Only she wasn't sane, she acknowleged. Not anymore. Not with him being so kind. Not with those sexy dimples indenting as his lips curved into a kind smile. It was easier to keep her distance when he was aloof and remote.
She looked away, knowing she must dismiss his comment as politeness not interest in her for fear of wanting something that would never be hers.
Him.
Cultured people like Max were raised to be polite and she mustn't let herself think he was in the slightest bit interested in who she was as a person. But he was a good listener, and as rare as it was for someone to focus on her for a change it felt nice. She could share how art made her feel, find out what moved him and still maintain a professional distance.
'It's incredible how a painting can affect you,' she said. 'It's completely out of your control. My heart is racing, the hairs on my arms are tingling like crazy. I feel inspired and breathless, and light headed,' she said. It was the painting, not him, definitely not him that was creating all these crazy physical sensations, she thought, surprised by the powerful emotions cascading through her.
'Can you believe, my eyes are pooling, like at any moment I might cry. You know, it's almost like the feeling you have when you're in love. Is that why you purchased this painting?' she said.
His eyes focused on her with razor-like intensity, sending shivers racing up her spine.
'Art is not about emotion. Art is about power.' His head jerked backward sharply.
'Oh, yes,' she said, pleased that on this point they agreed. 'The power of art, as Picasso once said, to wash from the soul the dust of everyday life.'
His lips twisted in a wry smile. 'You are a romantic Miss Riley. It is very sweet. But also naïve. The power of art, Ms Riley, is about money. Possessing what others covet and can never afford.'
Issy felt blood roar through her chest as she looked at the imposing man standing beside her. 'No! Art is about feeling.'
'You know, I actually think you believe that nonsense,' he interjected. Max stepped toward her, encroaching upon her physical space, until they were both nearly touching like the bottles in the painting.
Issy stood her ground, lifting her chin toward him as he stood over her. Was he really so emotionally blocked that he could feel nothing? 'What happened to make you so unfeeling, so hard, so cynical?'
'Life, Miss Riley. Life.'
'Don't you believe in love?'
'Love,' he grimaced, staring at the cold blue bottle in the painting, ‘is a business construct manufactured by salesmen and marketers to manipulate people like you.'
'Have you always been so cynical?' Issy challenged. 'Love is a feeling. Like art is a feeling,' she shrugged. 'It's hard to describe in words, but you know it when you sense it. It's a warm, fantastic, life-giving feeling. Like eating ice-cream in summer, only without the calories.'
'A feeling,' Max snorted. 'Another vague, nebulous, overused concept. I love that dress. I love those shoes. I love that painting.' He turned toward her, looking directly into her eyes as though laying down a challenge.
'I love you.' His words delivered with icy hard detachment splintered through the warm air. His head jerked back sharply, 'See how easy it is to say?'
He sounded cold, far more bitter then she'd expected, but something about the way Max strode stiffly toward the edge of the deck and stood gazing out at the blue sea, a pensive frown on those beautiful dark brows, made her wonder if perhaps even he thought he'd gone too far.
'Show me a love that lasts,' he said, turning to her at last.
What could she say? She'd notched up her Guinness Book record of impermanent affairs of the heart, the cancelled wedding her most public failure. But she wouldn't tell him that. Not yet. Not ever. She could barely bring herself to talk about it with anyone, let alone a client she hoped to impress with her togetherness.
'So we agree on something,' Max said, filling the silent vacuum, 'I've never felt it, never found it, never fantasized about it and I never will. Feeling is a distraction I can't afford.'
'Who did that to you?' She said, wondering how a man who seemed to have everything, had so little.
Max flinched, his jaw hardening in steely resolve. 'I'm a realist.'
'If you don't have love,' Issy pressed, ‘or at least the hope of love, what do you have?' She stepped toward him, concern widening her eyes.'Max?' she whispered, probing for his reply
'Work. I have work. Now if you'll excuse me I'll take you to your private bure. I'm sure you'll find the peninsular villa to your liking. You won't be disturbed. I only ask that you show me the same courtesy.'
Adrenaline spiked in her chest. He was banishing her. 'But what about the session I have planned for today?'
CHAPTER FOUR
'This art-therapy thing—it's just not me,' Max said, as they strolled toward the peninsular villa, winding past tropical flowers and swaying palms, opening onto sudden vistas of pristine white beaches.
'Then why am I here?' Issy said, fixing him with a piercing gaze that told him she'd anticipated his resistance.
'If you're like most women you'll enjoy an all-expenses paid holiday,' he said, quickening his pace.
'I always pay my own way, Mr Balforni. And while a holiday would be nice we both know that's not why I'm here. You say art therapy isn't you, and yet you've never tried it. Do you always judge things so prematurely?'
Max's brows knitted together. He never made any decisions without a thorough analysis of the outcomes, but clearly he had under-estimated her work ethic. While the trait was an admirable one, he had no intention of submitting to her plans. Nor did he intend to string her along. Above all else, even to his detriment, he was honest. The prospect of a week of pretence gnawed at his conscience.
'I am sure you are very good at what you do—'
'But,' she interrupted, 'I can hear your 'but.'' A balmy breeze lifted a tendril of her hair as her lips curved in a warm, understanding smile that threatened to melt his resistance. It wasn't the practiced smile of a catwalk model, but one which infused her whole presence, settling in her far too innocent eyes, eyes that could see right through to his soul.
Being near her was definitely a bad idea, he thought fortifying his resolve as Issy plucked a flower from a bush of hibiscus and tucked it behind her hair. She may look like an innocent but he was under no illusion why she was there.
She would fail in her task to mine the depths of his emotions, he would ensure that. 'Look I don't know what you've been told, or what you hope to achieve, but I can assure you your talents would be better employed elsewhere,’ he said. 'Besides it's Christmas. Wouldn't you rather be home with your family?'
'Honestly?' she said, her eyes trailing off into the distance. 'No. Why would I subject myself to their disapproval when I can stay here in paradise? Besides, the terms of my contract are clear. Six days.'
‘Bene.Be my guest. There is plenty to do and you will have the place to yourself. Do you play golf—we have an 18 hole course?
Issy shook her head, 'No can do.'
'Do you eat? There's five restaurants, all with Michelin chefs.'
'I'm not hungry.'
'Diving?'
'Nope.'
'Well, then I'm sure you'll find plenty to enjoy at the spa.'
'Look,' she said, striding up to him. 'I'm not here on a junket. I've been contracted to provide a service. One I intend to deliver. Six days of art therapy.'
'Finger painting is not my thing.'
Issy stopped suddenly on the edge of the peninsular, thrusting her hands on her hips as she waited for him to face her. 'I can't force you to participate, but if it's any comfort it's normal to feel a bit fearful.'
'Scuse?'
'Trying anything for the first time can feel strange,' Issy said,’especially delving into the subconscious. Sometimes people are afraid to let go and see what unfolds.'
No one talked to him like that. Ever. But rather than irritate him, he found himself relishing the banter. 'Fear, Ms Riley is no
t in my vocabulary.'
'Please call me Issy.'
'Issy.' Her name slipped too easily from his tongue, felt too pleasing, too soft, too treacherous.
'Maybe you think anything I have to offer is beneath you.' Her green eyes glittered with a proud savagery that ignited something primal deep inside him. She would not pander to his mood, nor pretend something she did not feel. Dare he admit it but the novelty of the challenge verged on enjoyable. And he respected her blistering honesty.
'If you're so dead against participating why don't you just climb back into your plane and high fly it out of here?' She flung her hands out toward the sea.
Max thrust his shoulders back, tilting his chin. Her challenge, inferring that he would even contemplate fleeing, only made his decision more resolute. Did she have any idea of the insult she’d just offered? If there was one thing he would never do, it was run. While he detested emotional weakness, he was also a red-blooded male in his prime, a man who relished the role of being the hunter, not the prey.
'I will not be leaving. I gave my word' he said, sharply.
'You don't seem like the sort of man who does anything he doesn't want.'
'My promise once given is never broken,' he snapped.
Issy's eyes glistened as though something he had said had hit a potent note. 'If only more men were promise keepers', she said softly.
The echo of sadness in her voice sharpened his senses. Why was she hiding away on an island in the middle of nowhere trying to help him with his own emotions, when he sensed it was her that clearly needed healing?
She was so close he could almost reach out and comfort her. She was so near he could almost feel the warmth of her too soft skin. She was so damned innocent.
Too damned desirable.
'Max—'
Competing emotions battled in Max’s gut. A shudder of carnal pleasure at the sound of his name slipping from her lips unavoidably led him to imagine her calling out his name in the throes of passion, followed by disquiet at the feelings she incited in him and annoyance that she saw herself as some sort of rescuer.
It had been a mistake to pander to his sister's fears about his health. And the persistent woman standing before him now was wrong, it wasn't the past he feared but the future.
'Are you Okay?' she whispered, concern pooling in her eyes as he stood rigid and motionless before her.
'Nothing is wrong,' he said, half in truth and half a lie. Why did someone so wrong feel so, so terrifyingly right?
'Oh, I get it now,' she said. 'You promised to bring me to the island but you didn't promise to participate or spend any time with me,' Issy shook her head. 'You've brought me here on pretence. First the fake name, and now this. Where will the lies stop?' Her cheeks flushed, not from irritation but something more painful—some hurt that struck at Max’s frozen heart.
Why did he suddenly feel guilty? He stole a glance at Issy as she gazed out to sea. Sunlight glinted off her hair throwing golden highlights through the blaze of pink like a sunset. Her eyes glittered with a blend of heat and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on, giving her a delectably innocent pre-Raphaelite glow, as she turned to him.
A primal need surged in his loins. There were worse ways to spend a week.
'Have dinner with me,' he commanded.
*
Think work. Business. And for God's sake don't rip his dress. Issy picked up the fine silk evening dress Max had asked her to wear. Sprinkled with a shimmer of beige-gold sequin flowers with a long elegant fish-tale, it looked like a dress belonging to a mermaid. Her hands trembled. Did Max really trust her to wear something so expensive?
Trailing her fingers over the cool silken fibers, she glanced back at her own dress, lying in a shapeless heap where she'd tossed it on her bed. Max was right, the natural fibers of silk felt far more refreshing than the cheap synthetic fabric of her own clothes. Nylon made her feel like she was wearing a plastic supermarket bag. And while she'd been drawn to the bright colors she had to concede most of her clothes were impractical in Fiji's sultry heat.
All day she'd soaked up all the humidity, exploring his estate while he skillfully evaded her, God knows where. But tonight, she thought, picking up the dress, she'd make sure he didn't want to avoid her again.
As the dress slipped over her body painful anticipation brought heat to her skin and she recalled the silken touch of Max's hand as he'd handed her back her knickers in the lobby.
Don't be a fool, she admonished, as a desire she didn't dare consider coiled through the air. Ever since she'd met him he'd been a perfect gentleman. Proof again that he was no more interested in her than she was in having a Fiji fling.
Which was reassuring. Wasn't it?
Why, then, was she worried about making a good impression? And not just a good business impression. Because it had never mattered before. Until tonight Issy hadn't wanted to impress any man enough to worry whether she looked or felt sexy.
Dare she admit it, she thought as she walked across the room, the dress made her feel like a princess. Powerful, aristocratic, and beautiful.
Beautiful.
She studied herself in the reflection shimmering off the floor-length panoramic window. No, that was taking it a bit too far. Her mother would have said she looked like a second class Cinderella.
Issy pulled her shoulders back, and took a deep breath. She preferred to think she was dressing for a part she was required to play. If she wanted to understand Max better she needed to be part of his world.
She looked down at her boobs only just contained by the plunging neckline caught in a gorgeous sapphire clasp at her waist. The only requirement she decided was that there be no sign of cleavage anywhere.
She hoisted up the straps, then covered her upper body with the silk chiffon wrap he'd left in her room. Strangely, she actually felt good, a little wild maybe, but intoxicatingly free. Although the colors were more subdued than she would normally wear, the neutral tones accented her green eyes and made her skin glow.
Surely Max wouldn't notice she felt way out of her depth.Now, what to put on her long, narrow feet? Her yellow Crocs would look ghastly, worse they'd make her look matriarchal.
Issy settled on the gold strappy sandals he'd sent to her room. That Max managed to know her exact size she put down to years of experience dressing supermodels, rather than a specific interest in her personally.
What surprised her more was that, in a fashion world renown for dressing stick-insects, he had anything in her size at all. She pressed her hand against her stomach, suppressing a flutter of wayward warmth.
Now, what to do with her face, she thought as she walked to the bathroom. While she didn't want to go the whole hog with girly make-up the dress deserved better.
Staring at the freckles marching a confident line over her nose and cheeks, she decided she wouldn't cover them up with foundation like his flawless supermodel girlfriends obviously did. While she'd do her best to fit into his world, she would still retain some measure of authenticity.
She thumbed through her lipsticks and settled on a soft, barely-there shade of raisin called Kiss Me Twice, a similar hue to the sequins on her dress. Her stomach fluttered like tiny butterflies as she drew a painted line along her lips.
Max would not be kissing her twice, not even once, she reminded herself forcing herself to refocus on the whole point of making a special effort.
Issy blotted the lipstick, removing any excess. She would downplay her lips. Lips that must not, did not, long for a kiss. Instead she would accentuate her best feature, and hopefully her most hypnotic feature. Her eyes.
Normally she used muted browns, but the occasion demanded more glamour. Opting to create an aubergine smoky eye to add a layer of intrigue Issy smoothed a creamy lavender eye shadow all over the lid, up to the brow. Then applied a deeper creamy purple shadow into the crease, and blended it up and out emphasising the contours of the almond shape of her eyes.
It was amazing how the colo
r picked up the violet and gold highlights around her irises, she thought, sweeping on two generous coats of black mascara. After blending a creamy plum-coloured blush onto the apples of the cheeks she decided she was done.
Wow! She exclaimed, surprising herself at the transformation. The effect was pure alchemy. She looked like an eclectic blend of wild feline and mesmerising mermaid. Not bad, she thought uncharacteristically, enjoying turning her face into a canvas for what she hoped would be a mesmerising effect.
All she had to do to get him to open up was to distract him. But not with her boobs, boobs were definitely off the agenda.
Issy frowned as self-doubt rose in her consciousness. Even the soft sheen to her lips looked—
Looked—
Well, slightly provocative.
Was the whole effort too try-hard?
Her mother's voice wormed through the humid air as Issy walked toward the door. Don't box above your weight. She turned back, seized by a painful sense of her own shortcomings. Was she just about to make a fool of herself? Would Max take one look at her with eyes that savoured perfection and realize that she'd gone to a lot of trouble to make herself look like she belonged? Would he miss the point that her motivation wasn't glamour but empowerment?
Issy hesitated. Then took a deep breath. Throwing her shoulders back, and drawing the wrap tightly around her, she wandered out to the garden. She took the path along the side of the pool toward the dining area, hoping the serenity of the water and the gentle rustling of the willowy palms would calm the erratic pounding of her heart.
Sorry to disappoint you again, Mum.
*
From the thatched deck of the private dining cantilevered above the lagoon Max watched Issy stride into sight, tall and lithe and stepping with the sure footedness of a goddess.
Her full hips and long legs emphasised the seductive curves of her womanly body as she walked. Hair the color of rose gold bounced playfully in the balmy breeze to reveal the bewitching contours of her innocent face, while the golden light of the fading sun played like a halo around her.
The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride Page 6