bottom and skated down over her thighs. Cesare wondered how he could have forgotten the slender curve of her hips, or how long and rangy her legs were—especially in those high heels.
She was like a very classy racehorse—all athletic power and stamina sheathed by sheer elegance. A woman in peak and very beautiful condition. Why the hell hadn’t he just had her when he’d had the opportunity, guaranteeing her nothing but a postscript in the catalogue of his sexual experience?
‘I think that you and I need to have a little talk, don’t you, cara?’ he questioned silkily.
Sorcha’s heart was pounding. Yesterday at the wedding, when he had told her that he had been brought in, it had been nothing more than a theoretical nightmare. Today, however, it was harsh reality, with him standing beside the shiny table her father had used to sit at as if he were born to stand there—arrogantly wielding all the power. But she was not going to let him intimidate her.
‘You’ve come up with a magic solution to all our problems, have you, Cesare?’
‘Soluzione magica?’ he mocked. ‘Aren’t you a little old to believe in fairytales? No. But I have a few ideas.’
I’ll bet you do. Sorcha stared at him stonily as he pulled out a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and flicked through them until he found the ones he was looking for. Then he leaned forward and spread them out on the table like a card-dealer, looking up at her with a question in his glittering ebony eyes. ‘You have studied all these figures which highlight the company’s decline with heartbreaking accuracy?’
‘Of course I have.’
‘Really?’ His eyes burned into her, his lips curving around his cold, judgemental words. ‘And what course of action do you propose we take to halt the downturn?’
He was enjoying this, Sorcha realised furiously. In the same way that a policeman might enjoy interrogating a guilty suspect or a sadist might enjoy pulling the wings off a butterfly. And he would enjoy it even more if she allowed him to see that he was getting to her. So she wouldn’t.
It was easier said than done. She moved her shoulders edgily. ‘I’m looking into sales movements, distribution patterns, rises and falls in trading—you know. The usual thing.’
‘Yes. Precisely. Hashing over the past. The usual thing,’ he agreed, leaping on her phrase and repeating it with icy sarcasm. ‘But innovation is everything in business—you must know that, Sorcha. Working for the family firm doesn’t mean you have to undergo a common sense bypass.’
‘You think you’re very clever, don’t you, Cesare?’
‘I think that’s a given,’ he retorted softly. ‘But this has nothing to do with ego or brains, and everything to do with achievement!’
His eyes were blazing now, and even though he was revelling in the mutinous expression on her lovely face it was by no means what motivated him. Because—no matter what unfinished business there was between him and Sorcha Whittaker—this was all about pride, and a very different kind of pride from the one she had wounded by her refusal to marry him.
He had taken on this task and it was a challenge—and Cesare was a man who always rose to a challenge and conquered it.
The Whittaker scheme interested him only in the way in which an overfed cat might be mildly interested in a small mouse which had foolishly strayed into its path. But the venture afforded him the delicious opportunity to seduce the only woman he’d ever asked to marry. Turning around the ailing company was a purely secondary consideration, and he knew that he could easily afford to fail. In fact, lesser men might have got some perverse kind of pleasure from seeing her made broke.
But even if he hadn’t been loyal to Rupert, Cesare’s nature and his need to succeed were such that he would not tolerate failure—of any kind—and didn’t his relationship with Sorcha represent just that? Surely the ultimate satisfaction would be to bed her, win the praise of her family by reviving their fortunes, and make a packet for himself into the bargain? Put her for ever in his debt before walking away—this time for good, giving her the rest of her life to reflect on what she could have had. Yes. A perfect plan.
Prendere due piccioni con una fava.
To kill two birds with one stone…
He sighed. Si.
His raised his eyes, enjoying the frustration which she was failing to hide. ‘Rupert has been trying to drum up more trade—but you’ve got a brain in your head, Sorcha. Didn’t it occur to you to put it to use to try and work out why the products aren’t selling?’
‘You think it’s that easy?’
He shook his dark head. ‘Not easy, no. Simple, yes. Sit down.’
She hesitated, and then perched on the edge of the boardroom table instead of pulling out one of the chairs which stood around it. His eyes mocked her.
‘Demonstrating your equality?’ he murmured.
‘You wouldn’t know equality if it reached out and bit you!’
Laughing softly, he sat down in one of the soft leather chairs and leaned back to look at her, wondering if she would have chosen such a highly visible vantage point if she had realised the view it gave him of her derrière. Or that the material of her skirt was stretched so tightly over her bottom that he could see the faint outline of a thong.
His resulting erection made him wince. Serves you right, he thought, as he reached down into his briefcase. ‘I’ve been going back through the Whittakers advertising budget over the past year—’
‘It would be madness to cut the budget,’ she interjected quickly.
‘I’m not suggesting we do—please don’t put words in my mouth,’ he snapped. Put your breast in my mouth instead. His erection grew even harder as he pulled out a copy of a popular women’s magazine. ‘Take a look at this.’
She did as he asked, glad to have the opportunity to look away from that hard and fascinating face and concentrate on something other than the soft, warm coil of desire which was slowly unfurling in the pit of her stomach.
Why couldn’t she just be impartial to him—good looks or no good looks? She’d met men who were almost as hunky as Cesare—though it was true that they didn’t seem to have his inbuilt arrogance, or the ability to be in charge of a situation wherever he happened to be at the time.
She didn’t want to feel anything other than maybe a vaguely grown-up sensation of There’s the man I thought I was in love with—the man who asked me to marry him. She wanted to feel that thing you were supposed to feel when you looked at someone from a past which seemed very dim and distant—that she was looking at a complete stranger. So why didn’t she?
Trying to quell the tremble in her fingers, she flicked through the magazine he had given her. There was a big spread on a former weathergirl’s latest attempt to conquer her weight problem, with a few tantalising insights as to why she was attracted to violent men, there were gossip items and recipes, a problem page and a fashion shoot, and—amongst the other advertisements—an ad for Whittakers.
Sorcha had grown up seeing bottles of the family sauce plastered over various publications since
