Sophie and the Scorching Sicilian by Kim Lawrence

as ignorant of her family history—at least, some of the recent parts—as he had allowed her to think he found this circumstance nothing short of amazing.
    Part of him had clung to the belief that the wholesome innocence thing was part of an act, but nobody, he realised now, was that good an actress.
    As he watched, she reached out and touched the bed with her hand, in doing so turning a little so that she presented her profile rather than her back to him. At some point since they had parted she had gathered her hair into a haphazard knot on the back of her head, dragging it from her face and revealing a profile that was classically pure.
    But it was not her face that Marco’s eyes were glued to; it was her body, for her hair was not the only change. The mushroom-coloured shirt that had enveloped her diminutive frame from shoulder to knee was gone.
    The jeans underneath were utilitarian rather than fashionable and were also ill fitting—no surprise there. The surprise was that Sophie Balfour had a waist, and one that he could have spanned with his hands.
    Had Marco felt inclined to mix business with pleasure it would be a pleasure to explore that body, because if the waist had been a shock the rest of her was a total and utter jaw-dropping revelation. Under her tent-like uniforms his interior designer had been hiding a body that invited sinful speculation.
    An hourglass that would put any pin-up to shame. Below the tiny waist her hips flared full and feminine, and above… A silent sigh locked in his throat as his hot gaze moved over the outline of her full breasts, revealed in a skimpy vest affair that left very little to the imagination.
    Despite this, his imagination remained active.
    His fingers flexed and he felt the gush of hot desire tighten in his belly, as in his mind he traced a path over that soft warm skin and sensuous inviting curves.
    And why resist the invitation they offered? he asked himself. Why rule out the possibility of enjoying that warm, womanly invitation?
    Why?
    There was shock in his shadowed emerald eyes as he shook his head, a hard ironic smile of self-mockery tugging the corners of his sensual mouth upwards as he followed her actions with his eyes. Still oblivious to his presence, she angled another guilty glance at the ceiling.
    Why?
    Why not mix business with pleasure? Why become involved with a woman—no, a girl —who probably still believes in the Easter bunny and true love and blushes like a virgin?
    That he had been tempted, however briefly, meant he was clearly losing his mind. Mental note, Marco, make more time in your schedule for sex with a woman who understood that sex was physical not spiritual, a pleasure enjoyed and walked away from.
    Sophie Balfour, who could only show passion for a colour chart, was clearly not such a woman, though she equally clearly had potential.
    It was that potential, that inner untapped core of passion he had glimpsed in her, that had both tempted him and swung his decision.
    A man who did ignite the dormant passion that smouldered in those big blue eyes might consider the inevitable complications worth it… He was not such a man.
    He turned, his intention to walk away unseen, when she gave a deep little laugh. The husky sound had an earthy tactile quality that stopped Marco in his tracks.
    As he watched, her body language changed to a combination of defiance and mischief. She kicked off her shoes andcrawled into the middle of the bed before stretching out on her back. Then, as though overcome by the sheer audacity of her actions, she lay there staring at her reflection, her ribcage rising and falling in tune to the rapid breaths that pushed her breasts against the stretchy fabric of her vest.
    Â 
    There was an illicit thrill about lying here in the bed, but the thrill soured when she realised that Marco might have shared it with his beautiful ex-wife.
    Her heart beat hard against her breastbone as she lay there, not seeing her