chair.’ Sophie was not sure if she spoke out loud or not. ‘But not in here.’ A great piece but it just didn’t mesh with the rest of the decor.
‘Always the critic. Water.’ She had lost all colour and her intense pallor brought the vivid blue of her eyes into sharp contrast.
His lean dark features blurred before her eyes as she shook her head; even blurred he looked pretty incredible. ‘I’m not thirsty.’
‘If you drink this I will burn the damn chair.’ Marco took her fingers and folded them around the glass before guiding it to her lips and saying harshly, ‘Drink!’
Left with little choice she obeyed him.
‘Better?’ he asked, touching his thumb to a small trickle of water at the corner of her mouth.
The soft touch sent a secret shiver down her spine. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, hoping that the breathiness in her voice was down to her wobbly moment and not the light touch.
Much to Sophie’s relief his hand fell away from her face, but his disturbing hard emerald gaze lingered another few uncomfortable moments on her mouth.
‘Well, you don’t look it.’
Her chin went up. ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, utterly mortified by this display of weakness. ‘Totally fine. I just…Don’t burn the chair—it’s very nice…’
‘But it offends your aesthetic sensitivities in this setting.’
‘I’m not sensitive.’ As to contradict this statement her nerve endings acted in an inappropriate and over-the-top—actually painful—way to the faint brush of his fingertips against the inside of her wrist as he relinquished his supportive grip on the glass.
‘I don’t make a habit of almost fainting. It’s just…I can’t skip meals.’
She seemed perfectly serious and Marco, who was accustomed to women who only ate carbs on days without a D in them, glanced towards the crumbs on the empty plate.
Sophie intercepted the direction of his gaze and said defensively, ‘That was not a proper meal—it was sandwiches.’
The twitch of his lips suggested she was about to lose the credibility she had struggled so hard to establish so Sophie plunged on without pause, veering sharply away from the subject of her appetite that was as unfashionable as her figure.
‘We can do the job, and we can do it well. Check out our track record.’
He still looked distracted, probably shocked by the idea of a woman actually eating…The article she had read on the plane had included a large and growing back catalogue of disposable girlfriends, none of whom looked like they had ever eaten a full meal in their lives. Clearly, they considered starvation not too high a price to pay for being seen on the arm of someone as famous and rich as Marco Speranza, she thought cynically.
Her cynicism wobbled slightly as her glance moved over the strong angular contours of his face, coming to rest on the firm sensual curve of his mouth.
He had money and fame but he also had animal magnetism oozing out of his perfect pores—and he had that mouth.
Maybe they weren’t so stupid.
You’re staring at his mouth, Sophie.
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