Emily: Sex and Sensibility

by Sandra Marton

  Dio, this was not a line of thought to pursue!

  It was dangerous.

  It was also pointless.

  If he’d thought she wasn’t the kind of woman who would fit into his world before, he was certain of it now.

  She was argumentative. He didn’t like argumentative women. A little backbone, a little independence of thought was one thing, but his days were filled with arguments of one kind or another. Why would he want to face more of them at night?

  And this thing about sex. She wasn’t just unsophisticated, she was foolish. That remark about them having sex as opposed to making love…

  He’d used the polite euphemism women preferred, but did she honestly believe sex was ever about the heart? He’d made that mistake once and, dammit, he’d already thought back to that time earlier today and the lesson it had taught him, that sex was about physical desire and the fulfillment of hunger, and that any emotion aside from the one of pleasure was fodder for fools.

  The only thing Emily Madison had going for her was that damnable job application.

  Employer and employee. That was the one relationship that would work. And he never, not once, had taken such a relationship any further. Work was work. Play was play and, as the old saying went, never the twain should meet.

  The truth was, he’d had a couple of very attractive assistants. The one before the last, in fact, had been beautiful. Or had she been the one prior to that? Whatever. He really had not noticed until a CEO he’d met with had commented on her looks.

  “You’re a clever SOB, Santini,” the guy had leered, “having such a good-looking piece of ass on your payroll.”

  Marco had been affronted on his PA’s behalf—and on his own. He’d never noticed she was stunning, never thought of her as a woman…

  Never wanted to kiss her or undress her or taste her breasts, and how in hell could he even consider hiring Emily when his head was full of those images?

  “Excuse me.”

  Could he get past that? Could he see her as just another office fixture?

  “Mr. Santini. Will you please step—”

  “I have a proposition to offer you.”

  Emily laughed.

  “A business proposition.”

  “My God, are we still on that? Trust me. I’d sooner go back to that bar than take that job playing for you on Wednesday.”

  “But you can’t go back to that bar,” Marco said in a silken voice. “Can you, Ms. Madison?”

  “That’s my business.”

  Her chin shot up. The gesture of defiance made the desire to pull her into his arms all the more difficult to ignore… and what he was about to say all the more foolish. No. He was due in Paris tomorrow; this French deal would be one of the most important of his career.

  “Mr. Santini. I have asked you, politely, to step aside.”

  “Is the information on that application accurate?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “Do you have a passport?”

  “What is this? Twenty Questions?”

  “A passport, Emily. Do you have one?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “My personal assistants work very hard.”

  “They have my sympathy.”

  “In truth, they are—if I am fortunate—more administrative assistants than personal ones.”

  “Thanks to the sexual discrimination laws.”

  How he wanted to silence that soft, lovely mouth!

  “Very amusing.”

  “I thought so.”

  He cleared his throat. Took his hand from the doorjamb. Folded his arms over his chest.

  “I am offering you the job. As my PA.”

  “Now who’s being amusing?”

  “You must be ready to leave the country immediately.”

  “You don’t hear well, do you? I don’t want to play your piano, let alone—”

  “We fly to Paris tomorrow.”

  “Good for you. As for me, I’m out of here. Goodbye, Mr. Santini.”

  He glared at her. Then he inclined his head and stepped aside. She marched past him and the door slammed shut behind her.

  What a dreadful man!

  All arrogance. All ego. All I-am-the-center-of-the-universe.

  Well, in his world, he probably was.

  The confrontation had left her drained. Shaky. It wasn’t that kiss. It wasn’t the way it had felt when he’d touched her. Kissed her. The way it would have felt if he’d stripped away her clothing, stripped away his, come down on top of her…

  She jumped as the door flew open and banged against the wall.

  “That next PA of mine,” he said, “the one for whom you offer sympathy… Did I mention what her pay will be?”

  “An autographed photo? A bowl of gruel?” Emily fluttered her lashes. “A warm kennel?”

  “One hundred thousand a year.”

  She blinked. “Dollars?”

  “Plus health coverage. Paid holidays Four weeks of vacation. And a clothing allowance.”

  “A clothing allowance?”

  He shrugged. “My assistant travels with me. Attends meetings with me. Business lunches, dinners, whatever. It is imperative she dress properly. If I demand that, it becomes my responsibility.”

  “Well,” Emily said, trying to stem the sudden image of dollar bills floating in her head, “I’m sure you’ll find someone who’ll be delighted to grab the job.”

  A muscle in his jaw knotted.

  “I am sure I shall.”

  Emily nodded. So did he. Then he stepped into his office. This time, the door shuddered when he slammed it shut.

  “Jerk,” she muttered.

  Did he really think he could bribe her into working for him? Just because $100,000 a year was more than she’d earned in her entire time in New York, just because it would feed and clothe and house her for the foreseeable future, just because she’d be able to tell Lissa and Jaimie about this job, just because even her brothers would be impressed…

  She took a deep breath. Expelled it. Thought no, yes, no…

  Time to stop thinking.

  She rapped her knuckles against the door, and then flung it open. Marco was standing at the huge wall of glass behind his desk, his back to her, hands tucked into his trouser pockets.

  “You’re fired,” he growled.

  “You can’t fire me before you hire me.”

  “You?” he said, turning toward her. “I thought you were my temp.”

  “She’s probably hiding in the supply closet.”

  “One laugh after another,” he said coldly. “Well, what is it? Did you forget something?”

  Emily touched the tip of her tongue to the center of her bottom lip. He wondered whether she knew she did that—and if she had any idea it drove him out of his mind.

  “One hundred and fifty,” she said.

  Marco raised one dark eyebrow.

  “One hundred fifty thousand dollars a year. Holidays and sick leave of course. Health insurance. Six weeks’ paid vacation. A review at the end of six months. If you’re not satisfied with my work, I get three months’ severance pay. If you are satisfied, I get a title—Special Assistant, Vice President, something like that. And a twenty-five thousand-dollar raise.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me you’ll take the job?”

  “What does it sound like?”

  “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  It surely was, especially since she’d failed at every job she’d ever held, but why tell him that?

  Emily gave what she hoped was a take-it-or-leave-it shrug.

  “I’m worth every penny.”

  They stared at each other. Finally, Marco held out his hand. She took it, gave it a brisk shake, but he didn’t let go. What now? Was she supposed to engage in a silly tug-of-war?

  “Eight tomorrow morning. Charles and I will pick you up.”

  She nodded. His gaze swept over her.

  “Don’t bother
packing more than a handful of things. You’ll need to shop.”

  She felt her face burn. “If what I wear doesn’t suit you—”

  “Do you have cocktail gowns? Evening gowns? Whatever women call those things.”

  Emily pictured Jessalyn the night before. The gorgeous dress. The little jacket. The shoes that cost at least two months’ rent.

  “No,” she said coldly. “I don’t.”

  His smile was as cool as his voice. “As I said, don’t bother packing too many things. A corporate credit card is a perk of the job, remember?”

  “Fine. But you remember something, too.” Color swept into her face again but her eyes stayed steady on his. “This is business. There won’t be any—any personal nonsense.”

  He wanted to laugh. Was that really what she thought had happened between them?

  “It isn’t funny,” she snapped.

  He nodded. “No. It is not.” His hand tightened on hers. Slowly, he drew her toward him. “So we need one last thing beyond the handshake.”

  She read his intention in his eyes but it was too late. A second later, his arms were hard around her and his mouth was on hers.

  Her hands came up. She fisted them against his chest.

  He gathered her closer.

  Warmth cascaded through her blood.

  Desire blossomed in her breasts, her belly.

  She rose to him, leaned against him, gave him her mouth.

  An eternity later, he raised his head. Her eyes opened, looked into the infinite night of his.

  “We agreed.” Her voice shook; she hated herself for it. “No personal—”

  “We did. But I never walk away from unfinished business.” His heartbeat was rocketing but it meant nothing. Why would it? The only thing special about this woman was her list of skills. “I kissed you. You kissed me. And now, now what happened is over. It is finito.”

  The phone rang. Marco let go of her and reached for it. “Frederica,” he said pleasantly, “how are you? Yes, I was going to call you…” Talking, smiling, he looked over at Emily and gave an imperious wave of the hand.

  Dismissal, pure and simple. Such arrogance! She could almost feel her blood pressure rise.

  “No,” he said into the phone, “this is a fine time to call. I was just ending a conversation with an employee.”

  Not just dismissal. Dismissive dismissal, and never mind the stupid redundancy. Better that than the four letter words flooding her brain, especially when she never used four letter words. Well, hardly ever. As for foreign curses—they didn’t count.

  The man brought out the worst in her. But he was going to lift her out of poverty. Six months. If she couldn’t tolerate him after that, goodbye and good luck.

  “So, how have you been, Frederica?”

  Emily turned her back, marched from the office and closed the door behind her, although “closed” was too benign a description for a door she slammed hard enough to make her wince.

  Someday, she thought grimly, someday Mr. Arrogance would go too far. Somebody would leave his office and shut the door hard enough so that it fell off its hinges.

  On the other side of that door, Marco jumped at the cannon-like bang of wood against wood.

  He sank into the chair behind his desk.

  “Sorry, Jane. No, I realize now that it’s you. We, uh, we must have had a poor connection.”

  Had he come to a decision about Emily Madison? Jane Barnett wanted to know.

  “I have,” he said.

  And wished to hell he understood what, exactly, it was that he had decided.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The apartment was empty. Nola had left a note propped up on the kitchen counter.

  Had to leave right away. Not to worry. Rent paid. Will keep in touch. XOXOXO

  Emily sighed and put the note down. She’d send her share of the rent to Nola as soon as she received her first paycheck. Right now, she had things to do. Leave a message for the silent-movie buffs, telling them that she wouldn’t be available if they needed her. Locate her passport. Pack. Yes, but what did you pack for a trip to Paris?

  Paris? Had she actually agreed to accompany Marco to Paris? Maybe the better question was, had she actually agreed to work for him?

  He was going to pay her a lot of money.

  That was the good news.

  The bad news was that she didn’t know a thing about him or his company or what a personal assistant or an administrative assistant was supposed to do. Why hadn’t she asked?

  “Not smart, Emily,” she said briskly. “Really. Not terribly smart.”

  She needed advice but where to get it?

  Not from Caleb. He was a lawyer and lawyers saw things in black and white. From Jake, maybe. He ran El Sueño. He’d know all about what a PA was supposed to do. Or Travis. He ran his own financial empire…

  Brilliant.

  Ask one of her overly-protective big brothers about the job she’d agreed to take and he’d cut straight to the chase, find out that she was going away with a man she’d just met.

  Forget that.

  Nola had worked in offices but Nola was on a tour bus someplace between New York and Timbuktu. Lissa? No good. She’d never worked in an office. Jaimie? Yes! She’d worked at an accounting firm before she’d decided her future wasn’t in Excel but in real estate. And Jaimie was smart about life. About men.

  Emily checked her watch. Jaimie was in D.C. That meant she was in the same time zone as New York. She grabbed her cell phone and hit a speed dial button.

  Jaimie’s phone rang. And rang. And…

  “Em?”

  Emily let out a sigh of relief.

  “You’re there.”

  “I’m here. But I’m, um, I’m kind of busy.”

  “All I need is five minutes.”

  A pause. Then Jaimie sighed. “Give me a second.”

  Jaimie must have put her hand over the phone. Emily could hear only bits and pieces. A man’s voice. Then Jaimie’s.

  “… my sister. Of course it is. Why would I say…”

  “Jaimie?”

  More whispering. Then Jaimie was back.

  “Sorry,” she said briskly.

  “Everything OK?”

  “Yes, fine. What’s up?”

  Emily hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

  “Yeah. Life generally is.”

  “Hey, I’m the one who studied philosophy, remember? But you’re right. Life is complicated. And this…”

  This what? What was she going to say? That she’d accepted a job anyone sane would kill for—just as long as you left out a few small details, starting with the fact that she had no idea what the job called for and ending with that kiss?

  “Em. Honey, I hate to rush you, but—”

  “Fine. Right. Of course. I just thought, you know, we’d talk, have some coffee…”

  It had become a ritual, having coffee or tea while they Skyped or talked on the phone. Anything to make it feel more as though they were in the same room.

  Jaimie sighed. “You’re right. Let me get something. Maybe a glass of wine…?”

  “Excellent. I’ll get one, too.”

  Emily put down the phone, hurried to the kitchen alcove, opened the joke of a fridge and peered inside.

  Yogurt. Cottage cheese. Milk. Leftover Chinese. Leftover Thai. Leftover something that looked like a biology experiment gone bad.

  Wine. Wine…

  There. Half a bottle of cheap Chardonnay. She grabbed it, bumped the fridge closed with her hip, snagged a water glass from the drainer on the sink and poured an inch—what the hell, poured two inches of the pale gold liquid, hurried back to the sofa and grabbed the phone.

  “James?”

  “Yes. What took you so long?”

  “Sorry, sorry.” Emily took a healthy swig of the Chardonnay. “So, how’ve you been?”

  “Emily. You called me.”

  “So?”

  “So, something’s up.”

  “Why should some
thing be—”

  “Because it is. I can tell. You just called me ‘James.’“

  “It’s your nickname.”

  “It only became my nickname when you or Lissa had a math problem you couldn’t handle.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Remember the year you took calculus? I was James before every exam.”

  Emily sat down, sighed and drank a little more wine.

  “OK. I have a problem.”

  “Somehow,” Jaimie said dryly, “I’d bet it doesn’t have anything to do with math.”

  Emily laughed. “See? That’s one of the reasons I called you. You’re so smart!”

  “That’s me, all right. Smart.”

  “Jaimie? Is this a bad time? You sound, I don’t know, weird.”

  “Just tell me your problem. Let the genius go to work.”

  “OK.” Emily cleared her throat. “I have a—a decision to make.”

  “About?”

  “I got a job.”

  “A real job? Damn! Sorry. I only meant—” Jaimie sighed. “Look, Lissa and I figured it out months ago. You don’t really work for a private art collector.”

  Emily thought of arguing. Instead, she moaned.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “See, one of Lissa’s friends was in New York. She met you once… Anyway, she was at Bloomie’s to buy mascara ‘cause she’d forgotten to bring hers and she was pretty sure she saw you working at the Dior counter.”

  Hell. Emily tried for casual. “She could have said hello.”

  “Lissa had told her you lived in New York, that you were working for a rich guy with a private art stash.”

  Emily winced. “Don’t tell Travis or—”

  “We’re your sisters, Em. Not the cops. And there’s nothing wrong with selling makeup.”

  How about playing piano in a bar? Emily thought, but she didn’t say it.

  “So, tell me about this new job. Is it at a museum? A gallery?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then where?”

  Emily raised the glass to her lips, frowned when she found it empty. Back to the kitchen, snatch the bottle of Chardonnay from the counter, tuck the phone between shoulder and ear, fill the glass…

  “Em? Where are you going to be working?”