Emily: Sex and Sensibility (5 page)

Marco said something in Italian. Italian was one of the four languages Emily could speak and what he’d said wasn’t very nice but it was well-deserved. She thought of telling him that, but why prolong this conversation?

“So I grabbed the bottle from him.” She paused. “There was still beer left in it.”

“And?” he said again.

She gave a little shrug. “And I shoved it upside down into the top of his pants and all the beer poured out and—”

Marco snorted.

“Don’t laugh at me! It isn’t funny! If I hadn’t done such a—such a dumb, impetuous thing—”

Laughter rumbled from his chest

“I wish I had been there to see it!”

She blinked. “You do?”

“Trust me, Emily. The world is filled with fools who could use a good dousing in beer.”

His smile, his laughter were impossible to resist. Emily laughed, too.

“My boss was horrified.”

“What is the name of this place again? I’ll pay him a visit. He should not have fired you. He should have stood by you.”

“No. Please, never mind. He’d only give you a hard time.”

She looked so serious, it made him want to smile, but what he most wanted was to give in to temptation and take one of those curls between his fingers.

“I am not afraid of hard times, Emily.” To hell with it. He not only smiled, he reached out and caught hold of a curl. It felt like silk. “And you are very brave.”

She smiled. “Not without a tube of lipstick in my hand.”

“I mean it. You put a drunken fool in his place, stood up to a stranger, withstood a monsoon…” His gaze fell to her lips, rose to her eyes. “And you risked everything by accepting his offer of a ride home. A tigress, indeed.”

Silly, she knew that his praise should send a rush of warmth through her.

“Thank you.”

“It is the truth.” He drew the curl to its full length; let it wind itself back around his finger. “What happens now? Will it be difficult to find another job?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Emily said airily. How could she ruin her rescuer’s view of her as a tigress by admitting the truth? “I have a wonderful agent. He won’t have any difficulty getting me something even better.”

“Good. Because if you were to have a problem, I would be happy to help.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I could not offer you employment playing the piano but I have contacts…”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

His smile tilted. “Yes,” he said. “You most certainly are.”

Suddenly, the air seemed thick. Words had more than one meaning. Emily could hear her pulse beating in her ears as Marco slid his hands to her shoulders.

Then he let go of her and she took a step back.

“Well,” she said, “good night.”

“Good night.”

“Thank you again. For everything.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“But I spoiled your evening.”

“On the contrary. You were a charming note in an otherwise very long and dull night.”

“Yes, but your friend—Miss Simmons…”

He shrugged.

“It’s unfortunate you were subjected to that. What you saw…” Another lift of those wide shoulders. “Our—situation had run its natural course. Such things always come to an end.”

He said it almost casually. Emily wasn’t surprised. Her brothers were all happily married now but she remembered their bachelor days. She and her sisters used to joke that you needed a calculator to keep track of the women who floated in and out of their lives, and she certainly felt no sympathy for Jessalyn Simmons. Still, his easy dismissal of the relationship was somehow troubling.

“I only wish I had not frightened you.”

“You didn’t. I mean, not deliberately. Stopping for me, giving me your jacket… oh, your jacket! I almost forgot—”

She began to take it off. He reached for it, grasped the lapels and brought them together.

“Keep it.”

“No. I couldn’t. Really, I—”

“Keep it,” he said his voice suddenly low and rough.

She looked up, met his gaze. The world seemed to drop away.

“Keep the jacket,” he said, and he bent his head and kissed her.

It was the softest of kisses. Just the gentle brush of his lips over hers. For an endless moment, Emily did nothing. Then she sighed and her lips softened and parted under the delicious feel of his.

He felt his body take fire.

In a heartbeat, she was in his arms, rising on her toes as she strained toward him. He groaned, took the kiss deeper, heard her moan as her hands rose, clutched his arms, his shoulders.

Now
, he thought, with a ferocity that drove out everything else. All he had to do was whisper to her, follow her inside the dark apartment. She would lose herself in his kisses, in his caresses. He would undress her, see that lovely body the rain had so temptingly hinted at...

Cristo!

What in hell was he thinking? She was brave but she was also naïve. He had asked for her trust; she had given it. Was this how he would repay her?

Marco tore his mouth from hers. He drew her hands to her sides and waited until, at last, her lashes lifted and her eyes, blurred and the color of the sea, met his.

“Forgive me,” he said gruffly, and then he was gone.

According to the lighted numbers on his bedside radio, it was 3:58 in the morning.

Marco was still wide awake.

He’d tossed and turned and all he’d succeeded in doing was making a Gordian knot of the bed linens. When the numbers on the face of the clock radio hit four, he mouthed an oath and gave it up.

His triplex penthouse was silent. Charles’s rooms were in the staff wing on the lower level; the housekeeper wouldn’t be in until seven. Good. He really wasn’t in the mood to attempt civil conversation right now.

He rose from the bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and then went down the curved wood-and-glass staircase and along the hall to the kitchen. The espresso machine was at the ready; he made a quick cup of dark, strong coffee, opened the French doors that led to the terrace and stepped outside.

It was only September but surprisingly cold, the wind moaning as it whipped through the Wollemi pines and Sicilian olive trees that formed a small forest in one curving arm of the terrace.

He’d been far too busy to involve himself directly in the furnishing of the condo itself or of the terrace. He’d instructed his designer to use lots of glass and pale woods; she had worked on the plans for weeks and then presented computerized photos for Marco’s approval. He’d gone through them quickly, saying things like “Good” and “Fine” and “Very nice” until he came to the plans for the terrace.

The designer showed an arrangement of comfortable furniture along its two levels; a cooking center on the main level, which Marco had rightly suspected he would never find time to use, and a handsome reflecting pool. There were plantings of shrubs, flowers and succulents.

And, for the first time, Marco had asked for something specific.

He said he wanted trees.

Real trees, not the botanical hybrids that a man of his height would dwarf.

His designer as well as the landscape architect had warned him that it would be difficult to find trees that could endure the wind. There were days the air was perfectly still, of course, but when you were up this high, exposed to the elements, a stiff wind could strip away the leaves that trees needed to survive.

Marco had remained unmoved. He wanted trees—and he got them. Olive trees from Sicily. Woolemi pines from Australia. Tough trees that would not succumb to the worst the world might toss at them.

According to a woman he’d dated a couple of years ago, the trees were subconscious representations of his own survival.

Marco took a mouthful of coffee.

“These trees are you,” she’d told him. “They’re tough. Strong. They can take a beating from life; they’re impervious to what happens once you climb this high.”

He’d scoffed at such foolishness.

“Psychological game playing,” he’d told her. “I simply like trees.”

“Exactly. And the reason you like them is because they remind you of yourself.”

He’d laughed and said that he was nothing like the trees.

“Yes,” she’d said, “you are—but there’s one big difference. The trees know that despite their tough exteriors, they require care. TLC.”

“What?”

“TLC. Tender loving care.”

“I know what the letters mean,” he’d replied, “and it’s pure nonsense. These trees don’t ‘know’ anything. And what they require are only life’s basics. That’s one of the reasons I chose them.”

He could still remember the way she’d looked at him.

“Living things need more than that to flourish. Even these trees. Even you.”

Marco sipped at the coffee.

He’d ended the foolish conversation by taking her back to bed but their affair had not lasted very long after that.

“I want more,” she’d told him, and they’d both known she hadn’t meant more jewelry or clothes or other gifts, just as they’d both known that he didn’t have more to give.

He had, once.

A decade ago.

In two short, amazing years he’d made his first million, made his second, his third and fourth. He’d also met a woman, lost his heart to her, or so he’d thought, and asked her to marry him.

At first, things were fine. Coming home to someone at the end of a long day was new to him. He liked the feeling. He liked having someone to care about.

A business opportunity came along.

It was risky. If he invested in it, he could make millions. He could also lose almost everything he had. He didn’t think that would happen, but when you took risk, there was always that possibility. Still, he was young. Hardworking. And he had a woman standing beside him who loved him.

Wrong.

He told his wife about the investment. He wanted to hear her opinion. And she gave it.

If he lost everything, she said calmly, he would also lose her. What about love? he said, and she said, What about it?

The divorce was quick, the settlement her lawyers got out of him substantial.

The last time he saw her, he’d heard himself ask the question he’d sworn he would not ask.

“Was it all a lie?” he’d said.

She’d smiled, touched his shoulder.

“Not the sex.”

It had been a hard lesson. An awful lesson, but he had learned it well.

He was not a man meant for love. He had raised himself out of poverty, alone. He had created a life for himself, alone. He had become the man he was, alone.

He needed no one. He never would.

The trees bent to a gust of wind. Marco shivered.

Why was he thinking about these things? More to the point, why couldn’t he sleep?

No, it had not been a good day. The Ferrari. His PA. Jessalyn. Annoyances, all of them, but he’d had worse days, especially years ago, days when he had not known where he would get his next meal, when his dreams of success had seemed more distant than the stars.

Nothing that had happened today came close to that.

And yet here he was, standing on his terrace at four-something in the morning, facing another long day ahead, needing sleep and knowing it would not come.

For what reason?

He was not a man given to insomnia. He worked hard, played hard. Literally. He had a workout room on the lower level of the penthouse. He played racquetball. Soccer. American football. He had little time for those things, of course, but when he did, he gave no quarter and expected none. And he slept soundly.

So, what was he doing out here at this hour?

He exhaled heavily, then brought the cup of espresso to his mouth and swallowed the last of the bitter liquid.

He knew the answer.

It was Emily. A rain-soaked waif who had turned out to be tough and determined was in his head.

His lips curved in a smile.

Not many people had the balls to take him on. The fact was, Charles was the only one who ever did and Charles did it with so much tact, it was hard to know he was doing it.

But Emily had stood up to him without hesitation and even though she’d eventually accepted his help, she had been about as impressed by him and his car and the indications of his obvious wealth as these trees were impressed by the city sprawled at their feet.

And that kiss…

He imagined he could still taste the sweetness of her lips, feel the softness of her against him.

What would she have been like in bed?

Like her kiss. Sweet. Tender. But with fire blazing underneath.

His body hardened at the thought.

Dio,
was that what was keeping him awake? Sexual frustration? It didn’t seem possible. Besides, he’d done the right thing, walking away, not taking things further.

Hadn’t he?

Of course. A woman like Emily had no place in his world. In his life… and what in hell did that mean? He didn’t even know her last name; he hadn’t asked for her phone number and here he was deciding she wouldn’t fit into his life.

He was a crazy man.

He was a man in desperate need of sleep.

Or activity.

Marco strode back into the penthouse, dumped the cup into the sink, went to his workout room and spent an hour lifting weights. The sky had lightened to a pale gray by the time he was done but he fell into bed, and sleep took pity on him and swallowed him up for one mindless, restful hour.

******

The alarm went off at seven. Marco rose, shaved, showered, dressed in a dark navy suit, white shirt, burgundy tie.

His housekeeper was already in the kitchen and she knew his routine. Orange juice. Half a toasted bagel. A double espresso. Charles was at the table, drinking his usual mug of Earl Grey.

“Ready, sir?”

Marco would have preferred his Ferrari. No point in thinking about that.

“
Si.
I am ready.”

Traffic was mercifully swift-moving. Charles pulled the Mercedes to the curb in front of the MS Enterprises building. He knew better than to open the door for his employer.

“See you at six, sir.”

Marco nodded, stepped from the car and walked briskly toward the building entrance.

A watery sun was in the sky. The air was crisp. He felt surprisingly good for a man who’d had one hour of sleep.

Perhaps it was because he’d made peace with the Emily incident.

She was attractive and he admired her spirit, but his attraction to her hadn’t been real. It had been the natural follow-through to the entire situation. Woman in need, man riding to the rescue, a modern-day version of playing Sir Galahad when he was far more accustomed to being viewed as a heartless marauder.

And then there’d been the sharp contrast between Emily and Jessalyn.

Marco quickened his pace as he crossed the enormous lobby of MS Enterprises.

Emily was not the kind of woman he normally dealt with. She was most certainly not the kind he wanted to deal with.

Bottom line? He was glad he’d helped her but that was the end of it.

He strode past the lobby reception desk. The clerk behind it sprang to his feet and all but clicked his heels.

“Good morning, Mr. Santini.”

Marco growled a good morning in return. He considered pausing long enough to say that a simple greeting was sufficient, that standing at attention was not necessary, but he’d made the same little speech before and it had gotten him nowhere.

The elevator operator—not really an operator but a security guy—did the same thing. Straightened up and damn near saluted.

“Good morning, sir.”

Marco nodded, and also thought about telling him, once again, that such formality was not necessary, but the elevator doors whisked open and he stepped inside.

He didn’t like being treated like a potentate. Why would he?

The car stopped at the fiftieth floor. The executive level, fronted by a big glass desk and a receptionist.

“Good morning, Mr. Santini…”

“You are not to rise to your feet,” Marco snapped.

The woman looked bewildered, and rightly so. She, at least, had taken him at his word after the millionth time he’d told her to remain seated when he arrived in the mornings.

What had happened to his good mood?

“Sorry,” he said as he marched past her and headed for his office.

He knew what had happened to his good mood.

Reality had killed it. And here was the further proof. He would have to spend the day dealing with the temporary and completely incompetent PA sent up by Human Resources—and,
merda
, there she was, springing to her feet.

“Good morn—”

“Good morning,” Marco snarled. “And sit down, dammit.”

“Sorry, sir. I only—”

Cristo,
was her voice shaking?

“Yes. I understand.” Marco smiled. At least, he hoped he was smiling. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Any messages?” he said briskly.

“Yes, sir. I put them on your desk.”

Marco thanked her, entered his office, shrugged off his suit jacket, hung it away and went to his desk.

The stack of messages looked three feet high. His regular PA would have winnowed it by more than half. And the very first message was not a good one. The garage needed more insurance information. His PA should have handled it.

Correction.

Would
have handled it, if she were still here.

Marco reached for the phone, stabbed the button for his HR manager.

“What is happening about finding me an assistant?”

She told him that she had contacted an agency that specialized in administrative assistants of the highest caliber.

“I explained the urgency of the situation, Mr. Santini, and they’re sending what they assure me are three excellent candidates for interviews this morning. I’ll narrow it to the one who seems most suitable and send her to you for your approval.”

One problem down.

Another thousand to go, including one that was personal.

He took a piece of letterhead engraved with his name, gave what he would write a minute’s thought before coming up with words that were brief, to the point and not open to interpretation.

For shared memories.

He scrawled his name beneath the words, put the note in an envelope and sealed it, and then he phoned Cartier, just a couple of blocks away on Fifth Avenue, arranged for a duplicate of the diamond bracelet raffled off the night before to be delivered to Jessalyn along with the note, which he sent to the store by messenger.

Excellent.

Now he could concentrate on organizing the data he’d need for his trip to Paris tomorrow morning.

Had Emily ever seen Paris?
Marco frowned.

What a foolish thought. And what was she doing, back in his head?

Maybe he should send something to her, now that he’d sent something to Jessalyn. Not jewelry, of course. Nothing that intimate. Chocolates. Flowers. And a note saying he hoped things would go well for her and if they didn’t, she should feel free to get in touch with him and…

And what?

Chocolates and flowers and notes of any kind would be a bad idea. Hadn’t he just been telling himself he’d been mistaken in thinking he’d been attracted to her? Yes, she was different from the women he knew and that made her interesting, but the truth was, how long would such an interest last?