The B4 Leg

by Various

  Marriage stood a far better chance if you went into it with your eyes open. If Sophie married him, he would make her happy, not offer her false promises and break her heart.

  Sure, you’re saving her from heartbreak—you’re a regular hero, Marco, mocked the voice of his troubled conscience.

  Sophie’s voice broke through his introspective chain of thought. ‘Flaunting is a great policy if you have a body like your wife!’

  The drop in temperature was instantaneous and dramatic.

  ‘I have no wife.’

  Marco had always known that one day that situation would change. Continuity was important and his was an ancient name and he needed to pass on that heritage, but this did not mean that he had ever anticipated the event with any degree of pleasure.

  Though naturally he would approach marriage the second time around from a very different perspective; his approach would be practical, not emotional.

  His lips curled into a contemptuous smile for the romantic boy he had been.

  Obviously he was not going to marry anyone he was not compatible with; common interests would be high on his list of qualities necessary in a future bride. She would need to have a certain level of sophistication to feel comfortable in his world, and of course he would not marry anyone he found physically repulsive, but he did not realistically expect mind-blowing sex.

  He skimmed over the fact that Sophie Balfour bore very little resemblance to the perfect candidate, instead concentrating on the attributes that he had not previously considered essential. A peaceful life was fine but he bored easily, and Sophie was not, by any stretch of the imagination, boring!

  She had brought him back to life, not just his home, suggested the intrusive voice in his head.

  She was also incapable of deceit; admittedly that could on occasion be a pain, but honesty was rare and she was loyal. Her loyalty was sometimes misplaced but you had to admire a girl who spoke up for a father who had spent years taking her for granted, taught her none of the skills required for life outside her gilded cage and then virtually thrown her to the wolves to fend for herself.

  If he had a daughter he would tell her she was capable of anything and tell her that he loved her every day of her life.

  ‘We are not discussing Allegra.’

  Sophie was not fooled by his blank expression; she knew it was to hide his pain and maybe, she speculated miserably, his secret shame because he still loved the woman who had humiliated him and stamped all over his heart. He still wrote to her. She had seen the name on a handwritten letter on his desk.

  A man did not react that way to the mention of a woman he was over. This was, of course, not news to Sophie but the fresh confirmation hurt anyway.

  ‘No.’ Not speaking but thinking. Maybe he thought about her when they made love; maybe it was Allegra’s beautiful vivid face he saw and not her own…

  Sophie swallowed as a wave of nausea washed over her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, forcing a smile.

  He placed a thumb under her chin and tilted her face up to his. Guilt lay heavily on his conscience. She had worked herself into the ground and he had let her.

  In fact, he had done more than allow it to happen; he had engineered it, and he had known she wouldn’t say no because she had something to prove, but no longer to him. He realized that no matter what Sophie Balfour thought of herself, she had more backbone and sheer guts than anyone else he knew.

  He felt his anger stir at the thought of the family who had allowed her to become invisible, just because she was the quiet one.

  Sophie twitched her chin from his grip. ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated flatly. ‘I’m just…I’ve not stopped all day. I was in the shower when I thought I’d better check things one more time…so I had to get out of the shower which is lucky, as it happens, because for some reason the men doing the lighting had put red lights…made it look like a bordello or something…’ She stopped and flashed him a questioning look. ‘Sorry…I’m talking too much again, aren’t I?’

  ‘I like it when you talk too much.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Sì, I like your voice, though I do not always understand what you’re talking about. You really do look tired.’ He caught her chin again and this time Sophie did not pull back; the unexpected tenderness in his eyes nailed her to the spot and brought an emotional lump the size of a tennis ball to her throat.

  He tapped her nose and said sternly, ‘You need to learn to delegate more.’

  ‘I do delegate,’ she protested, wondering if the flowers had been put in his mother’s suite.

  ‘You push yourself too hard.’

  No matter how hard she pushed herself she knew that she could not compete with the sort of pressure Marco put himself under, and he appeared to thrive on it.

  ‘That’s what you pay me for.’ And very soon now her job and her stay here would be at an end.

  His brows twitched into a frowning line. ‘I do not pay you.’

  ‘Well, indirectly, then—you pay Amber and she pays me.’

  ‘Not enough, I would imagine.’

  ‘It’s not slave labour, though not a lot by your standards,’ she admitted.

  ‘Or your standards. You make it sound as though we live in two different worlds.’

  ‘My father is rich and I suppose I will be one day, but not now, and I don’t have expensive tastes.’

  ‘For a Balfour,’ he inserted. ‘I have been looking for you for the past hour. It was almost as if you were avoiding me.’

  ‘I’ve been too busy to even think about you,’ she lied. ‘Anyway, what’s so important that you couldn’t delegate it?’

  ‘I would like you to consider…’

  ‘Could we walk while you talk?’ she asked, glancing at her watch and turning towards the stone facade of the palazzo. Looking at it, she felt a little glow of satisfaction, for there was nothing unloved about its appearance now. In a few short weeks she and the team had performed a small but pleasing miracle.

  In a few short weeks she had fallen in love.

  ‘I really do need to get ready and so do you.’ In white shirt and denims that clung tastefully to his snaky hips and the powerful muscles of his thighs he looked pretty good already. Actually, he never looked simply good; he always looked incredible. ‘Do you mind if we duck in through the library?’ she asked, nodding towards the open doors that led into the only room that had not needed her attention. ‘If there’s a disaster I don’t want to know about it until I’m dressed.’

  ‘You have a very negative attitude. Why assume a disaster is inevitable?’

  ‘I could bore you with the details of the last Balfour Ball…’ Sophie couldn’t smile. The memory and the fallout from that night were still painfully fresh in her mind. ‘Let’s just say that experience leads me to believe that if anything can go wrong on these occasions it will.’

  ‘A gloomy prediction. You should learn to have a little faith or those—’ Sophie almost stumbled as his thumb flicked across the grooves above her small nose ‘—will be permanent.’

  ‘Some men like the lived-in look,’ she claimed untruthfully. ‘And you won’t be so sanguine if the press tomorrow is screaming about the Speranza family’s bad blood.’

  ‘There is very little they can say about my name that they already have not.’

  There was sympathy in her eyes as her gaze brushed his profile. The world thought they knew Marco Speranza. Pages of print had been devoted to his marriage break up and acrimonious divorce. His life had been dissected, his character analysed and his face and body lusted after.

  She had thought much the same as the world. She had arrived thinking Marco was the sum of the press clips in Amber’s research file; she had assumed that like many people with high profiles who lived their lives in the full glare of publicity, Marco needed that limelight.

  Nothing could be farther from the truth. He endured publicity and never courted it. The Marco she had co
me to know was intensely private, perhaps in reaction to the days when his publicity-hungry parents had paraded him in front of the clicking flashbulbs, presenting the world with an image of perfect family life before they went back to their own lives, lives that did not have a place for a child.

  She felt angry when she considered what a rotten childhood he had had.

  ‘As to what I wanted to talk to you about, I thought you might like to take a look at these when you have a spare moment.’

  Sophie skipped, taking the steps two at a time, before the glanced down at the sheaf of papers he had put in her hands. ‘I’ll make sure Amber gets them,’ she promised gravely. ‘When I get back.’

  ‘They are not for Amber.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s a pre-nuptial agreement.’

  ‘You’re getting married.’ Sophie was amazed that she sounded normal and that she was still walking. Inside she was dead—no, not dead; dead did not hurt. She was dying slowly by painful inches.

  ‘That is the idea.’ While he had not expected her to throw herself at him, he had expected a positive response, or even a response of any sort.

  ‘Well, wow, that’s…’ She stopped and inhaled. ‘Surprising.’

  Marco watched as she walked towards the library door. ‘You had no idea?’

  ‘Idea…’ She turned slowly and looked at him, the angry colour flooding her face. ‘If I’d had an idea do you think I’d have been sleeping with you?’

  ‘We have got very little sleep of late.’

  ‘You’re disgusting!’ she choked. He didn’t even have the common decency to look ashamed, and as for telling her by giving her the pre-nuptial agreement intended for his prospective bride—poor deluded and no doubt beautiful idiot—that was one step up on dumping someone by text!

  She shook her head and told herself to keep it calm, keep it dignified. ‘It’s nice to know that you think I’m as devoid of moral principle as you are!’

  The recollection of him saying on one occasion there was never more than one woman in his life at a time came back to her and Sophie saw red. Her grasp on quiet dignity faltered as she raised her eyes to his face. The lying, cheating rat had the cheek to look bewildered.

  The only thing she had asked for was exclusivity for the duration, and all the time he’d been…though God knows where he found the time or energy to sleep with his prospective bride, considering the amount of each commodity he had used up in her bed!

  ‘Has she been out of the country? Is that it, and you needed someone to fill in…?’

  ‘Has who been out of the country?’ Marco, who had never perfected the art of discovering his inner calm, repressed the urge to kick the table. One of them had to retain a little control and it clearly was not going to be Sophie.

  He had not been totally sure of her reaction to his proposal but in none of the possible outcomes he had considered had she turned on him like a spitting cat.

  A beautiful spitting cat admittedly, he conceded. His ability to make any sense of what she was saying was being severely hampered by the bounce and erotic sway of her unfettered bosom.

  Sophie shook her head and pressed her hands to her ears. ‘Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know!’

  ‘You have lost one of your earrings…’ Marco said.

  ‘Like I care!’ She gulped back a sob as she threw the papers back at him. ‘What am I meant to do with these?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Sophie?’

  ‘My God, you do believe in getting your money’s worth, don’t you? Designer, event organiser, sex on tap and now you want me to give you legal advice. What’s wrong with your lawyers, Marco?’ She shook her head and ignored the hands he stretched out to her. ‘I will do my part tonight,’ she told him with a sniff. ‘But afterwards I’m out of here,’ she yelled. She would walk back to London…crawl, if necessary.

  ‘Who do you think this contract is for?’

  It wasn’t the who that mattered; it was the fact there was a who. ‘Look, I’m in no mood for twenty questions.’

  ‘If you stop yelling for two seconds and look—’

  ‘I—’

  ‘The name on that contract is yours.’

  Sophie stopped dead. ‘What?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me!’ The angry colour receded, leaving her paper pale.

  I’m shaking…I’m dreaming.

  ‘Me…you…marry?’ Poor grammar, Sophie. She lifted a hand to her spinning head. ‘This is a proposal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘You are practical woman, and I know you value frank speaking as much as I do.’ When it came to pointing out his myriad faults, he reflected, Sophie had no equal.

  Sophie eyed him uncertainly. ‘Frank speaking is good,’ she admitted, talking slowly as she tried to work out where he was going with this—and he clearly was determined to go somewhere. ‘But sometimes a white lie can work, or even exaggeration?’

  ‘I would not insult your intelligence by getting down on one knee and swearing eternal love.’

  ‘No, that would have been embarrassing,’ she agreed, thinking, how can an intelligent man be so stupid?

  He nodded. ‘I want a family, but I do not want a—’

  ‘Wife?’ she suggested.

  He turned his frowning regard on her. ‘A marriage based on unrealistic expectations and ephemeral emotions.’

  ‘Life is pretty damned ephemeral, Marco.’

  ‘I find you attractive and I like you. I have no problem if you wish to work—you can start your own firm if you wish. Think about it.’

  Sophie watched him walk away before she closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘He likes me,’ she said, and burst into tears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SHE paused at the top of the stairs. She was late, but that was Marco’s fault; it had taken more cold compresses than she thought to soothe her puffy tear-swollen eyes, so if he didn’t like it, tough.

  At the top of the sweeping staircase she caught her breath at the scene below—the glitter of diamonds, the rainbow swirl of silk, the buzz of laughter and conversation audible above the soft hum of the orchestra.

  It was totally magical.

  It was totally terrifying.

  She lifted her chin: no hiding in the kitchen with Mia this time. She might be leaving but it would not be through the kitchen door and not before she had told Marco Speranza that she would never like him!

  Then she saw him and the defiant sparkle faded from her eyes as she gazed with helpless longing at the tall and supremely elegant figure projecting an effortless aura of cool command that she could feel from the other side of the ballroom. Her heart had stalled. She stared hungrily, until a hissing comment from Julia made her take that first step.

  Marco frowned as the diplomat he was speaking to allowed his attention to very undiplomatically stray; at about the same moment he realised that the buzz of conversation in the ballroom had significantly lowered in volume.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the man beside him when he failed to respond to an enquiry from Marco. ‘But who is that incredible woman?’

  Marco followed the direction of the other man’s stare and his covetous gaze stilled on the figure gliding down the staircase. The figure wearing a red dress that clung lovingly to every proud curve, a figure that oozed an earthy warm sex appeal that had heads turning and jaws dropping.

  She looked like a queen.

  A combination of pride and lust pushed every other thought from his head as, without replying, Marco began to move forward, his eyes glued to the figure in the red dress. People parted to let him through.

  He was at the foot of the staircase as Sophie reached the bottom. Without a word he held out his hand. She saw the muscles in his brown throat ripple, then their glances locked and for a moment she hesitated. Then, loosing a tiny, fractured sigh, she laid her small hand on his and he smiled.

  The danger in that smile made her stomach dissolve in
hot liquid excitement.

  In a dream-like state Sophie allowed Marco to lead her out onto the dance floor. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could hardly breathe; walking away had seemed so easy when she was upstairs indulging her self-righteous anger but the moment their eyes connected she had known that it would take every ounce of will power she possessed and more.

  The orchestra struck up a soft, dreamy number.

  ‘I can’t dance.’

  ‘I can. Just move your feet and I will do the rest.’ His eyes slid over the creamy upper slopes of her breasts. ‘Where did you get that dress?’ he asked in a throaty whisper.

  ‘Mia sent it to me. She made it.’

  ‘She has captured your personality.’

  ‘My personality and red and…’ She stopped, flushing.

  ‘And passion. You are a very sensual woman, Sophie.’

  Only with you, she thought, as she laid her head on his shoulder. Eyes closed, she melted without thinking into his hardness as their bodies swayed in time to the music.

  He could dance and she could follow. Talk about the story of my life, she thought, making a token effort to escape the narcotic tug of his rampant masculinity before melting some more.

  The music stopped and Sophie raised her head.

  ‘You’re a very good dancer, Marco.’ He was clearly good at everything except proposals.

  Marco’s heavy-lidded eyes glittered emerald in his sombre tense face. ‘Let’s go,’ he said thickly.

  Sophie stared at him blankly. Was he serious? ‘This is your party.’

  A voice behind Sophie made Marco pull away and she heard him swear before he inclined his head and said, ‘Mother, this is Sophie.’

  ‘The clever girl who is responsible for all this?’ Without waiting for a reply Carlotta Speranza took both Sophie’s hands firmly in hers and drew her away. For a slight woman she could be rather forceful, but then she was a Speranza.

  ‘There are so many people who are longing to meet you.’

  ‘I don’t think…’

  The actress ignored her faltering protest. ‘And your father…how is he…? We met at my last premiere…an attractive man and you have his eyes. Doesn’t she, Marco? Oh, where has that man gone…?’