Emily: Sex and Sensibility

by Sandra Marton

  CHAPTER NINE

  The gowns Emily found in her dressing room were… the only suitable word was stunning.

  There were two, both made of silk. Long, slithery things that would skim her body, curve at her hips, follow the long line of her legs right down to her ankles.

  One had sleeves. One didn’t. Not that it mattered. Both would leave her shoulders bare and her cleavage displayed.

  And they were expensive.

  Incredibly expensive. She’d have known that just by looking at them, even if they hadn’t hung in garment bags that carried the name of a shop any woman who’d ever read Vogue would recognize.

  How ironic.

  She had a closet full of expensive things at El Sueño. Not as expensive as this but expensive enough. She’d deliberately walked away from that life of extravagance, a life her father had insisted on and funded.

  Now she was immersed in it again.

  Yes, but this was different.

  This wasn’t the general demanding that everything about his daughters be a positive reflection of him, his wealth and his status.

  This was her employer requiring that his employee be properly dressed for a business function. He hadn’t been involved in choosing the gowns or the shoes, the evening purses or the two elegant little jackets, one of soft silver leather, the other of gold satin, hanging beside the gowns.

  He’d made a phone call to the hotel concierge and she’d taken it from there.

  There was nothing personal in any of this.

  Only the underwear made that conclusion questionable.

  The lingerie. No way could you call such tiny bits of lace and silk underwear. The bras, the thongs, the sheer hose were the stuff of dreams. Hot dreams.

  Emily swallowed dryly.

  Trust a French concierge to make choices like these. Because it surely could not have been her employer. He wouldn’t have asked for bras and thongs that made a woman think about a man slowly taking them off her.

  A rap sounded at the bedroom door.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Marco called.

  That brusque tone did it. If she’d had any doubts as to who had chosen the lingerie, she didn’t any more.

  Five minutes later, he knocked again. Pounded, was more like it.

  Emily was ready.

  Her suitcase had still not arrived, but the gorgeous marble vanity offered shampoos, soaps, body lotions, perfume, every possible little luxury, and she’d had lip gloss, mascara and a tiny sample thingy of eyeliner in her handbag. What she didn’t have was a hair clip.

  When she opened the door, she was holding her hair back from her face with one hand.

  “You don’t have to break it door down,” she said, “See? I’m—”

  She never got to the “ready” part.

  She was too busy staring at her boss.

  His hair, still shower-damp, curled silkily against his head. His face was freshly-shaven. He was wearing a black tux, and if ever a man was made to wear a tux, this was the man.

  He stared at her.

  It was impossible to read his expression.

  “You look,” he said, his eyes focusing on hers, “you look…”

  What? Awful? Dreadful? Good? Bad?

  “For God’s sake,” she said, “say something! Should I have worn the other—”

  “Beautiful.”

  His voice was low. Husky. He sounded exactly the way a woman wanted a man to sound when she’d dressed just for him.

  Except, she’d reminded herself quickly, except she hadn’t dressed for him. She’d dressed for a dinner meeting. And he wasn’t a man. She wasn’t a woman. He was her employer. She was his employee.

  “Thank you,” she said, a little breathlessly. “It’s the gown. The shoes. It isn’t—”

  “But it is,” he said softly. “It is you, Emily. You are beautiful.”

  Time seemed to do that thing everyone knew was impossible.

  It stood still. And then, just when she thought she was going to tumble forward on these impossible, delicious heels and drown in Marco’s eyes, his cellphone rang.

  His face darkened.

  He wrenched the thing from his pocket, barked “What is it?” so harshly that she felt pity for the unfortunate soul on the other end.

  He listened, nodded; his expression eased. When he disconnected, whatever had happened a moment ago was over.

  “Charles is waiting.”

  “Oh. I mean, good. I mean, I’m almost—” Stop babbling, Emily! He’s calm. You should be, too. “I just need to find something for my—”

  “Dio, will you please stop fiddling with your hair?”

  Maybe he wasn’t as calm as she’d thought. No matter. She didn’t like his tone of voice.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said. I am not fiddling with it, I’m fixing it. I’m trying to figure out a way to secure it because my suitcase still hasn’t arrived and I don’t have a barrette or a band and—”

  “It won’t arrive.”

  “What won’t arrive?”

  “Your trunk.”

  “It’s a suitcase.”

  “It felt like a trunk.” Marco folded his arms. “And it will not be coming.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. Unfolded his arms. Examined his fingernails.

  “I have informed Charles to return it to the plane.”

  Emily’s eyes narrowed.

  “I beg your—”

  “If you say ‘I beg your pardon’ one more time,” he said in a low voice, “I will show you the only sure way you can beg me for whatever it is you want, cara.”

  The warning flustered her. It also put a lick of flame low in her belly and she didn’t want to think about why that should have happened.

  “Mr. Santini—”

  He laughed. She blushed.

  “Marco. That is my luggage. It holds my clothes. My—my stuff. You had no right—”

  He waved his hand. Louis XIV could not have done it with more arrogance.

  “Tomorrow, we buy you new clothes.”

  “Tomorrow, we buy you new clothes,” Emily mimicked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do not mimic me. And do not look at me that way. The clothing allowance, remember?”

  Emily let go of her hair. It was her turn to fold her arms. “You probably spent all of it already.”

  “I spent what needed to be spent.”

  “Really?” Her chin lifted. “You know, you never did tell me the amount of that allowance.”

  “I did not tell you the amount of your health insurance, either.”

  “It isn’t the same thing.”

  “It is what I say it is—and why are you arguing with me?”

  “Does no one ever argue with you?” she snapped. “Because someone should. You are the most—”

  “The most arrogant man in the universe. Si. You told me that before. Perhaps you have forgotten that Charles is waiting. So are my guests.”

  “Well,” Emily said, grabbing for her hair again, “they’ll just have to—”

  “Madre de Dio, stop that nonsense with your hair!”

  He caught her wrist. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders and down her back.

  “See what you’ve done,” she said crossly. More crossly than the situation warranted, and for what reason? Why was her heart racing? Why was she so aware of his closeness? Of the scent of man and soap? Of the heat of his hand on her flesh? “I cannot possibly go to an important meeting looking like—”

  Marco cursed, hauled her toward him and silenced her with a kiss.

  She went crazy.

  She moaned. Cupped his face between her hands.

  He made an answering sound, deep in his throat, wrapped his strong arms around her and gathered her tightly against him.

  Her lips parted.

  Their tongues met.

  She sucked the tip of his into her mouth.

  He growled, slid one h
and down her spine, cupped her bottom and lifted her into him.

  His erection was swift, hard and exciting. She felt its urgency, felt the urgency of her response.

  She began to tremble.

  Then he let her go.

  She blinked her eyes open.

  His face was taut with tension, the bones visible beneath his tanned skin.

  “This isn’t going to work,” she whispered.

  “No,” he said thickly, “it isn’t.”

  He reached for her. She went into his arms. Their mouths fused. The kiss was deep and hot and she had never experienced anything remotely like it.

  His phone rang. And rang.

  She flattened her hands against his chest.

  The phone went on ringing.

  Finally, eons later, Marco raised his head. Emily stepped back.

  He took a long, shuddering breath. Concentrated on snow. Ice. Glaciers. Why wouldn’t his damned body cooperate? At last, it did. He was safe to be seen in public.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  Then he took her elbow, as impersonal a gesture as a gesture could be, and led her to the elevator.

  ******

  They were seven for dinner.

  The CEO of the French company Marco was interested in buying. His wife. An accountant from that company. An accountant from Marco’s Milan office. A middle aged woman the CEO introduced as his assistante de direction.

  My counterpart, Emily thought, smiling as she and the woman shook hands.

  The CEO’s PA wore a probably expensive but dull-looking black silk evening suit. It had a mannish jacket that topped a long, straight skirt. Sturdy black shoes peeked out from under the hem.

  Emily’s peacock-blue silk gown was, she knew, spectacular. Her shoes had all the substance of a spider’s web, the slender heels five inches high.

  One of them, she thought wryly, was not suitably dressed.

  The restaurant where Marco had booked a private room had three Michelin stars and was rumored to be on the verge of getting an all but unprecedented fourth.

  It was world famous and elegant.

  Emily had been here during that decade-old visit she, Jaimie and Lissa had paid to their father.

  “The obligatory paternal visit,” Jaimie had called it, and she was right.

  They all hated those pilgrimages. To be fair, now that Emily was older, she knew their father really had wanted to spend time with his daughters. The trouble was, he didn’t know how to do that without making them feel as if they were on display and as if everything they did was a reflection on him.

  The meal here, a luncheon, had not gone well.

  Their father had ordered for them. Poached quail eggs. Lissa had rolled her eyes. Bretagne oysters. Jaimie had turned a gag into a cough. Frogs’ legs. Emily had shuddered.

  In fact, their palates were sophisticated.

  It was their behavior that wasn’t.

  They were hormonal as thirteen-fourteen-and fifteen-year-old girls can be, filled with the need to assert themselves to a father who did not believe that children could or should be assertive.

  He had spent the morning reminding them that they were to be on their best behavior. Lissa was not to play with her hair. Jaimie was not to swing her feet under the table. Emily was not to speak before thinking. She had a bad habit of doing that.

  It had been all but inevitable that something truly awful would happen that day.

  It had come in the form of a seemingly simple question.

  Midway through the endless lunch, one of the general’s distinguished guests, a much-beribboned French officer, had smiled at them the way some adults smile at children. To call the curve of his mouth under the shadow of a bristly mustache “condescending” would not have come close.

  “Well,” he had said, “after all these days of dining on our glorious French food, mes jeunes filles, what is the very best dish you have eaten?”

  The general had beamed at them.

  They had looked at each other, meaningful glances that translated into a pact of incipient teenage rebellion.

  “Speak up,” their father had said. “Jaimie? Lissa? Emily? Emily. Tell us your favorite French dish, child. What is it, hmm? Blanquette de Veau? Cassoulet? Pot au feu?”

  Defiance had glinted in Emily’s eyes. She thought of where the three of them had spent a guilty hour that afternoon.

  “Big Macs and frites,” she’d replied.

  Back home, that might have gotten a laugh but not here, in the gastronomic capital of the world.

  Their father’s face had turned purple.

  “My daughter has an unusual sense of humor,” he’d said.

  The only good thing that had come of the incident was that he’d sent them home the very next day. It had also earned her praise from her sisters and cheers from her big brothers after Lissa told them the story.

  Thinking back, she found herself trying not to smile.

  “What?” Marco said softly, dipping his head to hers.

  She looked at him, wanting to share it—but she couldn’t.

  For the first time, she let herself think about how she’d lied to him, if not directly than surely indirectly. It was a textbook example of guilt by omission.

  He thought she was struggling to get ahead.

  She was struggling to leave her old life behind.

  He thought he was expanding her world. That, at least, was true, but not in the ways he believed.

  “Emily?”

  He took her hand under the table. She looked into his dark eyes. Her stomach dropped to her toes.

  Forget that he thought she was someone she wasn’t.

  The real problem was what she wanted to be, the woman he took to his bed.

  The lyrics from one of those old songs she used to play at the Tune-In floated into her head.

  Bewitched, bothered and bewildered…

  In other words, she was in deep, deep trouble.

  ******

  Miraculously, she got through the rest of the evening playing the role of knowledgeable administrative assistant.

  She listened. Committed to memory things she thought Marco might want to consider later. Quietly translated an occasional word or two when it seemed important to do so. And when the business portion of the evening ended, she smiled and exchanged pleasantries with the others.

  At last, chairs were scraped back and handshakes were exchanged. Air kisses from the French CEO and his wife for her, a second set of air kisses from the CEO’s wife for Marco, a friendly slap on the back from the CEO.

  A deal had been cinched.

  Then they were in the limo and Charles was taking them back to the hotel.

  “Well,” Marco said, smiling, “that went very well.”

  Emily looked at him. “You think?”

  “I know. You did an excellent job.”

  She breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  “For what? It is the truth.” He grinned. “The Frenchman said that if ever I decided to part with you, he would hire you in a heartbeat at twice whatever I’m paying you.”

  She laughed. “You don’t think it’s dangerous to tell me that?”

  His smile tilted. “I think that everything about you is dangerous, cara.”

  She felt her pulse skitter.

  “Not to worry,” she said lightly, deliberately misunderstanding what he’d just said and the smoldering look that was suddenly in his eyes. “I’d need all kinds of fancy documents and permits to take him up on his offer.”

  “I would not let that happen.”

  His voice was low, his expression intense. It didn’t take a genius to know they weren’t talking about documents and permits.

  He reached for her hand. She caught her breath as he stroked his thumb over the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist.

  “Don’t.”

  He answered by taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips.

  “Please…”

  “Please, what?
” he said in a husky whisper.

  “Please—please stop. This isn’t a good idea.”

  His eyes searched hers. That muscle in his jaw knotted.

  “Emily…”

  She shook her head, tugged her hand free.

  She didn’t want this.

  All right. She wanted it and that was exactly why it was a bad idea.

  Marco was her employer. One benefit of having held zillions of jobs was that you knew from the dubious pleasure of firsthand observation that a disaster resulted when a woman slept with her boss.

  More to the point, did she want to be just another in the string of women who passed through his life? No matter that Jessalyn was a bitch. Did she want to end up like her, dumped without any concern for her feelings?

  Even if that didn’t happen for weeks, even a few months, was it better than a hookup?

  Besides, she knew how these things worked.

  She’d watched how her handsome, arrogant brothers had dealt with women in their bachelor days; she’d listened to her sisters rant and rave and sometimes sob when errant lovers broke their hearts.

  “Emily,” Marco said again, the urgency in his voice so real she could almost see it, just as Charles pulled the Bentley to a stop at the hotel.

  She reached for the door handle. Charles got there first. Beyond him, the night doorman held open the door that led into the lobby.

  Door after door lay ahead.

  The one to the private elevator. The one to the suite.

  The one to her bedroom.

  It had a lock. She would turn it, take off this beautiful gown, the so-sexy-they-made-her-ache bra and thigh-high hose and thong. She’d put on—What?

  She didn’t have her suitcase. That meant no sweats. No PJs. No oversized T-shirt. Comfort clothes, all of them. There was a bathrobe in the sumptuous bathroom. She’d wrap herself in it, climb into bed and sleep until morning.

  Then, in the light of the new day, things would be simpler to define.

  Marco followed her out of the car, through the door, through the lobby and into the elevator. She stared straight ahead as it rose; she felt his eyes on her but she wasn’t going to turn toward him.

  The door slid open and they stepped into the suite. Moonlight seeped through the terrace doors and windows and dappled the marble floor.