.

had been wearing charity-shop clothes for years.

      Sophie had joined in the laughter, even inviting further hilarity by comparing the practicality and comfort of the sports bras she favoured with push ups that consisted of a few scraps of lace. But later in her own room she had looked at her wardrobe, filled with the sorts of clothes—or tents in boring colours, as Annie had once described her style—that made her glamorous sisters despair, and she hadn’t smiled.

      The tent situation was not accidental, but her taller, slimmer sisters who did not have breasts that made men snigger and stare would not have understand her decision to hide her ample bosom under voluminous tops.

      In a family famed for beauty, grace and wit—the very things that Sophie had missed out on—she had, presumably by way of compensation, been given instead the clumsy gene. A nuisance…yes, but to Sophie’s way of thinking not as much of a blight as having heads turn when you walked into a room the way they did automatically for her sisters.

      A Balfour girl who disliked the limelight—a Balfour girl…how she hated that phrase—who was not witty or beautiful, made her something of a freak.

      So much so that Sophie sometimes wondered if the real Balfour baby had been left at the hospital the day they brought her home—but she had the Balfour blue eyes, the same piercing Balfour blue of her father’s eyes.

      For the average Balfour, being the centre of attention was as commonplace as breathing and something that they took as much for granted.

      It was Sophie’s idea of hell.

      But she had a solution. It had taken her time but at twenty-three she had just about perfected the art of fading into the background. Being short and on the dumpy side gave her a head start, so now the only time strangers noticed her was when she managed to trip over her own feet, or spill something.

      She did both in graceful unison when a voice behind her said, ‘Can I help you?’

      Sophie yelped, spun around and dropped her bag on the waxed floorboards. A tall blonde woman dressed in a snug-fitting red sheath that showed off her slim figure watched, one brow raised, as Sophie dropped to her knees and began to pick up the coins that had tipped out of her purse.

      ‘Sorry…I…’ Pushing her hair back from her flushed face Sophie held out her hand.

      The woman looked at it with a lack of enthusiasm.

      Sophie dropped her arm. ‘I’m Sophie…Sophie Balfour—I’m meant to be here…working…I…My father…’

      ‘You are Sophie Balfour?’ The blonde woman looked openly sceptical.

      Sophie who had encountered this response before nodded and repressed the impulse to say, No, I’m an impostor! I kidnapped the real Sophie Balfour! ‘Yes. I think you were expecting me.’

      ‘I was expecting…’

      The woman didn’t finish the sentence; she didn’t need to. It was no struggle to fill in the blanks—she’d been expecting someone with glamour and style.

      And she got me.

      The blonde compressed her red-painted lips. If there had been any movement possible in her forehead—Sophie had seen more lines on a newborn baby than on this woman’s smooth face—she would definitely have been frowning, but she made a quick recovery and produced a strained smile.

      ‘I’m Amber Charles. Your father tells me you’re very talented.’

      Sophie gave a self-deprecating shrug, but there was animation in her expression as she admitted, ‘I enjoy colour and texture…’ She stopped, the animation fading when she realised that the svelte designer was regarding the colour and texture of her outfit with a look of growing horror.

      She glanced down, genuinely not sure what she was wearing.

      ‘I’ve got my CV.’ Her school grades would not put an admiring light in the other woman’s eyes.

      Sophie had shown no 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.

      ‘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?’

      ‘Actually, I didn’t go to university.’

      The pencilled brows lifted.

      ‘I did a home-study course,’ she explained, wondering if she ought to say she passed with flying colours.

      ‘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.

      ‘Well, Sophie, what are we going to do with you?’

      From her expression Sophie was thinking it possible that vanish was her first choice.

      ‘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.

      ‘…but it’s not enough to have talent…’

      ‘It isn’t?’

      ‘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.’

      ‘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

      MARCO 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 had flaunted 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