Sophie and the Scorching Sicilian Read Free

talent for anything academic, or for that matter anything sporting at Westfields, and she had often wished she’d had the guts to run away from the place like Kat. But instead she had kept a low profile and waited for the day she could leave.
    Amber held up a hand and shook her head. ‘I’m sure they’re excellent.’
    Want to bet? Sophie thought, and smiled.
    â€˜A high level of girls from Westfields go to Oxbridge. My cousin’s daughter graduates next summer—she adores it. Which university did you attend?’
    â€˜Actually, I didn’t go to university.’
    The pencilled brows lifted.
    â€˜I did a home-study course,’ she explained, wondering if she ought to say she passed with flying colours.
    â€˜How…nice.’
    Sophie watched her boss struggle to smile; clearly her dad had been economic with the details when he wangled her a job with his ex-flame.
    â€˜Well, Sophie, what are we going to do with you?’
    From her expression Sophie was thinking it possible that vanish was her first choice.
    â€˜You may be talented…’
    Sophie knew she ought to rush into this doubtful pause and confidently announce she was actually not just talented but a bit of a genius, but selling herself was not her thing.
    â€˜â€¦but it’s not enough to have talent…’
    â€˜It isn’t?’
    â€˜Of course not, this is a very competitive market and we have to do everything. Appearances, I’m afraid, are equally important. Our clients expect a certain… You know, I think you’d be happier working behind the scenes.’
    â€˜So you want me to work behind the scenes?’
    Sophie, who knew this translated as I can’t risk having a client see you , was not offended; this was the best news she had had all day.
    Unbending slightly as it became clear Sophie was not going to be difficult, Amber inclined her head in assent. ‘You know, my dear, you should smile more often. It makes you look almost pretty.’

CHAPTER TWO
    M ARCO left his car and walked the last mile up the winding driveway that led to the palazzo that had been in his family for centuries.
    In his pocket he carried the heavy key to the massive front door that he had locked a year ago.
    Locked and walked away from without a backward glance. At the time he had told himself the gesture was symbolic; he had been locking the door on his mistakes, his humiliation, his broken marriage.
    He had told himself that it was about moving forward, leaving the past behind and getting on with his life. It was logical to channel his energies, to streamline. Streamlining , he mused with a contemptuous grimace, had a much more palatable ring to it than running away .
    His strategy might have been based on self-delusion but his goal had been financial gain and it had worked.
    Cutting himself off from the multitude of society social events that he had always believed his duty to attend, as guardian of the ancient name of Speranza, had left him with more time to devote to new business ventures—and they had been successful beyond the most wildly optimistic predictions.
    No longer required by a moral code—outdated but genetically imprinted—to respect his marriage vows even while his wife hadflaunted her infidelities, Marco had found time to date, though date perhaps implied an intimacy that went beyond the bedroom, and his liaisons with a series of attractive women had not.
    If he was aware of a certain post-coital emptiness Marco felt no desire to fill the void with any emotional complications. Emptiness was a lot easier to live with than romantic involvement, and not being the certifiably insane romantic he had been when he had married Allegra, there was no way he was about to hand some woman his heart so that she could stomp on it with her delicate heels.
    No, that part of his new life was no mistake, but running away from his responsibilities had been; he could see that now. He owed a