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Who indeed? Women who'd had their hearts broken didn't count—or rather, their feelings weren't up for consideration in the big, brash world of finance.
She had been caught on the back foot—feeling not only cheated but shocked by her near-lover's reappearance. But even if she'd known that Cesare was about to dramatically reappear in her life would it have actually changed anything, other than allowing her time to prepare her response to him?
And would that response have been any different? Could it have been? Even if she had been the greatest actress in the world and pinned the brightest smile to her lips that wouldn't have changed the uncomfortable cocktail of emotions he had stirred up, would it?
Rupert sighed. 'I'm sorry, Sorcha—but, whatever your private opinion of Cesare, nobody can deny the man's reputation as a sharpshooter.'
'Don't you mean an egotistical control freak who can't keep it in his trousers?' she questioned bitterly.
'Rule one of business’ drawled a velvety voice from behind her, and Sorcha whirled round to see Cesare walking into the room, a briefcase under his arm and a glint in his black eyes. 'Never badmouth your colleagues within earshot. Didn't they teach you that at business school, Sorcha?' He put the briefcase down on the vast desk. "What else is it that you English say? Walls have ears? Ciao, Rupert.'
Sorcha wanted to scream—feeling as if she'd just been given a walk-on part in someone else's life. That this couldn't really be happening. There was nowhere to look but at Cesare, but even if there had been she wondered if she'd be able to keep her eyes off him.
He was dressed to look as if he meant business, which meant a suit—but something in the way he wore it transformed it from the mere everyday garment which other men wore to work.
It looked cool enough to be linen and fine enough to be silk, exquisitely cut in the Italian style—loose-fitting and utterly modern, yet hinting at the pure, hard muscle beneath. She found herself searching his face for dark shadows, wondering if he had gone home with the brunette last night, and it bothered her that she should even think about it—that it could make her heart contract with jealousy.
'You underhand swine! ' she accused. "Sorcha! ' choked her brother.
There wasn't a flicker of reaction on Cesare's face. 'Rupert—would you mind going on ahead to the factory?' he said evenly. 'I'll join you just as soon as I can.'
'Sure thing’ said Rupert, who seemed glad of the escape route.
'Oh, and Rupert?'
"Mmm?"
'I may be a little time' Cesare murmured, his black eyes fixed unwavering on Sorcha.
'Yeah.'
There was a pin-drop silence while Rupert left the room and closed the door behind him, and Cesare put his hands on his narrow hips and looked at her.
Way back he had vetoed mixing business with pleasure, and he wouldn't usually have been turned on by a woman wearing severely cut office clothes, but in Sorcha's case it was different. He felt a nerve flicker in his cheek.
Two top buttons of her plain silk shirt were unbuttoned, showing a sliver of a gold chain with a pearl attached which dipped invitingly towards the shadow of her cleavage. A classic pencil skirt clung to the pert line of her 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 mag tea?' he mocked. 'Aren't you a little old to believe in fairytales? No. But I have a few ideas.'
‘I will 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. ’
