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 you can call me Marco,’ he continued without waiting for a reply, ‘and I’ll call you Izzy. ‘
‘Actually, nobody calls me Izzy,’ she interrupted.
‘Good. I like to be different.’
He smiled as he noticed the fire in her eyes, the flare of heightened colour in her cheeks. It was strange, but he found himself enjoying rattling that cool edge of reserve that she seemed determined to hide behind. ‘We’ll be starting our descent into the sunny Côte d’Azur in a few minutes, and it is not the continental way to be so uptight,’ he added.
‘I’m not uptight, Mr Lombardi—’
‘Marco,’ he corrected her softly. ‘Go on you can say it… Marco…’ He enunciated the name playfully, his Italian accent rolling attractively over it.
‘OK…Marco.’ She shrugged, and then for good measure added, ‘Now you try ISOBEL…’ She rolled her tongue over her name with the same emphasis, and then slanted him a defiant look that made him laugh.
‘You see? You are getting into the continental spirit of things already,’ he teased.
Their eyes held for a moment, then he smiled at her.
It was the oddest thing, but she suddenly felt a most disturbing jolt in the pit of her stomach—as if she had stepped off a cliff and was plummeting fast to the ground.
‘Anyway, I…I think we are getting a bit off track,’ she murmured, trying desperately to gather her senses again.
‘Are we?’
‘Yes, it’s best…you know…to keep things strictly businesslike.’
There was a defensive, almost fierce glitter in her eyes now as she looked at him, but there was also an underlying glimmer of vulnerability. It was almost as if she was scared of lowering her guard around him, he thought suddenly.
The notion intrigued him, and for a moment his gaze moved over the creamy perfection of her skin, the cupid’s bow of her mouth, then lower to the full soft curves of her figure hidden beneath that buttoned up blouse.
Their eyes met again, and she looked even more self-conscious.
Was it an act or not? There was something very alluring about that mix of wide-eyed innocence and hostile attitude. As if she could give as good as she could get—a wary kitten that might purr most agreeably if handled correctly.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind it irritated him! She was a member of the press—and there was nothing vulnerable about a journalist who was hungry for
