Interview With A Playboy

‘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.’

The stewardess arrived with the first aid box and handed it over to him.

‘Thanks, Michelle. Are the steps down yet?’

‘Yes, sir. We are ready to disembark.’

Marco found a tube of antiseptic cream and some cotton wool and handed it over to Isobel. ‘That should fix you up until you get to the house.’

‘Thanks.’ Isobel was still trying to pull herself together.

What on earth had just happened? she wondered anxiously. Her heart was pounding as if she had run a long-distance marathon, and she felt shaky and hot inside.

And the worst thing was that feeling of pleasure that had blazed inside her just from the lightest brush of his fingertips. That had never happened to her before with anyone. And the fact that it had happened so easily, with such a casual touch, with Marco was horrifying.

That had to be in her imagination…

Numbly Isobel followed Marco from the plane. They seemed to be in the depths of the countryside. There was a vineyard to her left, and the regimented rows of vines stretched up as far as the purple haze of the mountains. Straight ahead of them there was an aircraft hangar, which was the only building in the vicinity.

Heat shimmered in a misty, watery illusion—like a stream running across the Tarmac.

That heat haze was like her attraction to Marco, Isobel told herself firmly. It looked real, but it was just an illusion—nonexistent. Just because you thought you could see something it didn’t mean it was really there.

She glanced over towards him. He was holding the jacket of his suit casually over one shoulder, and he looked extremely relaxed—every inch the Mediterranean millionaire, completely at home amidst the rugged terrain. She would have liked to describe him as pretentious, with his company jet behind him and his staff bringing the luggage out for him, but in all honesty he looked too casually indifferent for that.

She remembered the gentle touch of his fingers against her skin, remembered the heat in his eyes, and her stomach flipped.

What the hell was the matter with her? Hastily she looked away again. He was Marco Lombardi, one of the most notorious womanisers on the planet, and she couldn’t afford to forget that even for a minute.

There was a car approaching. She could hear the low, throaty murmur before she saw it, and then a limousine pulled up from around the side of the aircraft hangar and a chauffeur jumped out to open the passenger doors for them.

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