As she paraded a mayhem of coloured shirts before him the challenge it posed to transform this resolutely determined man excited her unexpectedly.
’Miss Riley,' he growled, tapping his watch.
'This is Fiji, for goodness sake. I'm not leaving until you agree to try something different. Something relaxed.'
His lips pressed into a grim line, as she pressed another shirt against his chest.
'You're right. The lime is too cool for the warm tones of your face. It makes you look sallow,'she said, screwing up her face. On the other hand sallow is good, she thought.
If she encouraged him to buy a shirt that achieved the impossible, a shirt that made him look less ravishing, it would be easier not to be thrown by his dark, brooding beauty.
It was impossible not to be agonisingly aware of every plane of his perfect, athletic physique, especially his powerful chest, steely and hard, as she pressed the shirts against him. Every ounce of his body screamed pure fire. Issy tried to focus her attention on finding the happiest, most gaudy shirt she could find.
'Bingo, perfect!' She said, producing a vibrant blue shirt. 'The color brings out the sapphire highlights in your eyes perfectly,' she said seeing her own reflection in his molten gaze.
Dark brows folded in a frown as he studied the lagoon blue background, highlighted with banana yellow surrounded by a scattering of red hibiscus flowers.
'You look like Superman, only without the cape,' she giggled.
'Fine, whatever makes you happy, Miss Riley. I'll take it. But don't expect me to wear it anytime soon,' he scowled, crossing his arms defiantly over his powerful chest.
Issy smiled. We'll see about that.
CHAPTER THREE
'Welcome to the happiest place on earth.' Issy chewed her lip as she glanced up at the billboard at Nadi airport as they prepared to board Max's private jet.
A picture of a loved-up couple in swimsuits, their damp bodies pressed together as they perched on the bow of a super-yacht, towered over her. On her left two naked bodies entwined in rope on a palm tree-lined beach simmered from a giant billboard. Layers of beautiful monochromatic clothes, the color of sand, lay strewn about them.
Issy tore her gaze away from the exotic scene, and focused on the logo powerfully positioned at their feet. Balforni, she recited staring into the eyes of the formidable black eagle emblazoned above the gold logo. Obviously Mr Johnstone only bothered with high-end labels, she noted looking down at her own tired collection of uncoordinated bags.
Balforni. Balforni. Balforni. She chanted silently, trying to summon the eagle's strength to block her mother's taunts, as her mother's shrill voice rang through her ears. “If you're not careful Isabel, you'll end a spinster.” Her mother's relentless criticism and the lack of affection she had shown Issy throughout her childhood only reaffirmed Issy's belief that perhaps she was unlovable, destined to always be alone.
She glanced at Mr Johnstone as he strode down the walkway, his phone pressed to his ear, a torrent of Italian bouncing off the walls as he spoke. Right now she may as well be alone, she thought, turning away from the plethora of happy couple billboards. Her client didn't look the least bit interested in spending time with her, let alone relaxing.
In fact, just the opposite.
She studied him as he paused at a doorway leading onto the tarmac, a tight woosh of air escaping his chest, as his chauffeur handed him a slim leather satchel, and placed a collection of black embossed leather luggage on the ground. Seeing all his luxurious carry-on next to her battered suitcases made the disparity between their social standing widen before her eyes.
'Is that a laptop?' Issy asked, pointing to the slimline leather case in his hands. 'I thought the whole point of being here was to switch off from work.' She hoped her tone sounded professionally concerned rather than nagging school mum.
She cared, of course she cared. And it wasn't just about the fee payable when she had succeeded in helping him unwind, she reminded herself as he turned to her, his powerful neck tensing as though he carried the weight of the world.
'I didn't get the memo,’ he replied, mildly enough, yet she could hear the heft of his ruthlessness beneath it, and the deadly thrust of his dismissal. Dark rings cast a shadow beneath his eyes as he watched the uniformed crew walking toward them across the tarmac.
Stress killed regardless of wealth. She knew this better than anyone. Raging blood pressure had left her father, once a proud and strong man, paralysed by stroke. Mercifully, for him, but devastatingly for her, a heart attack had taken him quickly. No matter how resistant her client was she would get satisfaction from helping him switch off.
No one was dying on her watch.
'Mr Balforni, your jet is ready to depart,' one of the men said, opening the security doors and signalling to the others to take his luggage.
Issy turned her head sharply.
‘Balforni?’ Her stomach rose in her throat. 'You're who?' she stammered, but the roar of the engines droned out her questions. Hitching up the hem of her dress she scuttled to keep up with her client as he strode across the tarmac.
He waited at the base of the private jet, ignoring her questioning eyes, as she approached. He placed a proprietary hand on the small of her back. His palm, warm and soft connected with her bare skin, sending a frisson of heat scuttling up her spine as he guided her up the aircraft stairs.
'Balforni, as in Emporio Balforni? she stammered, awareness dawning on her as she looked around the interior. Had she not been so thrown she might have savoured the supreme elegance of the minimalist interior, but she was too stunned.
Her eyes locked on the fine leather trim of the aircraft dotted with the eagle’s crest Balforni logo she'd seen on the billboards, and in magazines too expensive to buy.
It made sense now, she thought looking at his powerful physique, his dark wave of hair, his chiselled jaw, the incredibly handsome face. He looked familiar because he was familiar. But what she didn't understand was how the CEO of Italy's most famous fashion house was now her client.
'You said your name was Johnstone. Why didn't you tell me who you really were?' she challenged, perching on the edge of a sumptuous black leather seat.
Massimilliano squeezed his powerful frame into the chair opposite her, his majestically long athletic legs almost touching hers, causing the fine downy hairs on her legs to stand erect.
'When you live under the constant spotlight as I do, you savour moments of anonymity.' His tone hinted at an underlying discontent Issy had detected before.
'I can't believe you let me lecture you on fashion.' She shook her head, clasping her hair in her hands, 'You must think I'm a complete idiot.'
‘On the contrary,’ he said, thumbing through an Italian Vogue placed on the table before him. 'It was refreshing.’ He looked up briefly, his blue eyes glittering.
Humiliating, yes, refreshing, no, Issy thought trying not to feel overwhelmed by the presence of one the fashion’s most acclaimed geniuses and one of the world’s most formidable businessmen.
God help me, she said under her breath as once again he turned his attention to his work systematically thumbing through the magazine. His eyes barely blinked as he studied the world's most glamorous women flawlessly adorned with the world’s latest fashion trends.
How was she going to succeed in getting the grand maestro of fashion to switch off when he had so much beauty to distract him? What did she really have to offer, she thought, feeling more and more inadequate as she compared herself to the beautiful women rising from glossy pages.
Rich, virile, incredibly good-looking men like Massimilliano Balforni dated top models, bedded the ones who excited him sexually, and one day would marry the most beautiful of them. Men like him never chose women like her. But it was a moot concern. He was her client. She so wasn't going there. Besides she wasn't even remotely tempted. She ignored the tension tightening her gut, calling her a liar.
Oh, just to have a smidgen of his talent, she tho
ught forcing her mind from her illicit thoughts. He withdrew a sketch pad and gold fountain pen from his satchel, and flourished the nib across the page, executing sketches with the ease of a person writing a shopping list.
She studied the firm, confident lines—no sign of weakness anywhere. She was no graphologist but it was clear her client was not a man used to taking orders, nor a man used to ceding control.
And while she sensed there was a lack of joy and spontaneity there was something magnetically attractive about the way sensuality blended with precision, she thought briefly before reality hit reminding her she would do well to maintain a professional detached interest. He loved his work. No wonder he was an obsessive workaholic. Everything about his work oozed profit.
Profit.
Something she had never given much attention. If she had she wouldn’t always be living from pay cheque to pay cheque. Just one of his sketches would command a significant fee. Of course she would never do something so lacking in integrity.
Nor would she betray his trust, no matter how much she needed the money, she thought glancing out at the horizon as she recalled a recent story in the press of the leaked concepts of a famous British designer.
'Are you addicted to work?’ she said, as he took a call, fighting the urge to take the magazines and throw them out the window as the plane began to climb. How on earth was she ever going to manage to get him to relax if he was addicted to his craft?
'Scuse?’ Emotionless dark eyes looked at her beneath acerbic brows.
'You're supposed to be on a retreat,' she said, annoyed with herself for sounding like a nagging wife.
‘Mia tentatrice, the mind of a creative entrepreneur never switches off, Ms Riley—no matter what the temptation. My work is all consuming,' he said, in a tone morphing between condescension and flirtation.
She pointed out the window as they flew over sapphire seas dotted with turquoise reefs ringed with baby blue coral. 'Look around you at all this inspiration,' she said, ignoring her throbbing pulse.
He sighed impatiently. 'I don't need distractions. I gain my inspiration from my inner world,' he said in an indulgent tone.
No wonder your designs lack color, she thought to herself.
He turned away, his leg brushing hers, sending the uncomfortably familiar friction of desire threading across her loins.
He glanced down at his sketches. His fingers clenched the edges of the page, then crushed the drawings, reducing them to hardened balls.
'Why did you destroy them?' she said, looking at the crumpled Balforni originals.
’They lacked perfection,' he growled, his mood blacker than his fierce eyes.
Issy pressed her lips together, holding back the urge to cry out, “They were perfectly, imperfect. I could have sold them for a squillion.” While she sensed that like many geniuses he was obsessive in his quest for perfection, what she didn't understand yet was what drove him to strive for the seemingly impossible. What was wrong with good enough?
She sensed he could turn into the consummate chameleon, turning on an open charm at the flash of a camera for his clients, playing the role of a gregarious, fun-loving extrovert as though it were his true nature. But, if her instinct was correct the world would rarely see the real man. Was he too controlled, too private, too damaged, she wondered, to allow that.
She would have to take it slowly if she was to succeed in helping him make the changes he needed, but obviously denied. As she looked at his drawn face, his wide shoulders hard as granite, she realized that they carried a great burden.
While he was polite and friendly enough she sensed that somewhere behind his eyes was a carefully cordoned off area to which few people—especially not a therapist—were ever admitted. She would need to probe deeper, discovering his desires as well as his fears.
'Why did you decide to found a fashion empire?' She asked, infusing her voice with a soft child-like curiosity she hoped he wouldn't find threatening.
Silence hovered between them thickening the air. The whole process of having to talk about himself was clearly one he recoiled from. He shrugged and nudged the conversation on. 'Why did you become an art therapist?'
*
'I trained as a clinical psychologist, but art therapy is a much better fit. So, yes, I'm a psychologist, but sometimes there isn't a group of people I loathe more than those in my profession. I don't believe that people have to be psycho-analsyed, medicated up to their right eyeball because no one can be open-minded enough to try less conventional and more holistic ways to unlock the trauma that lies buried in the subconscious.'
Her eyes glistened, the passion she felt for her work, her vocation, her calling, obvious in the way that she spoke.
'I know what it's like to spend your life trying to live up to the weight of other peoples expectations, only to fail miserably.'
Something about her words, quietly spoken now, dragged Max’s attention from a haze of memory. Perhaps they weren't too dissimilar.
'Do you know who is the worst?' Issy continued, her breathing fast.
Max looked up from his pile of sketches, his fingers tightening around his pen and shook his head.
'Psychologist JB Watson. Gosh, now there's a man with issues. It's been over 70 years since he dispensed his twisted child-rearing advice and people still follow that crap,' she said, her cheeks flushing.
'Let your behavior always be kindly firm,' she said, deepening her tone and imbuing her voice with masculine severity. ‘Never hug and kiss them. Never let them sit on your lap. If you must, kiss them once on the forehead when they say goodnight.
‘Shake hands with them in the morning. Give them a pat on the head if they have made an extraordinarily good job of a difficult task.' She shook her head, sending a cascade of pink waves tumbling across her shoulders.
'The man was a complete jerk and worse, he was wrong. Deprive people of social touch, especially new-borns and what do you get?'
Max remained mutely silent, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned on an angle toward the exit aisle. Emotional deprivation was something he was painfully acquainted with. He was pretty sure Issy would agree that being the child nobody wanted, fostered then abandoned by his new parents to grow up in an English boarding school wouldn't rate highly on the social touch index.
Nor would being called gay when his drawings of flowing ball dresses and diamond-studded gowns were discovered. Being attacked in the dorms at boarding school on an almost daily basis, and beaten by his father, was as social as things got.
What do you get? He could answer her question with one phrase.
Self-reliance.
He knew, as he sensed she did, that only the extraordinary few rose above their traumatic childhoods.
'What you get is kids that grow into adults unable to love—themselves nor anyone else.' Issy said, answering her own question. 'My kids aren't stuck in the understaffed Romanian orphanages in the ‘80s and ‘90s, but the impact is the same—they've been starved of love and affection.'
Max sat back in his chair, as he regarded the intelligent, passionate woman sitting before him. Instead of seeing her as a self-righteous, know-it-all, psychologist, he now saw a compassionate woman, a nurturer, a woman dedicated to improving the lives of those most vulnerable. A woman who seemed to be too intimately aware of a world he was once personally acquainted with and had no wish to revisit. But she was as fascinating as she was dangerous.
'Abandoning a career as a clinical psychologist to become an art therapist must have taken courage and incredible tenacity' he said, maintaining an even tone, as he succumbed to his curiosity. He avoided her gaze and fixed his attention on the sketch in front of him.
'It wasn't easy,' she said, studying her lap briefly as though being complimented was rare and a little unsettling. 'My parents thought I was mad turning my back on a “reputable profession,” she said, fluttering her fingers in the air. 'But I can't do something I don't believe in.'
He looked into her open
, kind face. 'And what is it you believe?'
'Art therapy touches the spirit, soothes the trauma of the past, and empowers hope and confidence in the future. That's why I like working with children. Most of the issues adults face today have their roots in childhood. I want to be the ambulance at the top of the cliff. I want to help before kids become adults saddled with baggage and mistaken beliefs.’
Issy shook her head as the steward approached offering her a crystal flute bubbling with champagne. 'No thank you. I don't drink,' she said opting instead for a glass of sparkling water.
Max regarded her with growing interest. 'So you mainly work with young people?' He should have felt extreme annoyance to learn that she lacked expertise and competence working with people his own age, but instead he found his growing admiration for her disconcerting. How much easier it would be to maintain an aloof, arrogant disregard for a know-it-all therapist than for someone he found utterly captivating, a woman in control of her mind, not afraid to swim upstream and stand up for her beliefs.
'Yes, it's the reason I opened my centre, Issy's Kids.' Issy chewed her lip and glanced out at the ribbon of vapour-thin clouds streaming past the window as the jet levelled out.
Something was troubling her and Max suddenly felt very protective, which was strange and unsettling.
'The children I work with respond well to its non-invasive nature,' she said, turning those far too knowing eyes toward him. 'Psychotherapy is so analytical, completely ignoring the right hemisphere of the brain, whereas art therapy goes straight to the heart,' she said, pressing her palm to her chest to emphasise the point.
Max’s mouth tightened. Now he was in trouble.
Issy smiled at him, apparently unaware that just being near to her was a threat to his physical space, let alone what she was determined to do with him professionally. After a lifetime avoiding anyone breaking through the fortified walls he'd erected around his heart it was becoming clearer to him that he'd underestimated her. They may be forced to spend time together, but being alone on his island with her would be a massive mistake.
The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride Page 4