Emily: Sex and Sensibility (9 page)

Was he going crazy? Had Emily the Innocent really just called him a dickhead?

Shocked, he swung around just in time to see her pluck her handbag from the chair where she’d left it and head for the door.

Marco reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Let go!”

His fingers tightened around her elbow.

“Dammit, let go!”

“Jane. I am afraid I’m busy right now—”

“Have you looked at her employment application? I faxed it to your temp.”

Emily glared at him. He glared back. She kicked him in the shin. Marco pushed her against the wall, raised a finger to warn her not to move, wrenched open the door, marched to the fax machine and ripped two pages from its belly.

“Sir? I said, have you looked at—”

Marco disconnected. He grabbed Emily’s arm and stepped back inside his office,

He held out her employment application.

“Is this yours? Did you fill this out?”

“I did—but then, I had no idea you had already categorized me as—as whatever it is you think I am.”

“You’re distorting this entire thing. There is nothing wrong with—with—”

“With working in a bar.”

“Yes. No.
Dio,
did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to.” Emily folded her arms. “I get it now. You were on your way home from that charity something or other—”

“A dinner. And what has that to do with anything?”

“You were on your way home from a la-di-da party where the whole idea is to convince everybody that you’re richer than they are.”

That was precisely what those parties were all about, but he’d sooner have swallowed his tongue than admit how perfect her description was.

“You know nothing of these things,” Marco snapped.

She did, of course. She’d endured enough of them, but why tell him that when he was so certain he knew all there was to know about her?

“You were feeling pretty good about yourself. Big car. Fancy mistress.”

“Jessalyn is not my mistress!” True enough. She wasn’t, not anymore.

“And then, from out of nowhere, you saw me. The twenty-first century version of—of the poor little matchstick girl!”

“What is a matchstick girl? And what in hell are you talking about?”

“A waif,” she said, and the way he looked at her told her she’d scored again. “A pathetic creature in desperate need of help from the all-powerful Marco Santini.”

“This is ridiculous!”

Emily stepped forward, eyes glittering. She unfolded her arms and jabbed her index finger into the center of his chest.

“And there it was. Another opportunity for you to feel smug.”

“Stop jabbing me!”

“Look at this building,” she said, jabbing harder. “This office! How many little old ladies did you have to steal from to afford such—such opulence?”

“This is insane!”

It probably was. Her brothers were rich as Midas and she knew damned well they’d never stolen from anybody, but why stop when she was on such a self-satisfying roll?

“That offer of a job. Wow. The ultimate in—in welfare for the matchstick girl.”

Marco grabbed her hand, folded it within his own. “
This
is not crazy!
You
are!”

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Santini. I am not whatever you’ve decided I am.” Emily jerked her head toward the two-paged employment application. “Read it.”

“I have no interest in—”

“You’re supposed to humor crazy people. Well, humor me.” She snatched the application from his hand and all but jammed it under his nose.” “Read!”

Marco ground his teeth together. He looked at the application.

“Read it out loud!”

“Name: Emily Madison.”

“Not that. Education. Start there.”

“Education,” he said, trying for bored and getting satisfyingly close. “University of Texas at Austin. BA in art history. Minor in…” He looked up. Emily had folded her arms again. The expression on her face would have turned water to ice. “Minor in… philosophy?”

“Go on.”

“Dean’s list, eight semesters. Phi Beta—Phi Beta Kappa…”

He lifted his gaze to Emily. She was smiling with all her teeth. Years back, picking up a few bucks crewing on a boat off the coast of Long Island, he’d seen less impressive smiles on sharks.

“There’s more.”

There certainly was. She spoke French, Spanish, Italian and Chinese.

“Chinese?” he heard himself say.

“Unfortunately, only Mandarin.”

That brought his head up. No smile this time. The apology had been dead serious.

Another look at the application. Jane had scrawled a note in the margin. He read it aloud: “Ms. Madison has traveled in Europe, South America and Asia.”

This time, when he looked at Emily, there was no discernible expression on his face.

“Playing piano in a bar,” she said coldly, “does not mean the absence of a functional brain.”

“I never thought that!”

“Doing what I almost did a little while ago, on the other hand, does.”

“Doing what…?” Marco shook his head. “Making love?”

“We weren’t going to make love, we were—we were going to have sex.”

“I apologize for my lack of finesse.”

He spoke coldly. She couldn’t blame him. She’d made an ass of herself, and whose fault, really, was that?

Hers, of course.

The truth was,
she
was the one who was embarrassed about playing at the Tune-In. Dammit, she was embarrassed about her life. The useless major. The even more useless minor. Her absolute failure at anything and everything that might even come close to success.

As for what had happened here…

He was right to apologize. It had been his fault. Not hers. He had seduced her…

Liar!
She’d been as much a part of it as he had. She, the woman who couldn’t understand hookups, who never slept with a man until, as Lissa had once said, she knew him so well that sleeping with him was just another boring event—she had been ready and willing to get on that couch and tear off a stranger’s clothes while he tore off hers.

It was a harsh reality check but a necessary one.

Emily forced her gaze to meet Marco’s.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything,” she said stiffly. “I’m an adult. I take full responsibility for my actions. I should never have come here today.” Back straight, shoulders locked, she started past him. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Marco stretched his arm across the open door.

“Not so fast.”

They were inches apart. Emily was glaring at him. Despite what she’d just said, he could see that she blamed him for what had happened.

Perhaps she was right.

He was the man. Men were supposed to be in full control at all times. He lived by that code; it was one of the things that had made him a success in business. He trusted people who worked for him, but the ultimate responsibility for actions that affected him belonged to him.

It was the same way in his relationships with women.

Not that he had “relationships.” Not since his divorce. The word was a female concept and loaded with the sort of emotional baggage women demanded and smart men ignored, but the point was, he was accountable for what had happened just now.

For what had almost happened.

His gaze moved over Emily’s face. She was flushed; her eyes glittered. Her mouth was faintly swollen; she was breathing just a little too hard.

She looked like a woman who had just slipped from a man’s arms, and despite everything, that was where he wanted her.

What would she do if he reached for her? Would she protest and try to pull away—or would she admit that what had happened was not over? That it couldn’t be over until she was naked beneath him, her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, his hard flesh buried deep within her?

Dio,
this was not a line of thought to pursue!

It was dangerous.

It was also pointless.

If he’d thought she wasn’t the kind of woman who would fit into his world before, he was certain of it now.

She was argumentative. He didn’t like argumentative women. A little backbone, a little independence of thought was one thing, but his days were filled with arguments of one kind or another. Why would he want to face more of them at night?

And this thing about sex. She wasn’t just unsophisticated, she was foolish. That remark about them having sex as opposed to making love…

He’d used the polite euphemism women preferred, but did she honestly believe sex was ever about the heart? He’d made that mistake once and, dammit, he’d already thought back to that time earlier today and the lesson it had taught him, that sex was about physical desire and the fulfillment of hunger, and that any emotion aside from the one of pleasure was fodder for fools.

The only thing Emily Madison had going for her was that damnable job application.

Employer and employee. That was the one relationship that would work. And he never, not once, had taken such a relationship any further. Work was work. Play was play and, as the old saying went, never the twain should meet.

The truth was, he’d had a couple of very attractive assistants. The one before the last, in fact, had been beautiful. Or had she been the one prior to that? Whatever. He really had not noticed until a CEO he’d met with had commented on her looks.

“You’re a clever SOB, Santini,” the guy had leered, “having such a good-looking piece of ass on your payroll.”

Marco had been affronted on his PA’s behalf—and on his own. He’d never noticed she was stunning, never thought of her as a woman…

Never wanted to kiss her or undress her or taste her breasts, and how in hell could he even consider hiring Emily when his head was full of those images?

“Excuse me.”

Could he get past that? Could he see her as just another office fixture?

“Mr. Santini. Will you please step—”

“I have a proposition to offer you.”

Emily laughed.

“A business proposition.”

“My God, are we still on that? Trust me. I’d sooner go back to that bar than take that job playing for you on Wednesday.”

“But you can’t go back to that bar,” Marco said in a silken voice. “Can you, Ms. Madison?”

“That’s my business.”

Her chin shot up. The gesture of defiance made the desire to pull her into his arms all the more difficult to ignore… and what he was about to say all the more foolish. No. He was due in Paris tomorrow; this French deal would be one of the most important of his career.

“Mr. Santini. I have asked you, politely, to step aside.”

“Is the information on that application accurate?”

“It certainly is.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“What is this? Twenty Questions?”

“A passport, Emily. Do you have one?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“My personal assistants work very hard.”

“They have my sympathy.”

“In truth, they are—if I am fortunate—more administrative assistants than personal ones.”

“Thanks to the sexual discrimination laws.”

How he wanted to silence that soft, lovely mouth!

“Very amusing.”

“I thought so.”

He cleared his throat. Took his hand from the doorjamb. Folded his arms over his chest.

“I am offering you the job. As my PA.”

“Now who’s being amusing?”

“You must be ready to leave the country immediately.”

“You don’t hear well, do you? I don’t want to play your piano, let alone—”

“We fly to Paris tomorrow.”

“Good for you. As for me, I’m out of here. Goodbye, Mr. Santini.”

He glared at her. Then he inclined his head and stepped aside. She marched past him and the door slammed shut behind her.

What a dreadful man!

All arrogance. All ego. All I-am-the-center-of-the-universe.

Well, in his world, he probably was.

The confrontation had left her drained. Shaky. It wasn’t that kiss. It wasn’t the way it had felt when he’d touched her. Kissed her. The way it would have felt if he’d stripped away her clothing, stripped away his, come down on top of her…

She jumped as the door flew open and banged against the wall.

“That next PA of mine,” he said, “the one for whom you offer sympathy… Did I mention what her pay will be?”

“An autographed photo? A bowl of gruel?” Emily fluttered her lashes. “A warm kennel?”

“One hundred thousand a year.”

She blinked. “Dollars?”

“Plus health coverage. Paid holidays Four weeks of vacation. And a clothing allowance.”

“A clothing allowance?”

He shrugged. “My assistant travels with me. Attends meetings with me. Business lunches, dinners, whatever. It is imperative she dress properly. If I demand that, it becomes my responsibility.”

“Well,” Emily said, trying to stem the sudden image of dollar bills floating in her head, “I’m sure you’ll find someone who’ll be delighted to grab the job.”

A muscle in his jaw knotted.

“I am sure I shall.”

Emily nodded. So did he. Then he stepped into his office. This time, the door shuddered when he slammed it shut.

“Jerk,” she muttered.

Did he really think he could bribe her into working for him? Just because $100,000 a year was more than she’d earned in her entire time in New York, just because it would feed and clothe and house her for the foreseeable future, just because she’d be able to tell Lissa and Jaimie about this job, just because even her brothers would be impressed…

She took a deep breath. Expelled it. Thought
no, yes, no…

Time to stop thinking.

She rapped her knuckles against the door, and then flung it open. Marco was standing at the huge wall of glass behind his desk, his back to her, hands tucked into his trouser pockets.

“You’re fired,” he growled.

“You can’t fire me before you hire me.”

“You?” he said, turning toward her. “I thought you were my temp.”

“She’s probably hiding in the supply closet.”

“One laugh after another,” he said coldly. “Well, what is it? Did you forget something?”

Emily touched the tip of her tongue to the center of her bottom lip. He wondered whether she knew she did that—and if she had any idea it drove him out of his mind.