by Pippa Roscoe
‘So, you’re into horseflesh? I love to have a flutter on the ponies occasionally. You’re going to be in Buenos Aires for the first leg of the Hanley Cup next week?’
His noncommittal ‘mmm’ wasn’t enough to put her off. But it did remind him of the need to check in with John—the trainer he had secured for the Winners’ Circle from the staff his family had been forced to let go.
It had been both a gift and a curse to work with the gruff northern Englishman. Antonio was still unable to relinquish fully the stranglehold the past had on him even now, in the present. He wondered if Mason McAulty was still furiously adhering to the strict schedule she had set herself...
But his train of thought was interrupted as Amber placed a long-nailed hand on his forearm, and Antonio resisted the urge to flinch.
‘Is it true that you have a female jockey riding your horse? How simply thrilling!’
Cue more laughter. Laughter that made him wonder what dry response Emma would have come up with.
Damn it.
Emma—the woman he had worked with for eighteen months and never known about her medical history. He wasn’t so uncouth as to require one for members of his staff, and neither was he such an ass that he would have treated her any differently. But as his eyes raked over Amber and her figure-hugging outfit he suddenly realised what it was about Emma’s figure that had always niggled at the back of his subconscious.
Breast implants. He hadn’t initially noticed them—in fact had only just realised that they were implants. They weren’t obvious—in reality they were incredibly subtle—and the disguising of them was clearly intended by her choice of wardrobe.
In an act of what could only be described as self-preservation, any time he had come near to considering his PA’s assets, he had swerved sharply away. So, even as a man who considered himself a connoisseur of beautiful forms, perhaps he could be forgiven.
Assimilating this new information about Emma didn’t make him think any less of her—only more. It added yet another layer of complexity to a woman who was beginning to take up far too much of his thoughts for a member of his staff.
‘And that was when—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Antonio said insincerely, ‘I’ve just seen someone I need to speak to.’
He left the blonde woman practically stamping her foot in his wake and went to find... Anything would be better than that.
Until he walked smack-bang into Marcus Greenfeld.
‘Mr Arcuri,’ he proclaimed, before Antonio could extricate himself from the situation. The man took off his greasy glasses and began rubbing them with his tie. ‘Kind of you to come. Didn’t have to, of course,’ he said apologetically. ‘I hope you don’t mind the...the extravagance. But then, of course, it was your suggestion so, yes... Thank you. I—’
‘You have done an amazing job.’ The lie was giving the man far more credit than he was clearly due, but it was necessary to ensure that Emma’s inspired intervention was fully felt. ‘This evening’s gala has garnered a huge amount of positivity,’ he said, loudly enough for Emma to hear as she made her way over to the two of them.
Did he notice a slight blush on her cheeks?
‘Mr Greenfeld... Mr Arcuri—the meal will be served shortly,’ Emma informed them.
Antonio’s hawk-like gaze raked over her—all of her. Even dressed in the clothes he now saw that she wore like armour, she outshone Amber like the north star.
‘I was just telling Marcus how much I’m enjoying the gala. A truly wonderful event. And with that in mind I have decided to double the donations raised this evening. Marcus,’ he said, turning back to the man, ‘please be so good as to announce that before the meal starts. Let’s see if it greases some wheels.’ He tried not to look at the man’s glasses as he spoke.
His statement signalled the end of the conversation, but Marcus Greenfeld still took an awkward moment to realise it was his cue to leave.
Emma was looking at him with huge round eyes. The same eyes that had first caught his attention in London. He needed to get his own eyes off his PA and on to the next fiancée option. He needed to keep his mind on track. He wasn’t here for the charity—he was here to help secure the Bartlett deal.
‘That’s...that’s wonderful, Antonio. Thank you so much.’
‘You don’t have to thank me. It’s my charity, after all. Besides... It’s good publicity.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ she said, levelling him with a stare that saw far too much, and speaking in a voice that held too much optimism. ‘I think you’re doing it out of the kindness of your heart.’
‘Don’t paint any illusions about me, Emma. Trust me—there’s very little good left in me.’
‘Well, then. I’ll just have to nurture that last little bit of goodness.’
As she slipped away into the throng of guests his errant mind wondered what else she might nurture and he cursed himself to hell and back.
When the guests started to make their way in a somewhat chaotic line through to where the meal was being served, he saw Dimitri peel off from a group of attractive women.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ Antonio asked as they stood back and watched the guests pile in for the meal.
‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,’ Dimitri replied, full of laughter.
‘I’m glad you find humour in this.’
‘And in your purpose,’ Dimitri responded, clinking his glass of champagne against Antonio’s. ‘So, anyone caught your eye yet?’
As Antonio scanned the guests at the gala, all decked in the kind of finery that suited their opulent surroundings, his eyes snagged on Emma once again.
‘Emma shared the list of suitable candidates with me, and I must say, apart from that girl Amber, she’s chosen wisely. Though if you’re not overly taken with option one I’d be happy to take her off your hands.’
‘Che palle, Dimitri.’ Antonio cast Dimitri a dark look, but his friend only shrugged.
‘Ti?’ Dimitri queried in Greek.
‘Natasha Eddings—“option one”—is not up for grabs. This isn’t a cattle market, Dimitri. This is important. If Bartlett is even going to meet with me, then I need a fiancée to resolve any detrimental effects of my previous...assignations.’
‘Is that what the kids are calling it these days?’
‘Don’t joke. This is a serious matter.’
‘I know,’ Dimitri said, his eyes shining with understanding. ‘But, Antonio, you can’t just stumble across a woman you’ve never met before, make her an offer to be your fake fiancée, expect her to have little or no ulterior expectations, and present her to Bartlett wrapped in a bow.’
Antonio bit back a curse. Dimitri was right. Urgency and necessity had made his usually quick and clever mind sluggish and slow. He saw the many flaws in his plan immediately.
What had he been thinking? He needed the deal, he needed to bring Steele to his knees, and he needed a fiancée who would understand and support him in it.
His eyes caught Emma, laughing with a member of the hotel’s staff before stepping away through the glass doors to the balcony that wrapped around the outside of the hotel. She had done so much. He was impressed with how she’d multi-tasked, clearly making an unprecedented success of the event whilst never missing a beat in her day-to-day role. She was conscientious, bright and articulate. And above all she was professional. In short, she was perfect.
* * *
‘Mum, it’s...’ Emma paused, pulling her mobile briefly away from her ear to check the screen for the time ‘...one a.m. in London. What are you doing up?’
‘Oh, I got stuck into a painting and the next thing I knew it was midnight.’
As Emma looked out onto the famous New York skyline she imagined her mother in the brightly lit, airy loft of her home in Hampstead Heath. When her parents had divorced her father had
been the one to leave, moving into a flat nearer to the school where he worked, but only round the corner from the home they had all once shared.
The divorce had signalled the end of the nightly fights that had become a regular feature of Emma’s life—desperate and painful arguments her parents had thought she hadn’t heard. The heart-wrenching accusations, the arguments over how differently to handle their sick daughter, and her father’s confusion as to why Louise Guilham had changed beyond his recognition.
Emma had initially felt relief when they’d separated, and then guilt, knowing that her father still desperately loved her mother. His painful bewilderment at the transformation in his wife and child had cut Emma deeply, and prompted the awful thought that had it not been for her illness her mother might have somehow stayed with her husband, and she might have somehow found a way to keep them all together.
‘Where’s Mark?’
Emma liked her mum’s partner. He made her happy, and he also gave her the space she needed to be creative at unsociable times. Emma knew better than most that when her mum ‘got stuck into a painting’ she could be gone for days. She loved her mum’s paintings—her favourite one hung on the wall of her little Brooklyn flat—and still felt bad that her mother’s work had been put on hold during her illness at a critical time in her mother’s career.
‘Asleep. I just wanted to know how the gala went.’
‘It’s still going, but it’s going well. Antonio has offered to double the event’s donations.’
‘That’s wonderful, darling.’
But even through her mother’s happiness for her Emma could sense her distraction. She was probably staring at the painting critically right at that very moment.
Emma was about to ask when they might come over to visit her. Her mother and Mark hadn’t made it out there yet, but that was okay, because she’d hardly had a spare moment since working for Antonio. But as if the very thought of him had conjured him from thin air, she felt rather than heard his presence behind her.
‘Love you lots, but I’d better go.’
Emma hung up the call and put her mobile back in her purse. She gathered herself, knowing that her emotions were a little too close to the surface for her to face her boss just yet.
Adjusting her mind’s eye back from her home in Hampstead to the beautiful night-time vista of famous skyscrapers silhouetted against the stars, she felt a cool breeze pass over her skin—and that was why she had goosebumps, Emma assured herself. Not because Antonio had come out here to find her.
He should be with the other guests sitting down for the meal. Perhaps he’d come to tell her that he’d found his perfect fiancée, she thought, uncharacteristically bitter.
She needed to pull herself together. Surely she could handle Antonio Arcuri’s fiancée as well as she could handle him. But the thought of handling her boss gave rise to some very explicit images, and she had to push them aside as firmly as she placed a smile on her face and finally turned to see him.
He stood half in shadow, peering at her through bitter-chocolate-coloured eyes. There was something about the way he held himself. As if his body was restraining some kind of pressing energy. Energy she felt all the way on the other side of the balcony.
‘Who was that?’
‘What?’
‘Who was on the phone that you love?’ he asked, his Italian accent thick on the words.
Emma frowned at the personal nature of this conversation. She and Antonio didn’t do personal. It was one of the things she liked and respected about him, and in her deepest heart she was thankful for it.
‘My mother.’
‘So there’s no one at home waiting up for you? No boyfriend or otherwise?’
‘No,’ she replied, still confused.
‘Then, Emma, I can see only one option before me. In order to secure the Bartlett deal I need you... You will be my fiancée.’
CHAPTER THREE
HUH... SO THAT was what it was like to be proposed to.
It wasn’t exactly how Emma had imagined it happening. Not even in her wildest imaginings. Though, if she was honest, Antonio Arcuri might have featured in some of her more fevered dreams—but never with such shocking words.
‘In order to secure the Bartlett deal...’
‘You will be my fiancée.’
While she might not have foreseen marriage in her future, if it had been to happen she would at least have hoped to be asked.
But why had he chosen her? Especially when he had a whole room full of perfectly suitable potential fiancées who were probably now picking the carbohydrates out of an exquisite three-course meal prepared by one of the finest chefs in New York.
She looked at him through the night gloom and saw something in his eyes. Something she had to look away from before it was transformed into pity.
‘Who told you?’
‘Who told me what?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Antonio. I’m not stupid.’
Anger ripped through her at an impossible speed. She’d wanted to start over. Start afresh in New York—where people didn’t know, didn’t look at her as if she was an unexploded bomb waiting to go off. Yes, her work with the charity had naturally led to some astute observations by a colleague or two. But not Antonio. Because he hadn’t known about her work with the charity.
‘Is this because you feel sorry for me?’
‘No!’ he growled.
‘I won’t be used as some PR stunt to get what you want, Antonio. Playing on the sympathies of Bartlett with my “miraculous survival”.’
‘Dio, what kind of man do you take me for?’ he demanded, clearly offended by the implication.
‘The kind of man who would go to extreme lengths to acquire the perfect fake fiancée in order to pin down a business deal.’
‘Well, I can hardly refute that claim. But my decision has nothing to do with your health and everything to do with the fact that you are a highly accomplished, educated woman who can move within my circles both with and without notice when necessary,’ he stated, ticking her qualities off on each of his long, lean fingers. ‘And, most importantly, you know that this will be solely a business arrangement. You will have no illusions of emotional investment that other women may mistake my offer to contain.’
‘No, I don’t have any illusions about the emotional investment behind your “offer”,’ Emma replied, refusing to remove the sting from her tone.
Struggling to sort through the barrage of contrasting opinions he had bombarded her with, and against the wave of impatience he was sending her way, she turned out to the balcony.
He wanted her as his fiancée?
‘I’m satisfied that you will not develop feelings for me and I will not develop feelings for you.’
A small sliver of hope curled in on itself deep within her. She should be pleased to hear that. She should want their relationship to be completely devoid of any possible emotional attachment, but somehow it still hurt.
‘Why is this so important to you, Antonio?’ she asked, hurt driving her to question her boss in a way she had never done before. ‘You don’t need the financial security of making the Bartlett investment, and you’ve never once cared about your...colourful reputation before. And surely if you want this deal badly enough you’ll find a way to win against this other potential investor. What’s really going on?’
He stared at her and said nothing for a moment. But then he spoke, as if realising that her agreement relied on full disclosure—or even part disclosure—and his next words shocked her.
‘As I said before, it is not Bartlett that’s important. It is the other man who might make investment in his company. Michael Steele is an evil man who cannot be allowed to succeed.’
Emma recognised the name, and knew that he had been the motivation behind some of Antonio’s business dealings before.
‘Why is Steele so important? Why go to such extreme lengths for a man who...?’ She trailed off, not quite knowing who he was.
‘A man who destroyed my mother and my sister’s happiness—who changed their lives irrevocably and cruelly. This is Steele’s last and final chance to gain financial security for himself. If he fails to win the Bartlett investment deal, he will lose his business. And I am determined to make that happen to the man...’ He stopped, reluctance and anger warring for supremacy in his features. ‘The man who is my father.’
Shock rippled across her skin and shivered through her body. Michael Steele was Antonio’s father?
Antonio never talked about his family—had always valued his privacy above all else. She’d never once heard him mention his father—whose name he clearly no longer bore. But the darkness in his eyes and tone held so much anger and fury it crashed against her, pulled and pushed her away from Antonio like a tide.
It was unquestionable. And she couldn’t help but wonder just how much his hatred of his father—something she simply couldn’t comprehend—had driven him to this point.
‘I will do anything to secure that investment, Emma. Anything. So if you have a price, name it. I will give it to you on a silver platter should you require it.’
Antonio would find himself a fiancée—whether it was her or someone else. But perhaps she could do something good with his offer. The thought raised hopes in her—some that she had discovered recently and some that she had long forgotten.
‘What I want is for you to get rid of Marcus Greenfeld,’ she practically growled. ‘The man is incompetent and the foundation could be doing so much more. You could be doing so much more.’