Emily: Sex and Sensibility (11 page)

He was, in a word, spectacular.

Not in a suit.

In jeans, a dark blue T-shirt, an open leather bomber jacket and scuffed leather boots with a light early-morning-I-forgot-to-shave stubble on his jaw. The jeans were faded; they clung to his narrow hips and long legs. The T clung to his chest and flat belly.

He was a fantasy come true, and if her pulse beat any harder, surely he would hear it.

“Good morning.”

His voice was early morning, too, rough and low and husky.

Emily’s heart jumped.

So did her libido.

Who was she kidding?

She’d nailed the truth last night. Of course she wanted to climb into bed with Marco Santini. Reality was that she’d climb into the back of the limo with him. She’d climb into anything with him, anything, anywhere, anytime…

“No.”

She stared at him in horror. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud?

She hadn’t.

Sir Arrogant had delivered the quiet command to The Mop just as it lifted a skinny leg against the limo’s front tire. The dog looked at him, lowered its leg, tucked its ratty little tail between its hindquarters and scurried back toward Mrs. Flynn.

Emily looked at Marco. He raised an eyebrow.

Laughter bubbled in her throat.

“You are,” she said, “very good at giving commands.”

He grinned. “So I’ve been told.” His gaze moved over her, slowly, from the top of her head to her toes and then back up again. “Ready for travel, I see,
cara
.”

“Where are you and this—this charming gentleman going, Emily?”

It was Mrs. Flynn. Until that moment, Emily hadn’t thought the woman knew her name.

Marco gave Emily a quick wink.

“And who is this delightful woman, Emily?”

“This is—she’s my neighbor.”

“Catherine. I’m Catherine Flynn,” Mrs. Flynn said breathlessly.

“Caterina. Such a lovely name.” Marco smiled. “Emily and I are on our way to Paris, Caterina.”

“To—to—”

“Paris,” Emily said, what the hell, getting into the spirit of things.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Flynn whispered.

Marco went up the concrete steps and eyed Emily’s suitcase.

“I can see you followed my directions,” he said wryly. “About not packing many things.”

It was as good a time as any to establish how she felt about being given orders.

“I’m not always good at following directions,” she said sweetly.

He grinned again, hoisted the suitcase as if it were weightless and handed it off to Charles, who stood at polite attention on the curb.

“Are you ready,
cara
?”

The
cara
seemed to sizzle.

“Ready,” Emily said.

He reached for her hand.

“Good,” he said softly. “So am I.”

He brought her hand to his mouth, pressed a light kiss to her palm and closed her fingers over the kiss.

How could she feel that kiss straight to the tips of her toes?

The last thing she saw before the Mercedes pulled into traffic was Mrs. Flynn staring after them, her hand plastered to her heart.

“Honestly,” Emily said, swinging around to face Marco, “that wasn’t—”

He was laughing. “It was. I suspect we made Caterina’s day.”

How could she not laugh, too?

“How about her entire year?”

“She is an annoyance, yes?”

“She complains about everything. Last week, she said we’d left the water running in the basement. There’s a washer and dryer there, and an old sink, but—”

“We?” he said, his smile suddenly tight.

“I have a roommate. Had a roommate. Nola.”

“Nola.”

“Yes. And—”

“Is there no man in your life?”

Such a quick change in conversation. And in the way he was suddenly looking at her. That same feeling came over her again, as if there weren’t enough breathable air between them.

“No. There isn’t.”

He reached out. Caught a strand of her hair.

“You left your hair loose,” he said softly. “I like it this way.”

“Marco. We agreed—”

He nodded. Drew back. “Yes. You’re right. What about Nola?”

“What about…”

“Nola left the water running.”

“Oh. No. She didn’t. I didn’t. There was a puddle by the sink but it was probably from Mrs. Flynn’s dog.”

“A pee puddle,” Marco said solemnly.

Emily laughed.

“A canine protest. Against foolish owners dressing them up with ribbons and polish and things that are undoglike.”

Emily laughed again.

“That is nice,” he said.

“What is?”

“Hearing you laugh.” His smile tilted. “I have the feeling you have not laughed enough in your short life.”

“That’s not true. I mean—”

“I can see that things have not been easy for you, Emily.” His voice was low, his eyes dark and serious. “Playing piano in a bar, living in a building like that—”

“Marco,” she said quickly, “really, my life hasn’t always been—”

“
Si.
I am sure you have some good memories.”

“Yes. I do. What I mean is—”

His phone rang. He cursed softly, took it from his pocket and checked the screen.

“I must take this,
cara.
Give me a minute, please.”

Emily nodded. Marco began speaking in rapid French. It was about business, a financial deal he was making. After a few seconds, she tuned out.

He thought she was poor. That she’d come from poverty.

She knew she ought to correct him.

I’m not poor at all,
she’d say.
My family has money. Lots of it. I was raised in luxury and maybe that’s why I’m so determined to make it on my own, or maybe it’s because I’ve never really accomplished anything in my life. Either way, you’re wrong about me…

“So,” he said briskly, “I have something for you.”

She blinked. He’d ended his call. In his hand now was a duplicate of his iPhone.

“From now on, this is yours. All of my contacts are programmed into it. There is no need for any phone.”

Emily rolled her eyes.

Sir Arrogant was back.

And that was probably a very good thing.

******

He had a private jet. It waited in the general aviation parking area at Kennedy Airport like an enormous silver bird.

A small, pleasant-looking man met them, shook hands with Marco and with her.

“Emily, this is Jim Bryce. Our first officer. Jim, this is my assistant, Ms. Madison.”

“It’s Emily,” Emily said.

Bryce smiled and asked for their passports. Emily had a bad moment when she realized the name on hers was Wilde, not Madison, but Bryce didn’t so much as glance at them.

“I’ll have these cleared in a couple of minutes, sir,” he said.

Security and customs procedures were different for those who flew in private planes. She’d almost forgotten that.

Charles boarded with their luggage; Marco took her elbow as they climbed the stairs to the cabin door.

“This is Leslie. Our flight attendant.” The flight attendant, elegantly groomed, smiled at her. “Leslie, this is my administrative assistant. Ms. Madison.”

“It’s Emily,” Emily said again, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Leslie.”

The man standing behind the attendant was the captain, Kier Tate. More smiles, handshakes and introductions all around.

Marco’s hand remained cupped around Emily’s elbow.

It was a simple gesture. Polite, nothing more—but his fingers seemed hot against her skin as he led her deeper into the cabin.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said softly, his lips at her ear.

“Why would I be nervous?” Could it be the feel of his hand? The warmth of his breath? The realization that she was leaving her own world and entering his?

“Surely, you’re not nervous about being with me.”

“Of course not,” she said quickly, whipping her head toward him. Big mistake. His head was still bent to hers. One more inch and her lips would touch his cheek.

He smiled. It was a bone-melting smile.

“If it is because this is your first flight on a private plane, I can assure you that we meet—we probably exceed—all standards.”

He certainly exceeded all standards.

As for flying on a private jet… Should she tell him that she had three brothers? That they owned private planes the equal of this? That she had flown with Jacob and Caleb and Travis dozens of times, that she had a friend, Laurel, whose husband, His Royal Highness Sheikh Khan ibn Zain al Hassad of Altara, owned a jet that had taken Emily and her sisters to Altara for a visit last summer?

No.

None of that had anything to do with her as Marco’s new assistant.

The truth was, the less anyone knew about her and her background, the better. Even Nola knew very few of the details--only that she had brothers and sisters and that she’d grown up in Texas—because she’d met Nola after she’d decided to stop being Emily Wilde and start being Emily Madison.

One thing you learned when you came from a wealthy, powerful family was that some people saw you not as a person but as a curiosity.

Sometimes, it was harmless.

Sometimes it wasn’t, especially if you were trying to make it on your own.

That had been her experience, anyway.

Coming East had meant a new start.

Here, she’d imagined that Wilde would just be a name. She wouldn’t be the youngest daughter of a general, the kid sister of three amazingly successful brothers. She wouldn’t be one of the three Wilde girls, certainly not the one who was having the most trouble following in those almost-impossible-to-fill footprints.

She wouldn’t be one of the wealthy Wildes—she’d simply be herself.

What a foolish dream!

Her very first interview had been for a fancy-sounding position at a private museum: Assistant to the Curator for Pre-Columbian Art. Once the interview began, she’d realized the job title should have been Gofer for the Pre-Columbian Art department but she’d been cool with that because you had to start a career somewhere.

Things had gone well until the curator took a second look at her résumé.

“You’re from Wilde’s Crossing? You’re one of
those
Wildes?” A big smile had spread over his face at her reluctant nod. “Small world, isn’t it? I worked at the Dallas Museum of Art a few years ago. I have some investments with your brother, Travis. Well, that makes me feel a lot better.”

At first, she hadn’t understood. Then he told her what her salary would be. She couldn’t have bought groceries with it, let alone pay for a roof over her head.

“I can’t live on that,” she’d said politely.

“That’s what I mean,” he’d said, chuckling as if they’d shared a grand joke. “You won’t have to. You’re a Wilde!”

Not two nights later, she’d gone to dinner with a nice enough guy who’d taken her out a couple of times before. That evening, out of the clear blue sky, he asked her where she was from.

Without thinking, she’d said she was from Wilde’s Crossing.

“Huh. The town’s named after your family?” he’d said.

She’d tried to recover fast, told him that it could be.

The next time he saw her, he called her Poor Little Rich Girl. He’d Googled Wilde’s Crossing, Googled her. Hell of a thing, he’d said, almost angrily, that a girl with all her advantages would play at being poor.

Lesson learned.

Emily wouldn’t play at being poor, she would be poor. That was when she’d dropped her last name. Just let it sail away, like a helium-filled balloon rising into the sky. Her middle name, Madison, gave her the anonymity she needed and it felt comfortable because it already belonged to her. She’d retyped her résumés and contacted her college, had them add a note to her files so that if anyone called to verify her transcript, she’d turn up as Emily Madison as well as Emily Wilde.

And that was it.

She wasn’t a Poor Little Rich Girl anymore; she was simply another girl scrambling to make it in New York.

That was how Marco saw her. Emily Madison, on the search for a good job and an interesting career, and if he wanted to believe he was introducing her to a lifestyle she’d never known before, how could she tell him she knew all about the way people with money and power lived and do it without telling him more about herself than he needed to know? He’d hired a Madison, not a Wilde, and that was the way things would remain.

Nothing personal. It had to do only with business.

So when he reassured her about the safety of private planes, she smiled politely.

“Thank you. That’s good to hear.”

What wasn’t reassuring was the way her breath caught at the feel of his hand on her waist, the hardness of his body as she brushed past him toward a soft leather chair.

“OK?” he said.

Emily nodded. “Fine.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat as he sat down in a chair angled toward hers. Charles had disappeared behind a door at the rear of the plane. “I know this is all very sudden. This job. This trip. You must have questions.”

“Lots.”

“For instance?”

“Well, what are my responsibilities? Who works with me? Do I report directly to you?”

“Good questions. Let me answer them one at a time. You report only to me. You work only with me, although there are times various of my managers will work with you—or perhaps I should say, through you. You will be their conduit to me.”

Emily looked at him. “I bet they won’t like that.”

“Some won’t because you are new to them. It will be part of your job to convince them that they’ll be better served following the protocol I’ve set up. As for your responsibilities… they will be far reaching. You’ll take notes. Organize them. Read reports and break them down to ten pages instead of a hundred. You’ll attend meetings with me. Be my eyes and ears during the kinds of events where everyone is intent on pleasing the boss and hiding the truth.”

She sat back. “You expect a lot.”

“I expect my one hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth.”

His expression gave nothing away. She could only hope hers didn’t, either.

“And how do you know I can do all these things adequately?”

“I don’t. I’m taking a gamble on it,
cara
.” The muscle in his jaw flickered. “That is one of the things I am good at. It is one of the reasons I am where I am today.”