his chair slightly, so that he could take advantage of the conference facilities aboard, and since take-off he’d been in a meeting with his corporate strategist in Rome, to discuss a project they were working on in Italy.
Isobel would have loved to know more details, but unfortunately that was all Marco had told her, and she couldn’t understand anything he was saying because he was speaking in Italian. For a while she’d tried to pass the time by reading one of the newspapers the cabin crew had handed out to them earlier, but she’d found it hard to concentrate because she had been drawn to listening to Marco as he talked, mesmerised by the attractive, deep tones.
There was something deeply passionate about the Italian language. Marco sounded fiercely intent one moment and almost lyrically provocative the next. So much so that she found herself not only listening, but also covertly watching him. The accent combined with his good looks was a powerfully compelling combination…hard to pull away from.
No man had a right to be so sexually attractive, she thought distractedly. Especially a man who was so completely ruthless. But…hell, he really was gorgeous.
He glanced over at that moment and caught her watching him, and as their eyes met she felt a surge of heat so intense it made her feel dizzy.
How pathetic was that? she thought angrily, looking swiftly away. She should be focusing her mind on structuring the article she wanted to write about him, on revealing the true Marco Lombardi—not on idly admiring his looks!
Being handsome didn’t mean a thing. Her father had been a good-looking man, suave, sophisticated, a definite hit with women. Even as a young child Isobel had noticed the way women smiled at him. She had been fiercely proud of her handsome dad—had hero-worshiped him.
And she had been naively unaware that the only reason he’d stayed around was the lure of her grandfather’s money.
When his father-in-law had sold the business and he had been made redundant Martin Keyes had been self-pitying at first. But two months down the line, when her grandfather had died and it had been revealed that all his fortune had gone on death duties and taxes, he had been furious. Isobel had heard the arguments raging into the night. Had heard his parting shots to her mother—that the lure of the family business had been all that had kept him in the marriage, and that he felt as if he had wasted twelve years of his life. Then she had heard the slam of the door.
When she’d gone downstairs her mother had been sitting on the floor, sobbing. ‘He said he never loved us, Isobel,’ she had cried.
She could still remember that moment vividly—her mother’s heart-rending sobs, the shock and the feeling of fear and helplessness, and also the knowledge that she had to be strong for her mum’s sake.
Life had been tough after that. Her mother had struggled to cope, both financially and emotionally, and for the first year Isobel had found it hard to believe that her dad had truly abandoned them completely. She’d dreamed he would come back, that he hadn’t meant those cruel words. Her birthday and Christmas had come and gone without any contact. Then one day quite suddenly, without warning, she’d seen him again outside her school gates. She’d thought he was waiting for her and her heart had leapt. But he hadn’t been waiting for her. He’d been with another woman, and as Isobel had watched from a distance she’d seen a child from one of the junior classes running towards them. As Isobel had slowly approached they’d all got into a Mercedes parked at the kerb and driven away.
The really awful thing was that her father had seen her—but he hadn’t even acknowledged her with so much as a smile. It was as if she had ceased to exist and was just a stranger.
She’d grown up that day. There had been no more daydreams of a happy-ever-after. And she supposed it had made her into the person she was today—independent and a realist. Certainly not the type to be drawn to a man just because of his looks.
Marco had finished his conversation and was packing some of his papers away.
‘We have about twenty minutes before we land,’ he said to her suddenly. ‘Would you like a drink?’
Even before she answered him he was summoning one of the cabin crew.
‘I’ll have a whisky, please, Michelle,’ he said easily as a member of staff appeared instantly beside him. Then he looked over at Isobel enquiringly.
‘Just an orange juice, please.’
Marco turned his chair around to face her and she felt as if she was in a sophisticated bar somewhere—not on an aircraft heading out to the Mediterranean.
‘We seem to be ahead of schedule,’ Marco said as he looked at his watch. ‘Which means we will be arriving before it gets dark. That’s good. It will give you a chance to catch a little of the spectacular scenery along the coastline.’
‘That would be nice. I can add a description of arriving at your house to my article. Do you live far from Nice Airport?’
‘My residence is nearer to the Italian border—about half an hour’s drive away. But we will be flying into my private airstrip just ten minutes away from the house.’
‘You have your own airstrip?’
‘Yes. Sometimes the roads are very busy getting in and out of Nice, so it frees up a little time—makes life easier.’ He shrugged in that Latin way of his.
‘You are a man in a hurry,’ she reflected wryly, and he laughed.
‘It’s certainly true that there are never enough hours in the day.’
He had a very attractive laugh, and his eyes were warm as they fell on her—so warm, in fact, that for a moment she found herself forgetting what she wanted to say next.
The stewardess brought their drinks. Isobel noticed how she smiled at Marco when he thanked her.
He probably had that affect on every woman he looked at, she thought.
She was about to pour some orange juice into her glass, but he did it for her. ‘I take it you don’t drink?’ he asked conversationally as he passed her glass over to her.
‘Thanks. I do, but not when I’m working.’ She forced herself to sound businesslike. OK, jetting into the South of France with this man was probably every woman’s dream, but she had to stay focused. Marco Lombardi wasn’t the type of man to relax with. He was too smooth…too practised at getting exactly what he wanted. And what he wanted from her was probably to lull her into a false sense of alliance so that she would write about how wonderful he was. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t that easily fooled.
She just wished he wouldn’t look at her with such close attention. She sat up rigidly in her seat, ramrod-straight, and tried to cultivate a definite no-nonsense look in her eyes. ‘So, do you travel around the world a lot in your private jet?’
‘You sound like you are going to shine a light in my eyes and cross-examine me on my carbon footprint,’ he murmured in amusement.
‘Do I…? Well, that wasn’t my intention.’ She shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. ‘I’m just trying to gather a few facts about you for my readers, that’s all.’
‘Hmm…’ He lounged back and looked at her for a long moment, and she could feel her heart suddenly starting to speed up.
‘Tell me, do you ever relax?’ he asked.
The suddenly personal question took her aback. ‘Yes, of course I do, Mr Lombardi. But as I said, not—’
‘When you are working.’ He finished the sentence for her, a gleam of amusement in his expression. ‘OK, that’s fine. But I’ve got a suggestion to make. I think, as we are about to spend a few days and nights together at my home, that we should drop the formalities—don’t you?’
The words combined with that sexy Italian accent made alarm bells start to ring inside her. Did he have to make the situation sound quite so…intimate? she wondered apprehensively.
‘So