Читать книгу Interview with a Playboy - Kathryn Ross, Kathryn Ross - Страница 8

THE road from the airstrip out to Marco’s villa was a narrow, winding path that seemed to hug the side of the mountain, and every now and then as they rounded a corner there were sheer perpendicular drops down towards the Mediterranean. It was so spectacular that Isobel found herself holding tight to the edge of the seat as vertigo started to set in.

She didn’t know what was more nerve-racking—the drive, or the fact that as they rounded corners her body seemed to keep sliding against Marco’s. She wished she’d sat opposite to him now, but he’d advised against it, saying that she would see the view better facing forward and also that it helped to ward off any feelings of travel sickness.

Isobel didn’t usually get travel sick, but she had to admit that these roads would test the strongest constitution.

‘You were right about the coastline being dramatic,’ she said as they rounded another corner and she took in an even more amazing view. They were winding their way downwards now, and she could see glimpses of golden beaches and villas tucked away behind lush tropical greenery.

‘Yes, it’s a lovely part of the world.’ He flicked a glance over at her, noticing with amusement how she was desperately trying not to allow her body to fall against his as the car rounded a particularly narrow bend. For a moment his gaze moved lower. She’d left the top buttons of her blouse unfastened and had folded the collar over—probably so that it hid the stain and the tear in the material. But the small change made all the difference to her appearance; her curves were shown to better advantage and she looked less staid…almost sexy.

His phone rang, and impatiently he reached to answer it. He really had more important things to think about than a pesky reporter.

Marco was speaking in French, Isobel realised distractedly, and he was completely fluent, by the sounds of it. ‘How many languages do you speak?’ she asked him as soon as he had ended the call.

‘Five. It helps in business.’

‘Really? Wow!’ She couldn’t help but be impressed. ‘I wish I could speak a second language, never mind a fifth! I did French for years at school, but I still struggle to have a conversation in it.’

‘You’ll have to practise while you are here,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It’s just a matter of usage. When you have to speak it every day it starts to get easier.’

The limousine turned off the road, and Isobel tried to turn her attention away from him and back to what was happening. But it was hard. Because—she hated to admit it—she found him quite fascinating.

Electric gates folded back, allowing them to enter, and they drove along a wide sweeping driveway lined with giant palm trees. The gardens were very well tended. It was probably a full-time job for a team of gardeners, she thought as she looked out at the tropical shrubs and flowers blazing amidst lawns as smooth as a bowling green. They rounded a corner and suddenly a huge sprawling white mansion opened up before them.

It was built on two levels, and encircled by open verandas that looked out over an Olympic-size infinity pool, its blue waters seeming to merge perfectly with the colour of the Mediterranean.

‘Nice house,’ Isobel remarked. ‘Are you sure it’s big enough for you?’

Amusement glinted in the darkness of his eyes. ‘You know, now you come to mention it, I suppose it is a bit on the small side.’

They pulled to a halt by the front door, and she reached for the door handle and got out before the chauffeur could come around to open it for her.

The heat of the late afternoon was heavy and silent; the only sound was the swish of waves against the shore beneath them. Isobel turned her head and saw a path leading down to a private beach. She also noticed the oceangoing yacht moored at the end of a long jetty.

‘Is that another of your toys?’ she asked Marco as he stepped out from the vehicle behind her.

He followed her gaze down towards the sea. ‘It’s a working toy. I use her for business, but also for pleasure. Sometimes it’s good to unwind out at sea, away from everything and everyone.’

For a moment as she looked up at him she thought she saw a glimpse of sadness in the darkness of his eyes, as if at times he needed the solace of being alone out at sea. Then he turned and smiled at her, and she realised that the idea was ludicrous. Marco, international jet-set playboy, would never need solace! What was she thinking?

‘Come on—I’ll show you up to your room.’ He turned away from her and led her into the house.

The entrance hall was palatial; it had a huge, sweeping circular staircase, and vast windows that towered above her like the windows of a cathedral. It was all very modern and new in design. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked curiously as she followed him upstairs.

‘About two years now.’

‘So you bought the house just after your divorce?’ She was finding it difficult to keep up with him because he was striding along the corridor at quite a pace.

‘Around that time, yes.’ He opened a door and then waited for her to catch up with him, so that she could precede him into the room.

Her eyes widened. It was decorated in shades of cream and turquoise, and was probably the largest and most luxurious bedroom she had ever been in. The bed alone looked as if it would sleep about twelve people, and there was a walk-in closet that was as big as her entire bedroom at home. The skirt, jeans and the few tops that she’d brought with her were going to look very lonely in there, she thought wryly.

‘If this is supposed to be the spare bedroom, the master bedroom must be awesome,’ she said as she glanced out of the folding glass doors at the veranda and the spectacular view of the sea.

‘Come and have a look, if you want,’ he invited. ‘I’m right next door.’

She looked over and caught the gleam of mischief in the darkness of his eyes. She found herself blushing. ‘Eh…no, thanks. I think my article can do without that particular piece of information.’

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.’ He laughed. ‘OK, I’ll leave you to settle in and I’ll see you downstairs for dinner in shall we say…?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘About an hour?’

‘Yes…an hour is fine by me.’ Isobel tried to sound confidently upbeat about the prospect of dining with him but her nerves were jangling. She really didn’t want to have dinner with him, in fact she’d rather have hidden away from him up here until morning—but that was ridiculous. She had to spend time with him in order to get to know him and gather all the information she needed for her article. What on earth was wrong with her? It was just work, she reminded herself sternly.

As Marco left the room the chauffeur brought her suitcase in. Then she was left alone.

For a while she wandered around, investigating her surroundings. The en suite bathroom was completely mirrored, and it had a Jacuzzi hot tub positioned so that you could lie and look out on the veranda and the view of the sea. Maybe she’d do that later. Her shoulder was still a little sore, so it might help. But for the time being she decided to make do with bathing the wound and putting on some more antiseptic. As she pulled her blouse back to examine the damage in the mirror, the memory of Marco’s hand touching her skin suddenly flared from nowhere. Hurriedly she blanked the memory out. Why did she keep thinking about that?

What she should be concentrating on was her article.

Deciding to busy herself before dinner, she got her pen and notebook and went to sit outside on the veranda.

It was about six in the evening, but the day was still warm and a delicious little breeze rustled through the palm trees. For a while she just sat there admiring the view, thinking back over the day.

Let’s see, what do I already know about Marco? she mused. Apart from the fact that he’s a ruthless wheeler-dealer.

On impulse, she took out her phone and decided to look on the internet for the name of the company that she had seen on his papers today. What was it…? Porzione…

She typed the name into a search engine and waited, but there was nothing except a charity for disabled children. She glanced at it brief ly. It also supported families with premature babies, and did some very good work counselling couples dealing with the death of a child, but it was clearly nothing to do with Marco. Maybe she’d spelt it wrong. She was about to close the box, but before she did so something made her type Marco’s name into the mix.

Immediately his name flashed up on screen as the founder and director of Porzione, and she sat back in her chair. Why would Marco have founded a children’s charity?

Curiously she typed in Marco’s name followed by just the word charity, to see what else came up. To her surprise his name was associated with a very long list of charitable organisations.

Strange how that was never mentioned in the media—but then judging by the way she’d had to search for his name it seemed he liked to keep a low profile. And of course, stories about charities probably didn’t sell as well as stories about his love-life.

A curl of guilt stirred inside her. Why hadn’t she discovered this before? She drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair as she thought about her findings. A lot of big businessmen donated to charity, she told herself sensibly. And just because Marco donated money to good causes it didn’t make him a good person. It was probably some kind of tax dodge, anyway.