Emily: Sex and Sensibility (13 page)

This building wasn’t a hotel she’d ever seen before. She reminded herself that she hadn’t been in Paris in a very long time.

A semicircular drive. A building made of gray stone. Bright blue awnings. Flower boxes filled with yellow chrysanthemums. And a doorman who beamed from ear to ear as they approached a set of wide brass doors.

“Monsieur Santini! Bienvenue!”

Marco ginned.
“Bonjour, Cristoffe. Comment allez vous?”

“Bien, monsieur, très bien.”

Marco put his hand lightly in the small of Emily’s back.

“Cristoffe, c’est Madame Madison. Elle est mon aide.
Emily, this is Cristoffe. He is—”

“Bonjour, Cristoffe,”
Emily said, and she and the delighted doorman chatted in French while he opened the doors to a lobby that was as charming as it was handsome, done in polished wood and gleaming marble floors.

The staff greeted Marco like an old friend; he introduced her and everyone nodded and smiled and shook her hand before a bellman led them to a cage of brightly polished brass, the kind of elevator she’d always associated with Paris.

It took them to the tenth floor.

The doors opened directly onto the lounge of their suite.

The bellman who’d accompanied them assured them that their luggage would arrive shortly. Marco thanked him politely, discreetly handed over a tip that made the man’s smile even wider, and waved him out.

“Well?” Marco said, once they were alone, “what do you think?”

What did she think? Emily walked slowly through the lounge, skating one finger over an ormolu clock, brushing her hand lightly across the back of a beautiful Louis XIII chair. He didn’t know it, of course, but she’d been in a lot of upscale, elegant hotel suites—and this outshone them all.

“I think—I think this is absolutely beautiful. What’s the name of the hotel?”

“La Boîte à Bijoux.”

“The Jewel Box. Oh, that’s perfect!”

He nodded, his gaze wary, his answering smile hesitant.

“Is it new?”

“It went up four years ago.”

She walked to a pair of French doors that gave onto a small terrace enclosed by window boxes filled with more bright yellow chrysanthemums. A pair of wicker chairs were drawn up to a round table topped by a glass-enclosed candle and a small vase that held yellow roses and tulips.

Beyond, the Eiffel Tower rose against a perfect blue sky.

Emily stepped onto the terrace. She turned toward him, her face bright with pleasure. “What a wonderful place!”

His smile became a little more certain.

“The terraces are my favorite part. There are two more, one off the master bedroom and another off the dining room. Because of the way the suite was constructed, there’s a 360 degree view of Paris. The tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The Palais Royale…” He gave a small laugh. “Listen to me. I sound like a travelogue.”

“You sound like a man who understands how lucky people are to stay in such a beautiful suite. I can imagine who does stay in it. Kings. Princes. Presidents.”

“Actually,” he said, color creeping into his face, “I am its only occupant. The suite is mine.”

“Really?”

Marco smiled. How little it took to make her happy, he thought, and heard himself say what he had surely not intended to say.

“Actually, the entire hotel is mine. I built it.”

Her eyes widened. With shock? No, he realized. With delight.

“I designed it, too,” he said because, what the hell, why not go for the bottom line?

“You mean the furnishings?”

“
Dio,
not that! Did I want armchairs? Slipper chairs? What does a slipper have to do with a chair?” Emily laughed and he laughed along with her. “What I designed was the building. It was an easy step. I’d become more and more interested in the planning of structures, not just putting them up, so when I started thinking about expanding my company, I decided to take a deep breath and—”

“And?”

And, what? What was he doing?

The details were surely boring to anyone but him

The hotel had begun as a one-shot, a practical way to establish his corporate name in the commercial heart of a great European city, but somewhere along the way, he’d found himself taking an interest in it that went beyond schematics and cost projections.

Now, he had other boutique hotels on the drawing board. The industry knew about MS Enterprises’ new venture, but he’d kept the depth of his involvement private.

A man made himself vulnerable if he made the mistake of letting people know more than was necessary about him.

“And?” Emily said again.

Marco cleared his throat.

“And, I’m pleased with how things turned out.”

She laughed. “Come on, Marco. Pleased? You must be delighted.”

“Well,” he said cautiously, “well, yes. I guess you could say that.”

“Absolutely, you could say that.” She threw her head back, drew in a long breath of air. “I’d forgotten the smell of Paris,” she said softly. “Old, wonderful, so lovely.”

Lovely, indeed.

Her sculpted profile. The graceful line of her throat. The glint of sunlight streaking her hair, not loose as he would have wished it but at least only barely constrained today in a flowing ponytail.

Desire twisted inside him. Hunger. And something more.

The feeling stunned him. He caught his breath.

Then he caught his sanity.

“We’re running late.”

Emily looked at him. The expression of delight on her face faded. He wanted to take back his gruff words, wanted to tell her that he wasn’t angry, that he was,
Dio,
that he was a man standing on some kind of precipice.

Instead, he looked at his watch as if it held the answers to all the mysteries of the universe.

“Very late,” he said, even more gruffly. “The bedrooms are down the hall. The one with the pale pink walls will be yours.”

He’d hurt her by being so abrupt; he could see it in her eyes.

“The clothes I mentioned… they’ll be in your dressing room.”

“I’ll need things from my suitcase.”

“It will be here shortly, but as I already told you, what you will wear this evening is in your dressing room.”

So much for her eyes showing hurt. What they showed now was anger. Good. He could deal with her anger. It was her other emotions that were a problem.

“Thank you for making all these decisions without consulting me.”

“We had this discussion on the plane. There was no need to consult you. I provide you with a clothing allowance, remember?”

“But not with your choice of clothing.
You
remember
that
in the future.”

Oh yes, she was definitely angry. That flash of fire in her eyes. That tilt to her chin. It made him want to go to her and pull her into his arms, kiss her until she clung to him, until neither of them could tell where he ended and she began.

Her door slammed. She was good at slamming doors, he thought, and almost laughed.

Instead, as slowly as if he were a man twice his age, Marco sank into a chair and put his head in his hands.

He had made a mistake. Forget the old bromide about never missing business with pleasure.

Even more true was what he’d realized from the start. Emily didn’t belong in his life. Perhaps it was more accurate to say that he didn’t belong in hers.

What had just happened, her open show of joy at something as simple as the terrace instead of asking endless questions about where they were dining, how many Michelin stars it would have, the name of the celebrity chef, the famous people they might see…

How could such an innocent survive in his world? How could the superficiality of it not affect her?

Yes, he wanted to take her to bed. And he could do it. The cold truth was that he knew women, knew how to read the little signals they gave.

Emily melted against him when he took her in his arms.

She sighed when he kissed her.

The sweet little whimpers she’d made during those few moments on the plane when he’d touched her breasts…

He could have her on her back in less time than it took to think about doing it.

She would be sweet and she would be shy; she would learn what he wanted from her, what he wanted to do to her, what he wanted her to do to him. She would learn, and turn to flame, and their affair would be like none he’d ever known.

And then he would end it.

He was man meant for mistresses.

Emily was a woman meant for one man, one love, forever.

Marco shot to his feet, paced to the terrace, stepped onto it and stared out over the soot-stained old chimney pots of Paris.

He had been wrong to hire her. To bring her here.

He would send her home.

As far as an assistant was concerned… he could manage. He could contact the offices he had in Milan. Surely, they had someone on staff who could fly here and do the job. Or he could contact a French employment agency and hire a temp. Neither solution would be ideal; he had no way of knowing if Milan or an agency would send him someone who was competent but the truth was, he still didn’t know the degree of Emily’s competence, either.

He only knew that he had to put her out of his life, the sooner the better.

Marco checked his watch again.

It was too late to telephone Milan, too late to seek out an employment agency. And he had a dinner engagement in,
Cristo
, in forty five minutes.

Quickly, he walked down the hall.

His bedroom adjoined hers.

He stepped inside, slammed the door—hell, one good slam deserved another—peeled off his shirt, toed off his mocs, yanked off his jeans and boxers.

His tux—well, one of his tuxes—was hanging in the dressing room. He kept hotel suites in several cities, each stocked with whatever clothes he might need. Life was simpler that way. More efficient. It was a plan he had worked out years ago.

He strode into the bathroom, turned on the multiple sprays in the glass-enclosed shower.

Emily, on the other hand, would have two gowns to choose from. Which would she pick? He’d made arranging for the clothes sound easy. In actual fact, he’d spent almost an hour on the phone, first with the concierge, then with the personal shopper she’d contacted at a shop on the Rue de Rivoli.

“I want a dress. No. Two dresses. Also shoes, handbags, whatever is necessary, delivered to my suite,” he’d said briskly.

But briskness had turned to confusion in a heartbeat. Did
monsieur
want morning dresses? Afternoon dresses? Or did he want gowns for the evening? Colors? Fabrics? And the shoes. Pumps? Sandals? Strappy sandals?

Strappy sandals? What in hell were strappy sandals?

The consultant had explained. She had also explained heel height. And, she’d added, would
monsieur
wish undergarments as well? Yes? Of what type? Lace? Silk? Full bras? Demi bras? Waist cincher corsets? Thongs? Bikinis? Panty hose? Thigh-high hose?

“Thongs,” he heard himself say. “Bras to match the thongs. Lace. Silk…”

He’d fallen silent.

“Monsieur?
Are you there?”

No. He wasn’t. He was in a place he wasn’t supposed to be, and he’d opened his eyes, rubbed his hand over his forehead.

“Whatever you think is appropriate,” he’d said gruffly.

Then he’d ended the call, his body one hard, endless knot of sexual frustration, his head filled with images of Emily in stilettos, a silk thong, sheer stockings.

And nothing else.

The same image was in his head now. Her bathroom adjoined his. He could hear the water in her shower beating against the marble floor. Another picture replaced the one in his head.

Emily, naked.

Beautiful.

High, tip-tilted breasts. Slender waist. Hips just right for his hands to grasp as he brought her body into hot contact with his.

And her face. That exquisite face. Blue eyes, liquid with desire as they met his. Rosy lips, parting as he brought his mouth to hers.

He saw himself draw her closer. Felt the silkiness of her nipples against his chest, the press of her pelvis against his belly.

His hands were in her hair, all that dark gold spilling over his fingers.

Her arms were around his neck as she lifted herself to him.

He groaned again, head falling back as he all but heard her cry of pleasure as he entered her, filled her, felt her heat close around him…

“Merda!”

Marco shuddered. His eyes flew open.

He had just disgraced himself in a way he had not done since he was a boy.

Shaken, he quickly turned all five shower heads to cold. Gasping, he lifted his face to the icy spray.

Tomorrow, first thing, he would make the necessary arrangements for a new assistant and then he would send Emily home. No. He would send her home, then make the calls. That way, he would not leave himself any possible reason to keep her here. He would pay her a month’s salary. Two months’.

The only thing he had to do was get through tonight.

Surely, he thought as he shut off the water and reached for a bath sheet, surely he was man enough to do that.

The gowns Emily found in her dressing room were… the only suitable word was stunning.

There were two, both made of silk. Long, slithery things that would skim her body, curve at her hips, follow the long line of her legs right down to her ankles.

One had sleeves. One didn’t. Not that it mattered. Both would leave her shoulders bare and her cleavage displayed.

And they were expensive.

Incredibly expensive. She’d have known that just by looking at them, even if they hadn’t hung in garment bags that carried the name of a shop any woman who’d ever read Vogue would recognize.

How ironic.

She had a closet full of expensive things at
El Sueño
. Not as expensive as this but expensive enough. She’d deliberately walked away from that life of extravagance, a life her father had insisted on and funded.

Now she was immersed in it again.

Yes, but this was different.

This wasn’t the general demanding that everything about his daughters be a positive reflection of him, his wealth and his status.

This was her employer requiring that his employee be properly dressed for a business function. He hadn’t been involved in choosing the gowns or the shoes, the evening purses or the two elegant little jackets, one of soft silver leather, the other of gold satin, hanging beside the gowns.

He’d made a phone call to the hotel concierge and she’d taken it from there.

There was nothing personal in any of this.

Only the underwear made that conclusion questionable.

The lingerie. No way could you call such tiny bits of lace and silk underwear. The bras, the thongs, the sheer hose were the stuff of dreams. Hot dreams.

Emily swallowed dryly.

Trust a French concierge to make choices like these. Because it surely could not have been her employer. He wouldn’t have asked for bras and thongs that made a woman think about a man slowly taking them off her.

A rap sounded at the bedroom door.

“Fifteen minutes,” Marco called.

That brusque tone did it. If she’d had any doubts as to who had chosen the lingerie, she didn’t any more.

Five minutes later, he knocked again. Pounded, was more like it.

Emily was ready.

Her suitcase had still not arrived, but the gorgeous marble vanity offered shampoos, soaps, body lotions, perfume, every possible little luxury, and she’d had lip gloss, mascara and a tiny sample thingy of eyeliner in her handbag. What she didn’t have was a hair clip.

When she opened the door, she was holding her hair back from her face with one hand.

“You don’t have to break it door down,” she said, “See? I’m—”

She never got to the “ready” part.

She was too busy staring at her boss.

His hair, still shower-damp, curled silkily against his head. His face was freshly-shaven. He was wearing a black tux, and if ever a man was made to wear a tux, this was the man.

He stared at her.

It was impossible to read his expression.

“You look,” he said, his eyes focusing on hers, “you look…”

What? Awful? Dreadful? Good? Bad?

“For God’s sake,” she said, “say something! Should I have worn the other—”

“Beautiful.”

His voice was low. Husky. He sounded exactly the way a woman wanted a man to sound when she’d dressed just for him.

Except, she’d reminded herself quickly, except she hadn’t dressed for him. She’d dressed for a dinner meeting. And he wasn’t a man. She wasn’t a woman. He was her employer. She was his employee.

“Thank you,” she said, a little breathlessly. “It’s the gown. The shoes. It isn’t—”

“But it is,” he said softly. “It is you, Emily. You are beautiful.”

Time seemed to do that thing everyone knew was impossible.

It stood still. And then, just when she thought she was going to tumble forward on these impossible, delicious heels and drown in Marco’s eyes, his cellphone rang.

His face darkened.

He wrenched the thing from his pocket, barked “What is it?” so harshly that she felt pity for the unfortunate soul on the other end.

He listened, nodded; his expression eased. When he disconnected, whatever had happened a moment ago was over.

“Charles is waiting.”

“Oh. I mean, good. I mean, I’m almost—”
Stop babbling, Emily! He’s calm. You should be, too.
“I just need to find something for my—”

“
Dio,
will you please stop fiddling with your hair?”

Maybe he wasn’t as calm as she’d thought. No matter. She didn’t like his tone of voice.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said. I am not fiddling with it, I’m fixing it. I’m trying to figure out a way to secure it because my suitcase still hasn’t arrived and I don’t have a barrette or a band and—”

“It won’t arrive.”

“What won’t arrive?”

“Your trunk.”

“It’s a suitcase.”

“It felt like a trunk.” Marco folded his arms. “And it will not be coming.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. Unfolded his arms. Examined his fingernails.

“I have informed Charles to return it to the plane.”

Emily’s eyes narrowed.

“I beg your—”

“If you say ‘I beg your pardon’ one more time,” he said in a low voice, “I will show you the only sure way you can beg me for whatever it is you want,
cara
.”

The warning flustered her. It also put a lick of flame low in her belly and she didn’t want to think about why that should have happened.

“Mr. Santini—”

He laughed. She blushed.

“Marco. That is my luggage. It holds my clothes. My—my stuff. You had no right—”

He waved his hand. Louis XIV could not have done it with more arrogance.

“Tomorrow, we buy you new clothes.”

“Tomorrow, we buy you new clothes,” Emily mimicked. “What are you talking about?”

“Do not mimic me. And do not look at me that way. The clothing allowance, remember?”

Emily let go of her hair. It was her turn to fold her arms. “You probably spent all of it already.”

“I spent what needed to be spent.”

“Really?” Her chin lifted. “You know, you never did tell me the amount of that allowance.”

“I did not tell you the amount of your health insurance, either.”

“It isn’t the same thing.”

“It is what I say it is—and why are you arguing with me?”

“Does no one ever argue with you?” she snapped. “Because someone should. You are the most—”

“The most arrogant man in the universe.
Si.
You told me that before. Perhaps you have forgotten that Charles is waiting. So are my guests.”

“Well,” Emily said, grabbing for her hair again, “they’ll just have to—”

“
Madre de Dio
, stop that nonsense with your hair!”

He caught her wrist. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders and down her back.

“See what you’ve done,” she said crossly. More crossly than the situation warranted, and for what reason? Why was her heart racing? Why was she so aware of his closeness? Of the scent of man and soap? Of the heat of his hand on her flesh? “I cannot possibly go to an important meeting looking like—”

Marco cursed, hauled her toward him and silenced her with a kiss.

She went crazy.

She moaned. Cupped his face between her hands.

He made an answering sound, deep in his throat, wrapped his strong arms around her and gathered her tightly against him.

Her lips parted.

Their tongues met.

She sucked the tip of his into her mouth.

He growled, slid one hand down her spine, cupped her bottom and lifted her into him.

His erection was swift, hard and exciting. She felt its urgency, felt the urgency of her response.

She began to tremble.

Then he let her go.

She blinked her eyes open.

His face was taut with tension, the bones visible beneath his tanned skin.

“This isn’t going to work,” she whispered.

“No,” he said thickly, “it isn’t.”

He reached for her. She went into his arms. Their mouths fused. The kiss was deep and hot and she had never experienced anything remotely like it.

His phone rang. And rang.

She flattened her hands against his chest.

The phone went on ringing.

Finally, eons later, Marco raised his head. Emily stepped back.

He took a long, shuddering breath. Concentrated on snow. Ice. Glaciers. Why wouldn’t his damned body cooperate? At last, it did. He was safe to be seen in public.

“Time to go,” he said.

Then he took her elbow, as impersonal a gesture as a gesture could be, and led her to the elevator.

******

They were seven for dinner.

The CEO of the French company Marco was interested in buying. His wife. An accountant from that company. An accountant from Marco’s Milan office. A middle aged woman the CEO introduced as his
assistante de direction
.

My counterpart, Emily thought, smiling as she and the woman shook hands.

The CEO’s PA wore a probably expensive but dull-looking black silk evening suit. It had a mannish jacket that topped a long, straight skirt. Sturdy black shoes peeked out from under the hem.

Emily’s peacock-blue silk gown was, she knew, spectacular. Her shoes had all the substance of a spider’s web, the slender heels five inches high.

One of them, she thought wryly, was not suitably dressed.

The restaurant where Marco had booked a private room had three Michelin stars and was rumored to be on the verge of getting an all but unprecedented fourth.

It was world famous and elegant.

Emily had been here during that decade-old visit she, Jaimie and Lissa had paid to their father.

“The obligatory paternal visit,” Jaimie had called it, and she was right.

They all hated those pilgrimages. To be fair, now that Emily was older, she knew their father really had wanted to spend time with his daughters. The trouble was, he didn’t know how to do that without making them feel as if they were on display and as if everything they did was a reflection on him.

The meal here, a luncheon, had not gone well.

Their father had ordered for them. Poached quail eggs. Lissa had rolled her eyes. Bretagne oysters. Jaimie had turned a gag into a cough. Frogs’ legs. Emily had shuddered.

In fact, their palates were sophisticated.

It was their behavior that wasn’t.

They were hormonal as thirteen-fourteen-and fifteen-year-old girls can be, filled with the need to assert themselves to a father who did not believe that children could or should be assertive.

He had spent the morning reminding them that they were to be on their best behavior. Lissa was not to play with her hair. Jaimie was not to swing her feet under the table. Emily was not to speak before thinking. She had a bad habit of doing that.

It had been all but inevitable that something truly awful would happen that day.

It had come in the form of a seemingly simple question.

Midway through the endless lunch, one of the general’s distinguished guests, a much-beribboned French officer, had smiled at them the way some adults smile at children. To call the curve of his mouth under the shadow of a bristly mustache “condescending” would not have come close.

“Well,” he had said, “after all these days of dining on our glorious French food, mes
jeunes filles,
what is the very best dish you have eaten?”

The general had beamed at them.

They had looked at each other, meaningful glances that translated into a pact of incipient teenage rebellion.

“Speak up,” their father had said. “Jaimie? Lissa? Emily? Emily. Tell us your favorite French dish, child. What is it, hmm?
Blanquette de Veau? Cassoulet? Pot au feu?
”

Defiance had glinted in Emily’s eyes. She thought of where the three of them had spent a guilty hour that afternoon.

“Big Macs and
frites
,” she’d replied.

Back home, that might have gotten a laugh but not here, in the gastronomic capital of the world.

Their father’s face had turned purple.

“My daughter has an unusual sense of humor,” he’d said.

The only good thing that had come of the incident was that he’d sent them home the very next day. It had also earned her praise from her sisters and cheers from her big brothers after Lissa told them the story.

Thinking back, she found herself trying not to smile.

“What?” Marco said softly, dipping his head to hers.

She looked at him, wanting to share it—but she couldn’t.

For the first time, she let herself think about how she’d lied to him, if not directly than surely indirectly. It was a textbook example of guilt by omission.

He thought she was struggling to get ahead.

She was struggling to leave her old life behind.

He thought he was expanding her world. That, at least, was true, but not in the ways he believed.

“Emily?”

He took her hand under the table. She looked into his dark eyes. Her stomach dropped to her toes.

Forget that he thought she was someone she wasn’t.

The real problem was what she wanted to be, the woman he took to his bed.

The lyrics from one of those old songs she used to play at the Tune-In floated into her head.

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered…

In other words, she was in deep, deep trouble.

******

Miraculously, she got through the rest of the evening playing the role of knowledgeable administrative assistant.

She listened. Committed to memory things she thought Marco might want to consider later. Quietly translated an occasional word or two when it seemed important to do so. And when the business portion of the evening ended, she smiled and exchanged pleasantries with the others.

At last, chairs were scraped back and handshakes were exchanged. Air kisses from the French CEO and his wife for her, a second set of air kisses from the CEO’s wife for Marco, a friendly slap on the back from the CEO.