Flame Of Desire. Carole Mortimer

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      Sophie’s anger had been increasing by the second. What did this girl mean by these remarks about her stepmother? Of course Rosemary was looking forward to her weekend guests’ arrival, but why should the model imply that she was especially looking forward to Luke Vittorio being there? She didn’t like the implication behind that at all—or the implication that she was a brat.

      He turned back to her. ‘So you will not tell me where you live?’

      ‘There’s no need.’ He would know soon enough! And so would Eve Jeffers, although she felt sure the other girl wouldn’t give a damn.

      ‘Very well,’ he nodded curtly, before turning and walking away.

      Sophie watched the car speed out of sight before making some attempt to straighten the handlebars on her bicycle. They wouldn’t straighten up completely, but at least it was rideable now. She would get Martin to have a look at it when she reached home.

      The Mercedes was parked alongside several other cars in the driveway as she pedalled round to the back of the house to enter through the kitchen. Her stepmother would never forgive her if she let any of the guests see her like this.

      Joycy was arranging the tea things as she came into the room, but stopped what she was doing to stare at Sophie. ‘What happened to you?’

      She put a selfconscious hand up to her hair. ‘Nothing. Why?’

      ‘Your face is covered in dirt. What have you been doing?’

      ‘I had a slight accident on my bicycle,’ Sophie admitted sheepishly.

      ‘Again?’ Joycy shook her head. ‘I’ve told you so many times not to use that contraption. It wobbles terribly and the brakes don’t work properly.’

      Sophie knew that, now. If the brakes had been working properly she wouldn’t have come off the damn thing. ‘Perhaps Martin could take a look at it for me.’ Martin was Joycy’s husband, and her father’s chauffeur and butler.

      Joycy laughed. ‘If I remember correctly the last time he looked at it he told you it was ready for the scrap heap.’

      ‘But I have to have transport of some kind.’

      ‘Martin is the chauffeur.’

      ‘Transport of my own,’ Sophie said patiently. ‘While you take the tea things into the lounge I think I’ll try and sneak up to my room.’ She ran one of her dusty hands down her denims. ‘I’m not really presentable.’

      ‘You certainly aren’t! You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?’

      ‘Only dented my pride a little. Flying over the handlebars of a bike isn’t exactly the height of elegance.’

      Joycy frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look a little pale.’

      Sophie grinned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind one or two of your delicious scones to tide me over until dinner.’

      ‘There can’t be much wrong with you if you still have your appetite.’ Joycy picked up the tray in preparation to leaving. ‘You know where they are.’

      Sophie took two of the still warm scones out of the tin, buttering them hurriedly before making her way to her room. She was going to look her very best tonight, show Luke Vittorio exactly what he would be turning down when he refused to paint her. She would show him that it wasn’t only women like Eve Jeffers and her stepmother who could look beautiful. She could look quite attractive herself if she really tried, and tonight she intended trying.

      She washed her hair first, drying it before she took a long leisurely bath. She came out of the bathroom smelling deliciously of pine bath-oil, the delicate perfume absorbed into her skin. The next thing to do was curl and style her hair, the natural staightness of it soon taking on a more attractive wave, two wings of hair pulled back at her temples from the centre parting to be secured loosely by two gold slides. The simplicity of the style emphasised her high cheekbones, enlarging her wide violet eyes.

      She wasn’t the sort of girl who usually bothered with all the feminine foibles, spending most of her life as a tomboy, but today she was making a special effort. She manicured and painted her nails a light peach colour before applying a light powdering of make-up, the lip gloss she wore exactly matching the nail varnish and the dress she had decided to wear. Her eyelashes were naturally long and dark, but she applied a light dusting of brown eye-shadow to add depth.

      The peach dress was one her stepmother had taken her out and bought for her on one of her rare visits up to see her in town. Rosemary had indulged her for once, preening visibly as the saleswoman assumed them to be sisters.

      The gown was Grecian in style, with a wide band of silver brocade surrounding her narrow waist. The light tan she had acquired during the last couple of months was shown to advantage against the peach chiffon, a thin delicate gold chain about her throat the only jewellery she wore.

      What her stepmother and father would make of this transition she could only guess, but for all her natural poise and confidence it took great effort to go down to dinner that evening.

      She smiled politely at several of the people she recognised who were gathered in the lounge, accepting the sherry Martin handed her with a broad wink in his direction. He frowned at her levity before turning away. Dear Martin, how she loved to tease him!

      Luke Vittorio was already deeply engrossed in conversation with a group of people on the other side of the room, although perhaps that wasn’t quite the right description. There was a tolerant smile on his dark face, but Sophie felt sure he regarded the woman talking to him with amused contempt. It was there in his eyes, in his very stance, and Sophie felt sorry for the woman as she obviously tried to make an impression on him.

      He looked even more attractive than he had this afternoon, the blue velvet jacket fitting tautly across his wide powerful shoulders, the white shirt flamboyantly frilled at the front although not effeminately so. He wore black trousers, his legs long and muscular beneath the fitted material.

      ‘So we meet again after all.’

      She turned sharply at the sound of that huskily accented voice, the man she had been talking to drifting off as he knew himself overshadowed by the other man. As she had been standing with her back towards him she had no idea how Luke Vittorio had known it was her.

      She gave him a cool nod. ‘Mr Vittorio.’

      ‘Please, call me Luke,’ he invited smoothly. ‘And I may call you—–?’

      ‘You may call me—–’

      ‘Ah, Luke,’ her stepmother came over to them, extraordinarily beautiful in the flowing red figure-hugging gown. ‘I see you’ve met my little Sophie.’

      Sophie cringed, feeling about five years old. But then her stepmother would probably have preferred it if she were, much less ageing to herself. She looked up into the narrowed brown eyes of Luke Vittorio with defiance. ‘Mr Vittorio and I haven’t yet introduced ourselves, Mummy,’ and she gave him a challenging smile.

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