by Maya Blake
Emmie had done well with her business, better than she had expected, but it was an expensive service to run with increasing overheads. Plus, she had a mortgage, and she was helping her mother pay for her younger sister Natalie’s therapy for an eating disorder that had started during Emmie’s battle with cancer. It would be crazy not to at least consider Matteo’s offer. His request might be a little outside her normal range of service but it was surely worth a try? Never let it be said she shied away from a challenge. Her history of chemotherapy was proof of that. ‘You’re a forensic accountant, right?’
His eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. ‘Was that a wild guess?’
‘I saw something about you in the press a while back,’ Emmie said. Although the photo hadn’t done him justice. Matteo Vitale had a commanding presence that no camera lens could ever capture. It wasn’t just his imposing height or brusque manner—something about his eyes hinted at deeply buried pain. Pain that was so cleverly, determinedly hidden it took a special skill to recognise it.
And Emmie had that skill in spades. Her pain radar had been finely tuned by life’s disappointments. There was a lot of truth in that old maxim ‘it takes one to know one.’ She saw in others what she hid so cleverly in herself. It caused other people pain to know about hers, so she had excised it. Denied it. Buried it. She could walk past a pram, smile at the mother and no one would ever guess the searing agony inside her heart that she would never hold her own child in her arms.
Her ovaries had been damaged during her chemo and no amount of wishing and hoping and bargaining and praying for a miracle was ever going to restore them. IVF and donor eggs had been mentioned by her doctors, but Emmie knew it wouldn’t be the same as holding her own baby, seeing her own features and that of other members of her family in the child’s features and personality. Emmie had decided that, if fate had decreed she was infertile, then she would accept it, as painful and heart-wrenching as it was. She had even convinced her parents and sister she had put that bitter disappointment behind her once and for all. It was too upsetting to see them worrying about her. Pitying her.
Emmie placed her hands on the desk in a clasped position. She felt compelled to find out everything she could about Matteo Vitale. He was like a complicated puzzle someone had presented her with, and she wouldn’t rest until she solved it. ‘I must admit, I’m finding it hard to understand why you even need my services, Mr Vitale. I mean, you’re good-looking, and apparently rich enough to afford to pay me handsomely. I would have thought you’d have no trouble convincing any woman to do anything you asked her to do.’
‘Do you include yourself in that statement?’ His eyes held hers in a lock that sent a shower of unfamiliar sensations to her feminine core.
Emmie raised her chin a fraction and forced herself to hold his challenging gaze. ‘No, I do not. I’m quite immune to charming men.’ Or so she’d thought until he had walked through the door.
He glanced at her left hand, presumably to see if she was wearing a wedding or engagement ring. His gaze came back to hers, the dark slashes of his eyebrows slightly elevated. ‘So, the premier match-maker is herself unattached. Interesting.’ His tone was smooth, his expression again just shy of mocking.
Emmie stretched her lips into a tight smile and unclasped her hands and placed them on her lap beneath the desk. ‘Mr Vitale, allow me to assure you my currently single status is a choice, not an unfortunate circumstance. My career is my focus and I pride myself on being totally available to my clients in order to give them the best possible service.’
Matteo continued to hold her gaze to the point of discomfort. Emmie was determined not to look away first but, as each microsecond passed, her heartrate increased and her breathing quickened. ‘Good, because I don’t have a lot of time to waste,’ he finally said. ‘I need to get this sorted as quickly as possible.’
‘I’m tempted to say you can’t hurry love, but clearly that’s not applicable in your case.’ Emmie rose from her chair and went to her filing cabinet and took out one of her glossy brochures and handed it to him over the desk. ‘There are various packages you can sign on for, which are detailed in this brochure. The top-level package is probably the best option, given your time-pressure issue.’
Matteo held the brochure in one hand and with the other took out a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and put them on. If anything, they made him look even more heart-stoppingly attractive. He leafed through the brochure, at one point pushing his glasses further along the bridge of his nose with his index finger, his forehead creased in deeper lines of concentration.
He lowered his glasses further down his nose and glanced up at her from over the top of them, his gaze so compelling she couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. She was vaguely conscious of holding her breath, wondering if he was going to walk out of her office without a backward glance, yet desperately hoping he wouldn’t. Finding him a wife according to his brief would be a challenge but she had faced bigger ones—surviving Hodgkin’s lymphoma as a seventeen-year-old being the primary one.
‘I’ll take the top-level package.’ He closed the brochure and placed it back on the desk, taking off his glasses and slipping them back inside his jacket pocket. She caught a glimpse of his broad chest as he opened his jacket, his light-blue business shirt stretched over toned muscles.
Emmie blinked rapidly and tried to refocus. She resumed her seat and smoothed her skirt over her knees. ‘As you can see from the outline there, I usually spend a bit of one-on-one time with my clients to get to know them. That way I can judge what sort of person would best suit them. I have a detailed questionnaire I ask my clients to fill in but I’ve always found it much more informative to actually see them in action, so to speak. Like at work, at leisure, socialising with their friends and family, if possible. Would that be agreeable to you?’
A hard light came into his gaze and his jaw shifted like a heavy lock clicking firmly into place. ‘No can do the family. I’m an only child and my father is dead.’
‘And your mother?’
He made a dismissive sound, part-snort, part-sigh. ‘Haven’t seen her since I was seven years old. She decided marriage and motherhood weren’t for her.’ He gave a ‘couldn’t care less’ half-smile and added, ‘I have no idea where she lives or even if she’s still alive.’
Emmie frowned. ‘I’m sorry. That must have been very upsetting and destabilising for you as a young child.’
He shrugged one broad shoulder in a negligent fashion. ‘I soon got over it.’
Emmie wasn’t so sure that was entirely true. There was an aura of guardedness about him that suggested he wasn’t comfortable allowing people too close. The walk-out of a mother at such a young age and with no contact since would be highly traumatic for a child. It would have created bonding issues, uncertainty, emotional withdrawal or lockdown and numerous other coping mechanisms that often, if not always, played out in adulthood. She had found the walk-out of her father when she’d been seventeen traumatic, but at least she still saw him occasionally. How much worse for a seven-year-old boy who had never seen his mother again?
‘Some children are more resilient than others,’ she offered. And then, on an impulse she couldn’t quite account for, she added, ‘How soon would you like to start with my programme? I’m fairly busy just now but—’
‘Tonight.’
Her heart slipped from its moorings. ‘Tonight?’
‘Have dinner with me. You can pick my brain at your leisure.’
Emmie had an unnerving feeling he would find out more about her than she would about him. After all, he had built his hugely successful career on uncovering well-hidden secrets. His piercing gaze held hers and her pulse sped up again. ‘Lucky for you, I happen to be free tonight. Would you like to invite a couple of friends along so I can see how you relate to them?’
A steely glint appeared in
his eyes. ‘Let’s do this alone.’
Alone. Somehow the way he said that word made a frisson skitter over her flesh. Emmie disguised a swallow. Dinner alone with a client was not out of the norm for her. What was out of the norm was her reaction to the prospect of dinner with this particular client. Excitement, intrigue, nervous anticipation—all were fluttering about in her stomach like frenzied moths. ‘You do have friends, yes?’
He gave an indolent smile that completely transformed his features, making him seem less serious, less tense and less guarded—more approachable and even more devastatingly attractive. ‘But of course.’
‘Are you worried what they might think of you engaging the services of someone like me?’
‘Not particularly, but I would rather keep my private life out of the press as much as possible.’
‘You don’t trust your friends?’
He gave a stiff quirk of his lips, his gaze inscrutable. ‘I don’t trust anyone.’
‘That must be an occupational hazard of yours, I guess.’
‘Perhaps.’
Emmie tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, trying to disguise how much he was affecting her. Never had she been so interested in finding out more about a man’s character. He was complex and closed off and compelling. She was as giddy as a teenager anticipating her first date. She had to get a grip. She was a professional match-maker and he was engaging her services to help him find a wife. She had no business being interested in him herself other than in a professional sense.
Getting to know him was essential to the success of the mission of matching him with a suitable partner. But, right at that moment, Emmie couldn’t think of a single one of the female clients currently on her books who would suit his unusual requirement. Her clients wanted love. Didn’t most people? They wanted connection and commitment and continuity.
‘Yes, well, you’d be surprised at how few friends some people have these days, which is why finding a partner can be so difficult. Meeting someone through friends used to be a sure, safe way to meet a potential partner.’ Emmie painted another smile on her lips and added, ‘I’ve designed my business model by becoming that mutual friend for my clients. It’s much more appealing to most of my clients than using a dating app.’ She paused for a beat and added, ‘I suppose you’ve tried the dating app approach?
‘Not for my current situation.’
Emmie could feel a blush stealing into her cheeks at the thought of him hooking up with casual lovers via an app. She had no problem with casual sex, although she hadn’t had a sexual partner for so long she was starting to wonder if her body would still know what to do if she happened to find someone she was interested in enough to do the deed.
You’re interested in Matteo Vitale.
The random thought sent another wave of heat through her cheeks and she lowered her gaze from the disturbing intensity of his. ‘Yes, well, your...erm...unusual specifications might attract the wrong sort of person. People often talk themselves up on social media apps.’
‘Indeed.’
Emmie opened her desk drawer, pulled out a selection of forms and laid them in front of him on the desk. ‘If you could fill in your details—phone number, email address, social-media channels and home address—I’ll enter them into my system. I can assure you of absolute privacy. No one but myself has access to the personal information of my clients. And I only give your contact details to a potential partner once I’ve discussed it with you first. The only thing I outsource is the personality questionnaire, to a team of experts who analyse my clients’ responses. It’s a well-researched personality model that helps me decide who would best complement you.’
She handed him a card with a web address printed on it. ‘Here’s the link to the questionnaire. It takes about forty-five minutes and I get the results back in a week or so.’
Matteo took the card from her and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He took out a gold pen before she could pass him one off her desk and began to fill out the forms with enviable speed and efficiency. Emmie examined the dark scrawl of his handwriting. The bold strokes spoke of a man who had a determined streak, but the light flourishes on some of the consonants hinted at a romantic element to his nature. The other thing she noticed was he was left-handed. Approximately ninety percent of the world’s population was right-handed, which to her made him seem even more unique.
But when he passed the completed forms back across the desk he did so with his right hand. ‘There you go.’
‘Are you mixed-handed or ambidextrous?’
‘Mixed. I write with my left but do a lot of other things with my right.’
Emmie could only imagine what some of those things might be and how skilled he might be at doing them. He had broad hands, tanned and long fingered with neat, square nails and a dusting of dark hair along the back and each of his fingers. She found herself imagining his hands on her...not just a ‘pleased to meet you’ handshake but on her face, on her breasts, on her hips, on the most intimate part of her body.
Her female flesh stirred, tensed and tingled, as if every sensitive nerve was preparing itself for his touch. She squeezed her legs together under the table, but if anything, it made it worse. She pushed back from the desk and stood, hoping her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt. ‘I mustn’t keep you any longer, Mr Vitale. I’ll get my secretary, Paisley, to book a restaurant for eight this evening. I’ll text you the details and meet you there.’
He rose from the chair and his imposing height made her snatch in another breath. For someone so tall, he moved with leonine grace. He had a rangy rather than gym-pumped build, an endurance athlete rather than a sprinter, which gave her another clue to his personality. Driven, disciplined, goal-oriented, he wouldn’t be afraid of hard work—in fact, he’d most likely thrive on it.
‘I’ll book the restaurant. And I’ll pick you up.’ His voice had an edge of intractability about it, which was another clue to his take-charge, stay-in-control personality.
Emmie decided against tussling with him about it, for she quite fancied seeing what car he drove and what sort of restaurant he would choose. Those would also be important clues she could use to assess his character. So, too, would visiting his home at some point.
‘Fine. Just as well I don’t live too far away.’ She leaned down to scribble her address on the back of one of her business cards and handed it to him. He took it from her with the slightest brush of his fingers against hers and a jolt of electricity coursed through her body. She pulled her hand back and gave him a stiff smile. ‘Till tonight, then.’
He gave a mock bow. ‘I’m looking forward to it. Ciao.’
Emmie was looking forward to it too, far more than she had any right to.
Copyright © 2021 by Melanie Milburne
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ISBN-13: 9780369706843
The Greek’s Hidden Vows
Copyright © 2021 by Maya Blake
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the produ
ct of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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