had steadfastly refused to enter the palazzo while Allegra was mistress there.

Allegra had retaliated for his actions by getting drunk in public and being photographed half naked in the back of a cab with a boy who worked in the nightclub she had just fallen out of at four in the morning.

So it had been a win–win situation.

Alberto beamed, and said, ‘I think it might be possible…’

Marco pulled the key from his pocket, inhaled and approached the door.

His instructions had been that the place was not to be touched and they had been followed to the letter; barring the dust, it was all just as it had been.

A walk through the building did not lift his mood. In his youth this had been a showplace; now the whole building had a pervading air of gloom and neglect that the grandeur of the architecture and furnishing could not hide.

Had it always been this dark and depressing? he wondered as he pulled aside a dusty drape to let in some light. The light revealed damp patches on the high, carved ceiling and this fresh physical evidence of his neglect deepened the frown on his wide brow.

He cursed softly under his breath, and as he strode purposefully out into the sunlight and the waiting Alberto, Marco determined to bring light and life back into his home.

‘All I need is to find someone I trust, who appreciates what this building deserves.’

It had not seemed a major problem to find such a person when he’d said it, but a week later, and after six pitches by possible candidates that had left him totally unmoved, Marco was realising he might have to cast his net wider.

Recalling a comment by someone who had spent last summer in London concerning a firm they had used to refurbish their penthouse flat—they had been very complimentary—he picked up his phone to speak to his PA.

He gave her the limited information he had, not doubting for a moment that she would be able to provide him with all the information he required; she was absolutely perfect, if you discounted the fact she was about to take maternity leave.

Chapter Three

SOPHIE had not left work until 8:00 p.m. Taking advantage of the growing realisation that Sophie’s work ethic was a little overdeveloped, people were dumping on her…And what are you going to do about that? asked the voice in her head.

It was a good question but one she had so far avoided; it wasn’t as if her evening had contained any contemplative moments for reflection. She had arrived home to find a large hole in the street outside her flat, and after she’d pretended not to hear the comments about her bottom made by the men inside the hole, she discovered no water or electricity inside her flat.

The electricity had finally come on at eleven; the water still hadn’t. She stopped waiting at twelve, cleaned her teeth with bottled water, finally crawled into her bed and with a sigh of relief turned out the light—not just because every bone in her body ached with exhaustion, but because the bedroom looked better with the light out.

‘Basic, but I have everything I need,’ she had told her mother on the phone, ‘and I’m very near work.’

The work part was playing out a lot better than she had anticipated.

Conversations no longer stopped when she walked into room. Now that had not been nice, but even when she was viewed with extreme suspicion Sophie had kept her head down, concentrated on doing her best no matter how menial the task and smiled at everyone.

The hostility had faded once her co-workers had recognised she was not afraid of hard work—or, possibly, once they had recognised that there was someone who would willingly perform all the tasks nobody else wanted to do while smiling.

Sophie in her turn had discovered something too—she had a real talent for organisation; not quite the artistic spreading of wings her father had intended, but it was a start. She still felt homesick almost all the time but she didn’t allow herself to think about going home.

She dreamt, though—she dreamt of her mum in the kitchen with flour in her nose, the smell of baking in the air…She was having that dream when the shrill sound of the phone cut through the cosy picture of domesticity.

Sophie surfaced and flicked on the lamp before reaching for the phone and snarling crankily, ‘Yes…?’ into the receiver.

‘Sophie, thank God you’re there!’

Sophie, who couldn’t imagine where else she’d be at this time of night, which on reflection made her one of the most tragic twenty-three-year-olds on the planet, pushed her tangled hair from her eyes and frowned.

‘Amber…? Why are you calling me at…’ She glanced at the clock, saw the time and sat up straight, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Everything,’ came the tragic response. ‘But we can do this.’

Sophie who was suspicious of the use of the word we asked, ‘What’s happened?’

‘Just listen, don’t talk. You have to be on the flight to Palermo at five-thirty.’

Pretty sure she was the victim of some elaborate hoax—either that or Amber had been drinking—Sophie leaned back, yawned and said, ‘Of course I do.’

Palermo was the clue; she had made the flight arrangements for Amber herself, and the office had been buzzing for days with the news that they had been contacted by Marco Speranza—the Marco Speranza, people kept saying to Sophie, as though she thought she might be likely to mistake him for another Sicilian billionaire.

Obviously, they had not been personally contacted, but the fact that the invitation to tender for a contract to refurbish his ancestral home had been issued by Marco’s own office had been enough to send the entire office into party mode.

Sophie privately called it mass hysteria, and also a little premature. ‘How many others are tendering?’ Her tentative enquiry had been ignored.

‘Something this prestigious could make us,’ Amber had said as she’d gathered her team together to plan a strategy and draw up plans for a refurb that would knock the utterly gorgeous man’s socks off.

Sophie, who was listening, would have loved to dispute the reverential gorgeous and the utterly but she had seen the photo someone had pinned on the notice board and there was no doubt at all that Marco Speranza was almost too good-looking to be real, unless he had been airbrushed to perfection.

The possibility made her feel unaccountably more cheerful.

Having worked her team into a state of hysterical enthusiasm Amber then smiled and promised, ‘We are going to bury the opposition.’

Sophie’s role in the team involved making tea but she had listened and frankly she had doubts, but aware that her place in the scheme of things did not involve giving an opinion she kept her mouth shut.

Sophie slid back under the covers as a sigh of relief echoed down the line. ‘You know, Sophie, when I first saw you I thought…’ Clearly thinking better of being that frank, Amber allowed herself a generous, ‘You’re an asset.’

‘Thank you.’ Now go away; I want to go to sleep.

‘And I really admire your ability to multitask—maybe you could pack while we talk…?’

‘Look, Amber, I’m going back to sleep now. I’ll laugh at the joke tomorrow, and good luck with the Speranza contract.’

‘No, Sophie, this isn’t a joke. I can’t go. This afternoon I—’

‘You had a dentist’s appointment. I know—it’s in the diary.’

‘No, I had some facial injections and a little liposuction on my thighs…at least, that was the idea, but it went wrong. I had a bad reaction to the anaesthetic and they won’t let me go home—they took away my clothes!’ she wailed.

Sophie’s eyes widened at the confession. ‘Relax, Amber, I’ll contact Vincent.’ Amber’s right hand was up to speed and, if you overlooked his penchant for pink shirts, charming.

‘Do you think I haven’t already tried?’ came the shrill response. ‘He’s gone to York! His partner’s mum has had a heart attack and he’s being supportive.’

Sophie, who had been introduced to Vincent’s partner, said, ‘Oh, how terrible. Colin must be—’

‘Forget about Colin,’ Amber yelled, ‘and get packed.’

‘But Sukie or Emma…’ Sophie could hear the doubt in her own voice. The two women she had heard that first day discussing her both looked the part but neither had had an original thought in their lives.

‘Emma is hopeless.’

You noticed! Sophie thought, surprised.

‘And Sukie got dumped by her boyfriend and downed a bottle of Chardonnay to drown her sorrows. She is hanging over the toilet as we speak,’ Amber observed bitterly.

Sophie grimaced and thought, Thanks for the image.

‘And if you say “poor Sukie” I’ll…My world is falling apart—my entire future depends on a girl who wears sensible shoes. No offence…’ She sniffed between sobs.

The fact that Amber could weep made more of an impact on Sophie than either the insult or the apology.

‘You’re serious.’ The realisation sent a rush of fear through her body. ‘You want me to fly to Sicily and sell this to Marco Speranza’s office?’ This was what fairy tales were made of…or was that nightmares? Maybe she was still asleep and any minute she would wake up and laugh.

‘Not his office—him.’

No, she was definitely awake; even her subconscious was not that inventive!

‘I have a meeting with him personally which is why someone representing this firm has to be there. There is no option—we need this commission, Sophie. The credit crunch has been hard on everyone and I’ve had to write off a couple of big debts after the clients went under…’

About to cut her off and say there was just no way she could do this, something in the other woman’s voice made Sophie pause…Oh, my God, she thought, as she realised what anyone who wasn’t a spoilt, indulged rich kid who’d never had to think about money already would have.

This wasn’t just about kudos. Amber was worried about her business’s survival. Sophie was ashamed that she had been so wrapped up in her own concerns, so self-centred, that it hadn’t even crossed her mind to wonder if maybe she wasn’t the only one who had problems.

‘You can’t ask to reschedule a personal meeting with Marco Speranza.’

Sophie, thinking of her father, admitted, ‘No, I can see that.’ No man got to be that rich and powerful without taking a certain amount of deference for granted.

‘If he thinks we’ve insulted him he could ruin my business. I’ve heard he can be utterly ruthless.’ The sound of a sternly muffled sob echoed down the line.

Sophie heard the sob and folded. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’

Half an hour later she arrived at the office and collected the relevant papers and drawings from where Amber had said they’d be. She tucked them into her overnight bag, planning to read them on the flight.

‘The idea will sell itself,’ Amber had said.

God, I hope so, Sophie thought, because if they’re relying on me we’re stuffed!

‘Isabella, many women come back to work the week after they’ve given birth or when they’ve had a Caesarean.’

His PA forgot her stately calm enough to laugh. ‘Well, I’m not superwoman. I need six months and then I think we might discuss flexible hours.’

Marco put down the phone—the woman had him wound round her finger and she knew it, damn her!

Scowling to himself he left his car and walked into the lift. His temporary PA was scared of him, which might not have been a bad thing if this fear made her efficient, but it didn’t. She gibbered and looked at him as though he was going to eat her and spoke so quietly he couldn’t hear her.

And to make the situation worse he suspected his protégé was falling in love with her.

Love! Marco could not even think the word without a contemptuous sneer forming on his broad brow. Love did not mix well with the smooth running of his office. When he had spent the time and effort to groom Francesco he had taken an ability to keep his personal life separate from the demands of work as a given.

He did not seek to impose his views on his employees—what they did in their free time, including falling in love, did not concern him—but when love affairs crossed the line into the work place it became his concern.

When Marco walked into the office, Francesco broke off his conversation with the young woman whose fingers were flying across the keyboard.

Marco glanced their way but did not speak as he stalked towards the wall lined with files, impatience etched not just in every line of his startlingly good-looking face but in every tense muscle and sinew of his lean, athletic body.

He angled a sardonic brow. ‘Did you want to see me, Francesco?’ he asked, locating the file he was seeking and withdrawing it.

‘No.’

Marco maintained a speaking silence, but though the younger man looked uncomfortable he did not look away. Marco gave a reluctant smile; his protégé was a fool but he was a fool who stood his ground, which was good. There was no place at a senior level for a man he could intimidate.

His smile faded when he turned his attention to the blushing young woman; incompetence always irritated him. ‘I do not wish to be disturbed for the next two hours.’

‘Oh, dear!’

Marco took his hand off the door handle of his office, stopped and swung back. ‘Oh, dear?’ He angled a questioning brow and waited.

Francesco cleared his throat. ‘Slight problem there. Your two-thirty has been here since, well…’ He glanced at his wristwatch which now read six-thirty. ‘Well, two-thirty.’

Marco’s brows drew into a disapproving straight line above the hawkish nose that bisected his chiselled features.

‘I asked for you to reschedule.’

Again it was Francesco who spoke up. ‘We tried, but we couldn’t contact her in time. Miss Balfour had apparently lost her phone.’

Marco’s expression accurately reflected his opinion of people who lost phones. ‘My appointment was not with anyone called Balfour.’

‘Well, that’s who came.’

‘And you put her in my office?’ Marco’s incredulous interrogative glare was directed towards his temporary secretary. ‘You let a total stranger into my office?’

‘That was my idea, Marco, when she wouldn’t go away.’

‘Wouldn’t go away?’ Marco echoed, his glance drifting towards the protective hand that Francesco had placed on the shoulder of his temporary secretary.

The expression in the girl’s eyes seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. Great, he thought, just what I need—an office romance. Which means I either turn a blind eye or come the heavy and be about as popular as the plague.

Fortunately he did not need people to love him.

‘When you say…wouldn’t go away…’

The sardonic inflection in his boss’s voice brought a flush to the younger man’s face but he defended his decision and nodded.

‘And frankly, I didn’t have the heart to throw her out. The kid looked ready to cry when Analise—’ he flashed a warm look at the seated woman and she blushed prettily ‘—suggested she could come back another day.’

‘Kid?’

His secretary finally spoke up. ‘My sister Toni is eighteen and she looks older than her.’

Marco, whose interest in her sister Toni was not immense, struggled to contain his growing impatience while Francesco added the weight of his opinion.

‘She does look very young, Marco. She arrived direct from the airport and she’d lost her bags and she looked—’

‘Pretty?’ It was the other man’s problem if he had a weakness for a pretty face, but when he allowed the Achilles heel to encroach into office hours it became a problem.

‘No, not pretty,’ Francesco said, struggling and failing to recall the features of the young English girl who had arrived looking scared stiff. ‘She wasn’t ugly or anything…Her eyes were blue,’ he added, recalling the electric-blue eyes that had peeked out from under a long floppy fringe.

‘Not pretty…I’m intrigued,’ Marco drawled, sounding in reality both bored and irritated. ‘Call her a cab.’

‘I’ll take her back to her hotel,’ Francesco said to Marco’s retreating back.

Marco turned and stared at his protégé with a perplexed expression. ‘I suppose you gave her lunch too.’

‘Sandwiches.’

‘You’re joking.’

In the office Marco saw that he had not been joking.

The crumbs on the plate testified to the meal.

Chapter Four

MARCO’S first view of his two-thirty was a hank of waving fairish hair hanging over the arm of a leather swivel chair that faced the window. Presumably the occupant was so busy looking at the view she had not heard him enter.

When he cleared his throat it did not cross his mind for an instant that his guest would not respond appropriately to the cue.

When she didn’t, his aggravation levels climbed to a new high. His green eyes narrowed as he walked across the room; skirting the desk that stood between the chair and him he loosened his tie and said, ‘This is not a convenient time. I must ask—’

His hand fell away from his throat and his dark brows tugged into a dark interrogative line. While he did not expect or enjoy people jumping to attention when he walked into a room, he was not accustomed to being ignored.

The frown still in place he walked around the desk and it became clear that his words had fallen on deaf ears, literally.

His two-thirty, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face cushioned on her hands, was fast asleep.

He studied her, and realised Francesco had not lied; she was very young and she was not pretty.

She was small, especially to a man who dated women who did not give him a pain in the neck to kiss, not that he felt any inclination to kiss his sleeping visitor awake.

Maybe there were men around who might have felt inclined to play the prince to her Sleeping Beauty but he doubted it.

Any curves, feminine or otherwise, were hidden in the capacious folds of the shapeless outfit that covered her, though her ankles were slim and her calves slender and shapely.

His view of her face was occluded by the messy mass of pale toffee-coloured hair that lay across her cheek. Her skin, slightly flushed with sleep, had the peachy smooth texture of extreme youth.

However, he did not make the mistake of equating youth with innocence; Allegra had not been much older than this girl when they had met, and her innocent sweetness had hidden a heart of pure malice.

Sophie opened her eyes and blinked, reluctant to relinquish her dream; she had been back home at the gatehouse, in her own room, and an ache of homesickness swelled in her chest.

She wasn’t in Balfour, she was in Sicily, and awake, but the strong sense of disorientation lingered. Everything that could go wrong had; her luggage was probably in Outer Mongolia and that was the least of her problems.