“Well, as you can see, I have not.” His eyes swept the length of her body, taking in her attire, a short pink pajama set and thin, long-sleeved blue cardigan. Her hair was tangled, her face puffy. She’d clearly just woken.
She held his gaze without blinking. Had her eyes always been such a vivid cornflower-blue?
“There’s fresh coffee in the pot or you can help yourself to tea,” he stated coolly, diverting his attention back to his laptop. He needed a moment to regain his poise. Less than a minute in her company and already he could feel it slipping.
He tried to concentrate on the document on the screen, but he was far too aware of her movements. He listened as she poured herself a cup of coffee, heard every splash of milk she added to it. Every cell in his body tightened.
Done, she padded back to the kitchen door.
“The reason I am not at my office yet is because I’ve been waiting for you. There are some issues we need to discuss,” he said, in no mood for pleasantries. He didn’t look up.
“Can’t it wait until I’ve showered?”
He kept his attention focused on the laptop. “This isn’t a hotel. I have a meeting I need to attend in a couple of hours and I need to be prepared for it. Sit down.”
“You will find I respond better to polite requests rather than barked orders.”
He snapped his eyes to hers. She was giving him a lecture on manners? The woman was unbelievable. “Sit down, please.”
“That’s better,” she said with faux approval, taking the seat opposite him. She placed her mug on the table and pulled her cardigan around her. “What do you want to talk about?”
He drained his coffee and put it to one side. Now that he was looking at her, he found himself unable to wrench his eyes from her face, the same face that had broken into his dreams.
He’d hoped a good night’s sleep would have allowed her the chance to develop some contrition for what she’d done. But all he found on her face was insolence, a defiance that only served to refuel the fury still simmering in his veins. He’d sparred in his gym after his video conference and again this morning, but the pounding he’d given his punching bag had failed to exorcise it. Work had proved similarly ineffective. Eventually, he’d come to the conclusion that the only way to get his equilibrium back on an even keel was to take the bull by the horns and have things out with her.
He had arrived home to find she was still in bed, which had only poured more fuel on his animosity.
“I have a couple of ground rules for you.” Rules that should have been run through the night before. Rules that had had to wait because seeing Pippa again had elicited white-hot rage and smoldering desire almost beyond his control.
She raised a belligerent, perfectly arched eyebrow. “Yes?”
“As I said yesterday, I don’t care what you do while you are here, but I want you to respect that you are a guest in this house. I do not want the paparazzi to find you here, so bear that in mind and act with some decorum.”
Pippa threw him a look of pure loathing and folded her arms across her chest. “Escaping from those vultures is the only reason I agreed to come here. Believe it or not, I do not enjoy having my life served up as breakfast for the general public’s consumption.”
He made no attempt to hide his incredulity. Judging by the regular pictures of her in the tabloids, which he kept an eye on via the Internet, she traveled with a large circus of paps at her heels.
“The only other house rule is absolutely no drugs—I warn you now, if I so much as suspect you are taking anything I will have you back on a plane to England faster than your legs can carry you, and to hell with any promise I made.”
“I do not take drugs,” she stated, her blue eyes hardening.
He leaned back and wished he could shake all the lies out of her. “I mean it, Pippa. No drugs.
“It’s funny,” he mused, although he felt anything but amused, “I have never thought of you as violent—feisty, yes, but never violent. I always thought it would be the drugs that would get you into trouble—serious trouble, I mean. Your issues with drugs and alcohol are well documented—after all, it was one of your many boyfriends who was arrested in a nightclub with pocketsful of amphetamines.”
She shook her head. “He was not my boyfriend.”
“But you were there when the club was raided. It was you, after all, who spent the night in a police cell for being drunk and disorderly—not for the first time—and made it onto the front page of all the tabloids over the incident, semi-clothed and stumbling all over the place.”
Those pictures had been printed about a year after her eighteenth birthday, when he had made his first flying visit back to the UK. Even now, he could taste the nausea he had felt upon seeing them, could feel the same unbearable fury and sadness that she was throwing her life away.
“Yes,” she acknowledged, jutting out her chin. “But if you’d bothered to get your facts straight, you would know I was detained, not arrested, for being drunk and incapable—there is a difference. It had nothing to do with dealing drugs, and I was released without being charged the next morning. If you had bothered to read the accompanying article rather than just shake your head over my clothing, you would know I wasn’t involved. The police did not find any drugs on me, because I did not have any on me, because I do not take drugs.”
“I am sure it would have been very easy for you to dispose of them.”
“Not in the state I was in, it wouldn’t. In any case, I do not take illegal drugs.” She accentuated every syllable and stared, unflinching, into his eyes. “The only reason the press printed that story was because a so-called friend tipped them off about the drug raid.”
He had to hand it to her—years of practice had made her incredibly good at keeping a straight face. As a liar, there was no one better. “I suppose it was friends who tipped the press off about all your other behavior?”
“None of it came from me.”
“Pippa, you have always been an attention seeker. Why don’t you just admit you love the limelight?”
“I was an attention seeker, yes—was being the operative word—but I never wanted the press limelight.”
“You courted it,” he pointed out, containing his anger by the skin of his teeth.
Her lips thinned, pulling back so tightly they whitened. “They courted me. Yes, I made mistakes, but unlike other teenagers, a quirk of fate meant I was born into so-called noble stock. My mistakes were deemed newsworthy and it doesn’t matter how hard I try to move on, I am never allowed to forget it. The press is always there, waiting for me to slip up.”
“And I suppose it’s the press’s fault you were charged with assault? Nothing to do with your own actions?”
She visibly sagged, her shoulders dropping at the speed of a bursting bubble.
“It wasn’t assault. It was self-defense,” she stated, not blinking, not breaking eye contact. “I’m innocent.”
“Of course you are. That’s why you’re out on bail while your boss languishes in a hospital with a fractured skull.”
Chapter Three
Vivid color stained Pippa’s pale cheeks. “Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”
“Come on, Pippa—your own father believes you’re guilty.” Marco shook his head in disbelief. “Your own father.”
“My boss assaulted me. And I can prove…”
“Enough!” For the first time he lost control of his temper and raised his voice.
She recoiled slightly but, true to form, refused to obey, glaring at him while her chest heaved. “Do not take that tone with me. I am not a child. He did assault me. Would you care to see the proof?”
Her attempts to twist the assault outraged him. It was bad enough to attack a man because you felt he had short-changed you out of your waitressing tips, but to twist it round and try to make out you were the victim? To Marco, that was unforgivable.
Yet there was a part of him that ached for Pippa’s version to be true
, that wished with every fiber of his being that the police were wrong. But not even her own father believed her. For all Pippa’s and James Rowantree’s ups and downs, he knew damned well a father’s first instinct was to protect his child.
Looking at her now, in her skimpy nightclothes, knowing that beneath them was nothing but soft, naked skin… Marco could almost feel that softness on the tips of his fingers.
He flexed his hands, ridding himself of a sensation that had, for a brief moment, felt real.
Pippa was an enchantress, a beguiling, beautiful siren pulling at him. Unless he took great care and protected himself, she would draw him under her spell, just as she had almost pulled him under once before.
He would never allow that to happen again.
Flaring his nostrils, he fought to contain his usual imperious timbre. “When are you ever going to admit to your wrongdoings, Pippa? When will you admit to the damage you have caused?”
“The only damage I have caused is to myself and my own reputation.”
Her chutzpah was incredible. “Do you seriously believe you have only hurt your own reputation? Never mind the serious damage you caused to my reputation, what about your family?”
“By ‘family’, I assume you mean my father? All my father has ever cared about is the family name and his standing in society. He does not give two hoots about me.” Although there was a definite bite in her voice, her cool façade remained. “If my behavior somehow harmed your reputation, then I’m sorry—I assure you it was not intentional.”
“It never is.” His own façade was starting to crack, the fury that had been lying impotent inside him beginning to seep through. “You had everything given to you on a silver platter and you threw it away.”
“Why are you doing this? I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in five years. You’re talking about someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”
“So says you. But I have first-hand experience of what the stain of association with you can do and I will not allow you to put me through it again.”
“Put you through what? What did I do?” she demanded to know. “In what possible way did I hurt you?”
“Those revolting photos taken at your eighteenth birthday caused irreparable harm,” he said, grinding the words out. “Do you remember that? When I dragged you off the dance floor because you were so drunk you could hardly stand and you were all over that boy, in front of all your guests?”
Other than the slightest flicker of her eyes and another splash of color that stained her cheeks, she made no response. He knew damned well she was remembering what had occurred shortly after, when he carried her out of the marquee and into the manor and she…
He shoved the memory aside.
“One of your guests took pictures of me carrying you out of harm’s way. Surely you must remember that? It was splashed all over the tabloids. There was a particularly good one of you with your knickers on display for the whole world to see.” He supposed he should be grateful she had been wearing underwear. If she hadn’t, no doubt those pictures would regularly make the top ten of any Internet search.
“My good name was dragged through the mud, I lost…” he broke off, and shook his head. When he next spoke he deliberately kept his tone harsh, wanting her to feel the impact of every word. “It wasn’t just me. Everyone suffered because of it. In fact, I’m surprised your parents didn’t kick you out then. The humiliation you inflicted upon them was putrid.”
“Amelia is my stepmother,” Pippa reminded him, snapping to attention as if she’d been pulled out of a trance. She cradled her mug, her hands trembling enough that coffee began to splash down the sides. “She is not one of my parents.”
“Amelia has always done her best by you. It wasn’t easy for her taking on an unhappy eight-year-old girl,” he fired back.
“I was seven,” she corrected, her chest swelling. “Amelia first got together with my father when I was seven, less than three months after my mother died. Is it any wonder I was miserable?”
A sudden image of that lonely junior bridesmaid hiding under the table at her own father’s wedding flashed in his mind. Something in his heart cracked, but he ignored it. He had to ignore it.
“And that justifies your behavior, does it?” he threw at her, blinking the image away. “Let’s be honest, your conduct throughout the years has been little short of vile. Do you have any idea how many people would bite your hand off to be born with your advantages?” His heart was pounding so hard it was in danger of becoming a physical pain.
“Have you never done anything you regret?” The words flew from rosebud lips that trembled, but those blue eyes held firm, refusing to sever the link between them. “Or were you born perfect?”
Every muscle in his body stiffened.
Leaning forward so his face was but inches from hers, he spoke quietly, forcing her to strain to hear him. “Unlike you, I was never handed anything on a silver platter. While you lived in luxury, my parents worked hard and scrimped and saved so my brothers and I didn’t go without. Unlike you, I appreciated the value of a good education. Unlike you, I embraced it and didn’t throw it into the gutter. How many boarding schools were you expelled from? Two? Three?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You had it all on a plate and you threw it away.”
His voice dropped even lower. “When, because of you, I was on the verge of losing the business I had put everything I had into creating, I used it to propel me forward to achieve even greater things. I have made something of my life and have been able to give something back to my family and to society. What have you given back, Pippa?”
Finally he paused for breath.
Those wide eyes stared back at him, not flinching, not reacting. He longed to shake her, to break through that icy façade, to kiss life into her, make her react in the most basic of fashions…
Kiss her?
He dragged a hand down his face, as if the action alone could wipe out the longing burning through his loins, which he knew instinctively a kiss would never be enough to satisfy.
“Do you know what the proudest day of my life was? It was the day I brought my parents a new house and told them they never needed to work again.” The pride shining in his parents’ eyes that day had made every fourteen-hour workday worthwhile. Because of Pippa, the dream of repaying his parents for every loving sacrifice had almost died. His business had been on its knees before it had even got going. “If it wasn’t for the sacrifices they made I would never have been able to achieve a fraction of what I have. Whereas you…”
He blew out a breath. “Is there a single day in your life you can look back on with pride? All you have given your family is worry and shame. And then to have the nerve to blame them and the press for your problems…”
He broke off again, the acid in his belly fizzing in furious protest, although what it could be protesting about, he couldn’t even hazard a guess. He spoke only the truth.
He’d always thought the truth only hurt the person on the receiving end of it.
…
Pippa pulled herself out of the stupor Marco’s relentless character assassination had put her in.
Every word he uttered had been like nails on a chalkboard, every syllable a pin being stabbed into her skin.
“Yes, I had a privileged upbringing, but only in a material sense. I’m not going to apologize for something I had no control over. If I had been given the choice of swapping Rowantree Manor for your parents’ home in Rome, I would have bitten your arm off to accept.”
Disdain carved across his features. “Sure you would.”
“Believe what you like,” she spat. “Yes, I screwed up and yes, I’m sorry. More sorry than you could ever know. But that does not give you or anyone else the right to judge me on my adolescent behavior. I have been self-sufficient for five years, so don’t you dare say I don’t know what it’s like to struggle and scrimp and save for every penny. You don’t have a monopoly on being poor.”
He raised a hand, but
she had heard enough. If she didn’t get out of this kitchen right now, there was every chance she would throw her coffee at his arrogant face.
Marco didn’t merely dislike her—he hated her. She could read it in the taut language of his body, feel it in the heat of his eyes that were firing something other than just rage, something that turned her veins into lava, something that made her want to crawl across the table and rip the buttons off his starched shirt. For long seconds their eyes dueled, the tension around them thickening until she feared she could drown in it.
Rising too quickly, she knocked the table, sloshing some of her coffee onto it. Unthinkingly, she wiped it with the sleeve of her cardigan, then took a step back. “Luckily for us both, I never made any promise to stay in this hellhole, so I’m going to get out of here. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”
His eyes glittered, that pulse in his cheek throbbing as he studied her intently. “Where will you go?”
”Back to England. I’ll take a shower and then phone the airline.” She forced her aching body to walk, holding her head high. “I wish I could say it has been a pleasure seeing you again. Have a nice life.”
It was only as she shut the door behind her that she began to shake. Already the adrenaline that had been pumping through her veins throughout that dreadful confrontation was abating, leaving her strangely flattened.
She’d left her coffee on the table. She would just have to take her painkillers with water from the tap in her en suite and hope it didn’t give her a dodgy belly.
The only reason she’d gone downstairs in the first place was to get a glass of water.
There was no way she was going back in that kitchen with Marco sitting there. She just couldn’t. If she were to face him again right then, she had no idea how she would react. He’d stirred up too many memories, unleashed too many emotions, made her feel… He’d made her feel too much.
Her faint hope that her almost violent physical reaction to him yesterday had been the result of her fragile emotional state had been dispelled. As a rule, she never found men she considered to be ‘suits’ attractive, but Marco’s magnificent body, filling the clean cut of his suit at that kitchen table… oh, but he looked so damned sexy.
Tempted by Trouble Page 3