Emily: Sex and Sensibility (8 page)

“Am I correct, Ms. Madison?”

“Yes. I mean, I was a good student but—but I love playing piano. I took lessons for—”

“Oh, of course. I’m sure you’re a fine pianist. But you have such an, uh, an interesting résumé… Have you been to Europe? South America?” Barnett picked up a pencil, tapped it on the desk. “I don’t suppose you spent any time abroad…?”

“Actually, my father was—is—um, he’s in the military, so—”

“Very interesting.”

“Right.” Emily hesitated. “But, you know, about the piano thing. This Wednesday, right? I don’t know much about it. For instance, how many hours will it involve? What’s the starting time? Would you want me to play popular music? Contemporary? Classical? Light?”

“Oh. That.”

That?
That?

“We can work out those details later, Emily. May I call you Emily?”

“Sure. But—”

“For now, let’s move right along to the interview.”

Baffled, Emily stared at her. “I thought this was the interview.”

“Yes, of course, but…”

“Oh. I understand. You want me to audition.”

Barnett smiled brightly. “Exactly. If you’d take the elevator to the fiftieth floor—the executive offices. I’ll phone ahead and tell them you’re coming. And, Emily?” She rose and stuck out her hand. “Good luck.”

What a strange woman, Emily thought as she took the elevator to the top floor. And what an odd place to house a piano, but then, what did she really know about corporate procedure?

The car doors opened onto a vast, high-ceilinged space filled with light. Double glass doors led to an attractive receptionist, seated at her desk with a telephone at her ear.

“You must be Emily.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

The receptionist smiled. “HR called to say you were on your way. In fact, I’m trying to reach the boss’s PA and announce you, but she’s not picking up. Well, never mind. Mrs. Barnett said to move you right along. Through those doors, please, turn left and go to the end of the corridor.”

Impressive, Emily thought as she followed directions. The doors were massive-looking but opened at the touch of her hand; the corridor was hung with brilliantly colored works of modern art, and the carpet underfoot was so deep that her heels threatened to sink into it and disappear.

Eventually, the corridor opened onto another huge, brightly lit space. A waiting room, obviously: teak-and-leather chairs, a pair of couches, a big coffee table and, just far enough away to command some privacy, a desk, a chair and a cluster of office machines—printer, fax—arranged outside a set of teak double doors.

The desk was unattended. And after the handsome, sleek furniture, the artwork, the reception area, it was, well, out of place.

Papers were strewn across the surface and piled in teetering stacks. A computer monitor blinked in woeful silence. Two drawers were half opened. A mug of murky black liquid stood next to a space-age telephone, lights blinking in desperation.

For the first time, Emily felt uneasy. She took an inadvertent step back.

What was this? The Mad Hatter’s tea party? That peculiar interview and now this unlikely mess, topped off by the closed teak doors…

It wasn’t too late.

She’d considered her options.

Wait until somebody showed up.

Or retrace her steps straight down to the lobby…

And straight out of a chance at a job. A paycheck. Maybe even the prospect of meeting someone in the art world.

Really, she had decided, there wasn’t a choice.

So she’d squared her shoulders. Breathed deep. Marched past the disaster area of a desk directly to the closed double doors, knocked more politely than she’d figured the situation warranted, opened the doors…

And been treated to a snarled “What?” and a man she’d never wanted to see again, Marco Santini, all six feet three inches of gorgeous male, with a look on his face that made it absolutely clear he felt the exact same way.

Emily stared at the apparition that was Marco Santini. He stared back. Then he took a step forward.

“Emily?”

“Mr. Santini?”

“It’s Marco. And what—”

And what are you doing here? he’d almost said, but from the look on her face he suspected she was about to ask him the same question.

“I don’t—I didn’t—” Her gaze swept past him, raked his entire office before returning to him. “Where’s the piano?”

“The what?”

“The piano.”

Marco shook his head. “What piano?”

“The one I’m here to play.”

“Wednesday,” he said, “you’re playing on—”

“Oh, I know that. But I assume Mrs. Barrett—”

“Mrs. Barnett,” he said, as if it mattered. “It’s Jane Barnett.”

Emily nodded. “She sent me up here. I figured it was to audition.” The tip of her tongue appeared and slicked lightly over her bottom lip. “But not for you. Your message said you wouldn’t—that I wouldn’t be seeing you.”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean…” Marco walked to his desk, put down the papers he’d been holding and ran both hands through his hair. “Obviously, there’s been some kind of mix-up.”

“Yes. Probably my fault.” She turned toward the door. “It’s been nice seeing—”

“Don’t go.”

He spoke the words in a rush. She looked at him and he cleared his throat.

“I mean, now that you’re here… How are you?” He bit back a groan. Was he a brilliant conversationalist or what? “What I mean is, I wondered if you were OK, if you’d caught a chill last night.”

“Oh. No. No, I’m fine, thank you.” She hesitated. “What about you? You must have been as soaked as I was.”

“I’m fine.”

“You didn’t even have the protection of your jacket.” Her eyes widened. “Your jacket! I should have brought it with me. I wasn’t thinking. To your office. Your office building I mean, I certainly didn’t expect to see you…” Emily clamped her lips together. “Sorry,” she said, after a couple of seconds. “I’m just a little surprised. I didn’t think you’d be auditioning me.”

X-rated images shot through his head. He swung away, busied himself straightening the papers he’d dumped on his desk.

“No need for that,” he said briskly. “I already know that you can do the job.”

She gave a little laugh. “But you don’t. Not really. I mean, you only have my word for it.”

She was right.

He’d arranged to hire her without knowing anything about her except what she’d told him. That wasn’t how he did business. Before he signed a contract, bought a property, hired anyone who would be part of his staff, he did as much research as possible.

And yet he’d hired this woman to help launch a boutique project that had consumed his time and energy for months when for all he knew, the only thing she could play was “Chopsticks.”

Or “New York, New York.” Remembering what she’d said, he gave a soft laugh.

“What?”

“I was thinking about Wednesday. Just play “New York, New York” if somebody asks. You do that, everything will be fine.”

They both laughed. The palpable tension in the room eased, if only a little. Then Emily touched the tip of her tongue to the middle of her bottom lip again.

It was disconcerting.

So was the fact that his waif of the storm was gone.

No bare feet. No rain-soaked silk dress clinging to her like a second skin. No soft curls begging for his touch.

She was the epitome of professional competence. Wool suit. Silk blouse. Black pumps. Hair tamed into submission and drawn back in a no-nonsense, nape-of-the-neck ponytail.

He felt a pang of regret.

The formal Emily was as beautiful as he’d remembered but there’d been something charming about the less formal one.

And wasn’t that a ridiculous thought? Who cared about that? All that mattered was that she could pull off the performance on Wednesday…

Dammit!

“You’ll need a white formal gown.” Her eyebrows rose. “For Wednesday,” he said. “I don’t know how specific I was when I left that message, but the overall theme will be dramatic. Romantic. White candles, white flowers, white piano… And you in something long and white.”

“I don’t have—”

“Not a problem. Find something and send me the bill.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll pay for it. The company will pay for it the same as for the flowers, the piano… Everything.” He waited for her to say something. Anything. What he didn’t want her to say was goodbye. “Well,” he said briskly. “This was a very nice surprise.”

“I’m sorry to have bothered you. The message you left was very clear. I don’t know how things got so confused—”

“Jane. Jane Barnett. She must have misunderstood.”

“Whatever, my apologies. As for your jacket—”

“Forget the jacket.”

“Don’t be silly! I’ll have it cleaned and pressed and delivered to—”

“Emily. About that message…”

He hesitated. The lie would be so simple. Something about being busy, about being rushed for time…

But he couldn’t lie to her. He didn’t want to.

“The message,” he said in a low voice, “was stupid and self-serving.”

He had caught her by surprise. He could see it in the way her eyes widened, in the way her lips parted.

His belly knotted.

He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss those gently parted lips as he had kissed them last night, wanted her to respond to him as she had last night.

“The truth is that I ached to see you again.”

Emily knew what she was supposed to say. Not the exact words, maybe, but the sense of them. A woman played cool when a man who interested her admitted he was interested, too. That was the time to flirt a little. Bat your lashes. Smile up into his eyes.

“I didn’t want to leave you last night.”

His voice was low. His words were sexy. She told herself not to answer…

“Then why did you?” she said, and held her breath.

“I am not the kind of man a girl like you should be involved with,
cara.
”

Emily stared up into eyes that had gone from midnight blue to obsidian. He was arrogant. Incredibly arrogant. She would have been able to laugh at his egocentricity, but this was different. His certainty that she would have let him stay. His conviction that he was wrong for her.

It was different because he was right. About everything.

She did want him.

And he was probably more than she could handle.

He was a conqueror. A man who knew what he wanted and took it. Power emanated from him. It was in his eyes, the set of his shoulders, the very way he seemed to fill the room.

“Emily.”

She looked up at him. Her breathing quickened. His eyes were so dark. Was there a color deeper than obsidian?

“Leave now,” he said thickly. “Before—”

She walked to him, curled her fingers into his shirt, rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her. He stood tall and straight and for what seemed the longest moment of her life, she thought she’d made a mistake

Then he groaned, gathered her into his arms and captured her lips with his.

The earth spun.

She clung to him more tightly because if she didn’t, surely she would fall.

He whispered her name against her mouth; she whispered his and he cursed softly and swung her up into his arms.

She buried her face against his throat. Wound her arms around his neck. Trembled as he carried her across the room to a long, wide sofa and lowered her to it.

What are you doing?
a voice inside Marco said.

She was all the things he’d thought. Naïve. Unsophisticated. He could tell by the way she was responding to him. Nothing held back. Nothing of the temptress. She was making little sounds that went straight through him, whimpers of need that a woman with more experience would not so readily make the first time a man took her in his arms to make love to her.

And this was his office.

He didn’t bring his personal life into this space. Never.

Never, he thought, and then he stopped thinking, sank to his knees in front of her, drew her forward and kissed her forehead. Her eyes, her mouth.
Dio,
that mouth! He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, bit lightly and she opened to him, offered him her sweet taste.

“Please,” she whispered, “Marco, please…”

He groaned, thrust his hands into her hair. The band with which she’d secured the ponytail broke; her hair tumbled loose, fell over his fingers like fine silk. He buried his face in the shining strands and then he took her mouth again, kissed her and kissed her, each time taking the kiss deeper.

Finally, he drew back, framed her face with his hands and said her name. She opened her eyes. They were blurred with desire, the pupils enormous.

He felt the last of his self-control slipping away.

He took her hands. Brought her to her feet. He wanted to undress her. Strip away the layers that separated them. Take her naked into his arms. Feel her skin against his. Inhale her scent. Put his mouth to her, everywhere. Taste her, everywhere. Mark her as his, as his, as his…

The phone rang.

Maybe it had been ringing for a while.

He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t tell anything except that he wanted the woman in his arms, as he could not remember ever wanting a woman before.

But the phone was persistent.

Brring. Brring. Brring.

Emily blinked. She looked at him like a woman awakening from a deep sleep.

“The telephone…”

“It will stop.”

He drew her to him. Ran one hand down her spine, Spread it over her bottom. Lifted her into him and she gasped; her head fell back when she felt his erect flesh press against her.

Brring. Brring. Brring.

Merda!

One last slow, amazing kiss. Then he slid his arm around her waist and drew her with him to the desk and depressed the speaker button.

“Yes,” he said, trying not to sound like a man who might kill the person on the other end of the line.

It was Jane Barnett.

Marco took a deep breath. “What is it, Jane? I am—I’m busy.”

“Sir. I just wanted to know how things are going.”

Marco nuzzled Emily’s hair away from her face. Her cheeks were a bright pink; her skin was hot against his lips.

“Things?” he said.

“Uh, yes, sir. I sent someone up to see you. That young woman who came about the piano job…”

“You mean, Ms. Madison.”

Emily’s eyes shot to his.

“Yes, sir. Is she there?”

“She is. And this is not the best time for this conversation, Jane. Ms. Madison and I are—are talking.”

Emily’s color deepened.

“Well, that’s good, then. You see, I’ve been trying to reach your PA but—”

“My PA seems to have, ah, abandoned ship, but Ms. Madison and I don’t require her services.”

Emily pulled away from his arm. He tugged her back to him. She shook her head, put her hand on his chest. Reluctantly, he let go of her.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear it. Would I be correct in assuming you and Ms. Madison have hit it off?”

“Jane,” Marco said sharply. “Surely this conversation—”

“I’m just so relieved, Mr. Santini. I know you asked me to hire Ms. Madison to play at that opening Wednesday, but she’s so perfect for what you really need…”

“Excuse me?”

Emily straightened her jacket. Her skirt. She ran her hands through her hair, tucked it behind her ears and sat down in one of the chairs by his desk.

“I suspect she’ll be the best PA you’ve ever had.”

Marco blinked.

“The best what?”

“PA. Personal assistant. Actually, you might want to consider her your administrative assistant.” Jane hesitated. “I left that message with your current PA. Didn’t she give it to you?”

Marco strode the length of his office. Had he missed something? He must have. What in hell was the woman talking about?

He asked her exactly that.

“You’re not making sense,” he growled. “Ms. Madison will perform at the opening of Twenty-two Pascal.”

“Only if you insist. Sir.”

The “sir” had been tacked on. No one with a brain would not have heard it as either a reprimand or a questioning of his sanity or perhaps both, but if anyone was insane here, it was surely not him.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning that once I read her employment application, I realized her potential.”

“Her potential as what? Ms. Madison plays the piano. Why would I see her in any other capacity?”

“Why, indeed?” Emily said from right behind him.

Marco turned around. Emily had gotten to her feet. She was standing with her chin elevated, her eyes narrowed.

His narrowed, too. What in hell was going on? His waif had turned into a cool-looking businesswoman. The businesswoman had morphed into a temptress. Now, she seemed to have another transformation coming on. The tigress, from the expression on her face.

“It’s about you,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and his temper under control. He put his hand over the receiver. “You, and the fact that you seem to have approached my HR manager about a job I had not offered you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Mr. Santini?”

Jane Barnett’s voice rang in his ear. Marco uncovered the telephone.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Ms. Wilde is eminently qualified, sir.”

“I don’t know what Ms. Madison told you, Jane, but—”

“I didn’t tell her anything,” Emily hissed.

“—but whatever it was, she is not a candidate for the position as my administrative assistant.”

“May I ask the reason, sir?”

The reason. The reason. Could it have anything to do with the fact that he never mixed business with pleasure? That if Barnett was correct—though, of course, that was impossible but still, if by some strange twist of fate she were—hiring Emily to work for him would mean any other relationship was out of the question.

No.

He would never be so crass. So chauvinistic. So self-centered.

“Sir?

“Ms. Madison’s qualifications are limited.”

“Testa di cazzo
,” Emily snarled.