Emily: Sex and Sensibility

by Sandra Marton

  Never mind.

  One of life’s lessons was that you had to deal with what it handed you, and what it had handed him tonight was to find himself a passenger in his chauffeured Mercedes instead of behind the wheel of the Ferrari, with Jessalyn beside him babbling on and on about the Cartier bracelet she had not won at the charity raffle, or rather, the bracelet he had not won for her even though he’d bought fifty tickets at a thousand dollars each in a desperate hope of shutting her up.

  In fact, when he’d first heard Charles mutter something very un-Charleslike under his breath, he’d half thought his driver had finally become as irritated by her complaints as he was.

  Then he’d realized that Charles would never do such a thing. And that he was slowing the limo and peering into his rearview mirror.

  “Is there a problem?” Marco had said.

  “A woman on the sidewalk, sir. We just splashed the hell out of her. Begging your pardon, Miss Simmons,” he’d added quickly.

  “Then it’s a good thing it’s raining,” Jessalyn had cooed. Marco had looked at her. Even the unflappable Charles had seemed shocked. “You know. She was wet to begin with.”

  Her lips had drawn back in a smile that would have looked better on a carp. Botox, Marco had thought grimly, should be banned.

  “Charles? Is the woman is all right?”

  “Well, sir, she is, as far as I can tell, except that she has no umbrella.”

  Charles had been born in London. Umbrellas, rainy day or not, were part of his life.

  “And she’s also alone.”

  Marco had frowned. Alone, at this hour? Was she a prostitute? No. Not in this godforsaken neighborhood. Customers would be few and far between.

  He’d turned in the glove-leather seat and peered through the rear window, but he couldn’t see much beyond a lone figure standing on the sidewalk. There was a forlorn look to her. He’d thought of how much he wanted to get home, how much he wanted to avoid spending even a few more minutes in Jessalyn’s company, and then he’d huffed out a breath and told Charles to back up.

  “Let’s see if she needs help.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Jessalyn had said. “Really, Marco—”

  “Back up,” he’d repeated, and his mistress had slumped into the corner, folded her arms, crossed her legs, and set one Blahnik-clad foot swinging.

  When they were parallel with the woman, Charles had stopped the car.

  “Shall I get out and see if she needs assistance, sir?”

  Marco had looked through the streaked window. The woman looked half-drowned. She not only had no umbrella, she wasn’t wearing a coat or a jacket.

  “No need,” he’d said, “I’ll handle it.” He’d opened his door, peered into the rain and asked the woman whether she was all right.

  She’d assured him that she was, but any fool could see that she was not. After another useless exchange of questions and answers he’d decided that the only way to deal with the problem was to get out of the car.

  Charles had offered him an umbrella but why would he need an umbrella for a conversation that would surely take no more than a minute?

  Marco had sighed and stepped outside…

  Directly into a puddle.

  He’d felt the water seep through the soles of his shoes. Into his socks. And things had quickly gotten worse. How else to describe being held hostage by a tube of lipstick wielded by a woman all alone on a deserted street in the middle of the night, coatless and shoeless in the middle of a rainstorm?

  Logic told him to get back in the car and drive away. Honor told him that was out of the question. He had turned his back on many things during his life, but if he’d managed to cling to one principle, it had been honor.

  Marco cleared his throat.

  “Signorina.” He spoke in what he hoped were soothing tones. “I know you are fearful—”

  “I have a b-b-black belt in tai chi!”

  He considered pointing out that black belts were connected not to tai chi but to tae kwon do and decided against it.

  “That is excellent but—”

  “And I’m a karate expert!”

  Dio. This was not going well.

  “Truly, I understand your concerns but—”

  “Take one more s-s-step and I-I-I’ll scream!”

  “Signorina. If you would simply listen to me—”

  “I’ll sc-sc-scream so loud, I’ll w-w-wake the whole city!”

  Marco narrowed his eyes. He had never been a Boy Scout and he had no wish to start winning merit badges at this point in his life.

  “A little far-reaching, don’t you think?”

  “I’m s-s-serious.”

  “As am I. Besides, this is New York. What good will screaming do?”

  Her chin lifted. “Get b-b-back into th-that car or you’ll f-f-find out!”

  Interesting. She was wet, alone and obviously terrified but she would not give in to defeat without a fight—and what kind of nonsensical discussion was this? Why were they having a discussion at all?

  The wind-driven rain felt like tiny needles beating against his flesh. Soon, he’d be as wet as she was.

  A perfect ending to a perfect day.

  The stolen Ferrari. The sudden departure of his PA His personal assistants quit with alarming frequency, though he could not understand the reason, but this one had not even had the decency to give notice. What about his trip to Paris in two days? Was he supposed to pluck a name from a hat and hope the winner knew how to do the hundred things it took to keep him from being buried alive in calls, faxes, e-mails, requests and complaints? Was he supposed to hope an untried assistant would be able to sense who to seat beside whom at the sort of dinner he might have to host? What were the odds of finding someone who could get through a casual meeting with clients when the lingua franca was not necessarily English?

  Then he’d topped things off by attending a charity dinner.

  He hated charity dinners. He hated events at which the rich and powerful spent their time showing each other just how rich and powerful they were where raffles for expensive toys could set a man back a small fortune just to keep a woman from whining.

  Jessalyn, his mistress, had whined anyway.

  His soon-not-to-be mistress. It was a thought he turned to for consolation.

  “I s-s-suppose it’s pos-pos-possible your intentions are honorable.”

  Marco blinked and focused his gaze on his mission of mercy. His intentions with regard to women had not been honorable since he’d turned seventeen, but he knew what she meant and he wasn’t about to make things worse with some small, crude joke that she would surely misunderstand.

  Time to try a different approach.

  “Good. I am pleased that you understand.”

  “B-but it d-d-doesn’t matter. I’m f-f-fine. Th-th-thank you for stopping but—”

  “If you get into my vehicle, we will drive you to your destination.”

  A flash of panic swept across her face. Brilliant. Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

  This was ridiculous. The word wet no longer described her. Or him, for that matter, he thought grimly. Rain was dripping from his hair into his eyes. His jacket was taking a soggy beating though it would stand up to the elements far better than whatever she was wearing.

  A dress. Silk, most probably.

  Silk, it seemed, did not do well in the rain.

  It clung to her body, outlining gently curved hips, a slender waist and small, high breasts. Now that he thought about it, he could even see the thrust of her nipples.

  They seemed to be very nice nipples, of a size that would welcome a lover’s mouth.

  “I know wh-what you’re thi-thin-thinking.”

  Heat rushed into his face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You th-think I’m crazy.”

  One of them was. And yes, it was probably she. In fact, why not? Like most big cities, New York had more than its fair share of the walking wounded.

&nb
sp; “Not at all,” he said carefully, “but if there is a physician you would like me to contact—”

  “I’m not cr-crazy. I just d-d-don’t want your heh-heh-heh—”

  Jessalyn’s angry voice cut through the woman’s stammer.

  “Jesus H. Christ, Marco,” she snarled, “she sounds like Elmer Fudd! Would you give it up?”

  The woman’s gaze swept past him to the open car door. He cursed under his breath but decided he might be able to use Jessalyn’s cold interference to his advantage. He had to do something. That stutter was not a good sign. Unless it was natural, it was an indication of just how cold she really was.

  “My date,” he said calmly. “Surely that should make you feel safe.”

  The woman made a chattering sound. A laugh? Well, he couldn’t blame her. In today’s world, the presence of another woman wasn’t a guarantee of anything.

  Still, he had to admit that, for once, Jessalyn had said something intelligent. It was ridiculous to stand in a downpour, trying to rescue a woman who didn’t want rescuing.

  Va bene. He was out of ideas and out of patience. One last attempt. After that, she was on her own.

  “I am,” he said, with what he hoped was a disarming smile, “harmless.”

  She raised her hand and pushed her hair away from her face, giving him a first clear view of her features.

  Nice.

  Delicately arched brows. Aristocratic nose. Full mouth. Thickly lashed eyes, light in color. Blue? Green? It was impossible to tell, and what did it matter?

  Ending what had become a stalemate was what he wanted.

  “Let me amend that,” he said, trying to maintain a light touch. “I am completely harmless to puppies, kittens, small children and drowning females.”

  Her chin rose. “V-v-very amusing.”

  So much for light touches. He could feel his composure slipping.

  “My aim is not to amuse you, signorina. It is to make you see reality.”

  “You try s-s-seeing reality. Go a-a-away!”

  “Marco! It’s late and I am freezing to death back here with the damned door—”

  He reached back, his expression grim, and slammed the door shut.

  “This,” he said, “is absurd. I have offered assistance. You have refused it. Fine.” He dug in his pocket, took out his iPhone and held it out. “Take it. Call someone. Or I’ll call someone. The police. An ambulance. Madre de Dio, woman!” His voice rose to a roar. “I would not abandon a dog on a night like this.”

  Or a tigress.

  She didn’t move.

  OK, he decided, basta. Enough was enough. Moving fast, he whipped off his jacket. The woman gasped; the silly tube of lipstick fell to the sidewalk as he grabbed her and wrapped the jacket around her. She aimed a fist at his jaw and missed, missed again, and he swung her around and shouted for Charles.

  Charles must have been waiting for the call.

  He was out of the car in a flash, marching briskly toward Marco, holding a furled black umbrella by his side.

  The woman moaned.

  “It’s an umbrella, dammit,” Marco said, tight-lipped. “And this is Charles, my driver. I am going to let go of you. Charles is going to hand you the umbrella. You are going to stand still and listen to me. Do you understand? You will listen. When I am done talking, I will do whatever you ask, including leaving you here on this sidewalk. Yes?”

  She hesitated. She was breathing hard, and trembling. He fought back the desire to put his arms around her and draw her into the warmth of his body.

  After a few seconds, she gave a quick nod. He took a deep breath, lifted his hands from her shoulders and stepped away.

  “Charles,” he said softly.

  Charles opened the umbrella and held it out. She looked at it as if it were going to detonate, but at last she reached out and snatched it from Charles’s hand.

  Marco nodded. Step one, he thought, and cleared his throat.

  “Charles. The lady does not trust my good Samaritan instincts.”

  The woman looked at him as if he were certifiable. Maybe he was, or maybe he’d simply pushed things too far to back down now.

  “Charles,” he said again. “How long have you worked for me?”

  “For six years, sir. Seven, come this July.”

  “And in all that time have you ever known me to do anything illegal?” A tiny silence. Marco swung toward Charles. “Have you?”

  “Well, I have seen you drive, sir. The speed limit—”

  “Have you ever seen me mug an old lady?”

  “No, sir. Certainly not.”

  “Have I kidnapped anyone?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are there bodies buried on the terrace around my condo, Charles, or at any of the other homes I own?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Am I a thief? A burglar? A swindler? Do I cheat retirees out of their hard-earned savings?”

  “No!”

  Marco nodded. “And where were we tonight, Charles?”

  “At the Hotel Deville, sir.”

  “For what reason?”

  “You attended the mayor’s annual charity dinner.”

  “Dinner, and raffle,” Marco said grimly.

  “Of course.”

  “And I was there because?”

  “Because you were invited.”

  “Because?”

  “Because you were one of the guests of honor.”

  “Because?”

  “Because you are the founder of the Step-Up Foundation for Boys.”

  “Does that mean I am a good guy, Charles?”

  “It means you believe in charity, sir.”

  Despite everything, Marco laughed. “Nice phrasing.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And what are we doing now?” Marco said his smile fading.

  “We are trying to be of assistance to a lady who appears to be in some difficulty.”

  “And getting soaked to the skin in the process.”

  “Indeed.”

  “To the best of your knowledge, Charles, do villains ever permit themselves to be rained on?”

  “Not to my knowledge, no, sir.”

  Marco looked at the woman. The look on her face had changed. That chin was still lifted at a defiant angle, but unless he was imagining things, there was the faintest upward curve to her lips.

  “Thank you, Charles. You may return to the car.”

  His driver walked briskly to the Mercedes and got behind the wheel. Calling Charles his “driver” didn’t come close to being accurate. He was also the person who ran Marco’s household whether that household was in New York, Rome, London or Brazil.

  Right now, he was Marco’s final hope.

  He had run out of ideas. Either the woman would let him take her away from the rain, the cold and, most of all, the inherent dangers to be found on city streets in the middle of the night, or his attempts at being a Boy Scout were over.

  “Last chance,” he said quietly. “I’m almost as wet as you are, but contrary to what seems to be your plan for the evening, I don’t intend to get any wetter. Charles and I will take you to your door. Or you can use my phone. Call someone to come for you. Or I will do as you have asked and go away. The choice is yours.”

  For what seemed forever, she didn’t say anything. Then she cleared her throat.

  “D-do—do you ha-have a name?”

  “Forgive me.” Marco closed the last few inches between them. He held out his hand. “I am Marco. Marco Santini.”

  Emily stared at the stranger’s outstretched hand. It was a strong-looking hand, the nails clean and well-cared for. Her brothers had hands like this. Masculine, powerful, just a little work-hardened.

  “And you are?”

  She drew a long, deep breath.

  “Em—Emily.”

  “Well, Emily, now that we have formally introduced ourselves, may I see you home?”

  He smiled.

  She wished he hadn’t, because
he had a devastating smile and a smile didn’t mean a thing. For all she knew, Jack the Ripper had had a great smile and what was it people said about Ted Bundy? That he’d been good-looking. Handsome.

  Certainly not more handsome than this.

  He reached back, his eyes never leaving hers, and opened the rear door. Then he bent down and picked up her shoes.

  “Please. Get in.”

  She hesitated but not for long.

  Oh, she thought as she stepped inside the Mercedes, oh, lovely.

  The interior was warm, the immediate relief from the rain glorious. She tried to show some decorum but that was difficult when you were dripping your way across a leather seat toward a woman who looked as if she’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue.

  Impeccable hairdo. Impeccable makeup. Impeccable fuchsia silk jacket over impeccable pale pink gown. Stilettos heels, the kind that would never be so unsophisticated as to fall apart in the rain.

  “Be careful,” the woman snapped, shrinking away from her. “You’re dripping all over everything!”

  “Sorry! I di-d-didn’t mean t-to—”

  “This is ridiculous. You should be sitting up front.”

  Marco Santini’s hard, warm thigh pressed against Emily’s. The car door slammed shut. She looked at him.

  “She might b-b-be right. I mean, I really am awfully w-w-wet.”

  “You’re fine where you are. Charles? Turn up the heat, please.” Marco leaned forward and pressed a button. The door to a discretely-designed compartment clicked open; he reached in and took out a bottle of amber-colored liquid and poured a dollop into a crystal glass. “Brandy,” he said, holding it out to her. “Take a sip.”

  Emily eyed it warily. “Thank you, b-b-but—”

  Marco rolled his eyes, brought the glass to his lips and drank. “See? Absolutely safe. Go on. It will help.”

  Their hands brushed as she took the flask from him, lifted it to her mouth and took a drink. Liquid fire swept from the top of her head to her toes.

  “Better?”

  She nodded.

  “This will help even more,” he said, withdrawing a small blanket from a drawer under the same compartment.

  “I d-d-don’t think I’d better. I’ll get it all weh-weh-wet.”

  “Give it to me, then,” Jessalyn said coldly. “I’ll use it to keep myself from getting all weh-weh-wet.”