Emily: Sex and Sensibility

by Sandra Marton

  “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 o
f 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.

  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?