Emily: Sex and Sensibility

by Sandra Marton

  “It’s not a where, it’s a who. I mean, it’s with who. With whom.”

  “Someday,” Jaimie said with a little laugh, “I’m going to murder Jake. Just because he’s the grammar maven doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be. So? Are you going to explain?”

  “I took a job as a personal assistant.”

  “A personal trainer? But you—”

  “A personal assistant. A PA. An administrative assistant.”

  “Got it. To who?”

  “To whom.”

  “Jesus, Em… Fine. To whom?”

  “A man.”

  “Well, that narrows the field.”

  “His name is Marco Santini. Owns his own company, makes buckets and buckets of money.”

  “Like Travis.”

  “I guess. But he’s in construction, not finance. “

  “And?”

  “And, I’m not sure I should have taken it. The job.”

  “Why?”

  “Well—well, I’m not really a PA. I don’t do shorthand.”

  “Except for court reporters, who does? What else?”

  “I’m not even sure what a PA does.”

  “Didn’t the headhunter who sent you to this Santini guy give you a description?”

  “I didn’t go through a headhunter.”

  “The agency, then. Didn’t they—”

  “I didn’t go through an agency, either. “

  “You applied online?”

  “No.”

  “Then, how’d you get the job?”

  Emily licked her lips. It was a good question. Too bad the answer wasn’t.

  I met him when I was standing in the rain after I was fired from the bar where I played piano.

  “Emily?”

  “I, uh, I went to apply for a different job. The woman who interviewed me looked at my application and thought I’d be a better candidate for PA than for the job I’d applied for.”

  “I assume Santini interviewed you, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what’s the problem? If the interviewer thinks you’re right, if the guy you’ll be working for agrees, why question it?”

  Why, indeed?

  “Em?”

  “Well—well, I really don’t know him.”

  “How could you? You just started working for him.”

  “Actually, I haven’t. Not yet. My first day is tomorrow.”

  “So you’ll know more after that.”

  “Right. Right.”

  “Emily? Is there more to this than you’re telling me?”

  “What more could there be?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. Is this guy unpleasant?”

  “No.”

  “Is he dirty? Does he smell?”

  Only in the best possible way.

  “Em?”

  “No. No, he doesn’t smell.”

  “Did he do anything inappropriate?”

  He kissed me. And I kissed him back. Does that count?

  “Emily. Can you hear me?”

  “No. Nothing inappropriate.”

  “Then, what’s the problem?”

  The problem is that he’s self-centered and oh so sure of himself and I know that’s not the end of the world but wanting to climb into bed with him probably is not a good thing.

  Oh God. Was that the truth?

  “Emily? Emily? Hello?”

  Emily gulped down the rest of the wine.

  “Yes,” she said, “yes, I’m here.”

  “Are we on the same page with this or is there something missing?”

  “No,” Emily said with blithe assurance. “Why would there be something missing?”

  “I don’t know, Em. That’s just the point. Why would there be—and how come it sounds as if there is?”

  Emily uptilted the glass, recovered the final two drops of wine with the tip of her tongue.

  “Just give me your opinion, OK? Should I take the job?”

  “How’s the pay?”

  “Excellent.”

  “The bennies?”

  “Terrific.”

  “Then why all this second guessing?”

  True. Completely true. Why all this second-guessing?

  “Em. Honey. You never give yourself enough credit. You’re smart. You’re talented. Take the job. If it doesn’t work out, so be it.”

  So be it, Emily thought as she sat on the stoop outside her apartment building at 7:45 the next morning.

  A job was just a job.

  Marco Santini was just a man.

  That she found him attractive meant nothing. Especially when, mostly, she found him irritating.

  Be ready at eight.

  A command, not a request.

  Don’t bother packing more than a handful of things.

  Another command.

  And then that last Directive From On High, delivered like an edict. I kissed you. You kissed me. And now, now what happened is over. It is finito.

  At least he was right about that.

  What had happened was over. Of course it was because, really, nothing had happened. A couple of kisses. Big deal. A night’s rest, a little time to think, and she’d realized that.

  He’d caught her off guard, was all. Caught her when she was vulnerable, first saving her from the rain and the possible dangers of the street, then offering her a job anyone with a functioning brain would kill for.

  The Knight Errant.

  Except, he wasn’t.

  He was accustomed to being the king. What did that make her? A peasant? Be ready at eight. Fine. Not a problem. He was her boss. He had the right to tell her when the workday began. But he had no right to tell her things were or were not finito when she had already decided that for herself, and he had no right to tell her what to pack or rather what not to pack.

  Emily looked at her suitcase, standing beside her. Nola had once described it as the third room in their two-room apartment.

  OK. So it was… large. What good was a suitcase if it wasn’t?

  This morning, it was stuffed to the brim. Marco had said he would pay for the special clothes she’d need for formal work-related functions. Not a problem there, either, but the clothes she wore every day would be her own.

  Right now, she had on jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, a cashmere cardigan left over from her college days. They were flying to Paris. Well, this is how she’d have dressed if she were flying there alone. For comfort, not for style. He’d undoubtedly show up in one of those custom-made suits. So what? She would change when they reached the hotel. She had suits. Blouses. Shoes. Everything she could possibly need.

  The Knight Errant. Sir Arrogant. He would surely not approve but that was not her problem, it was his.

  Actually, his arrogance was his problem.

  Emily snorted.

  Carrie Bradshaw had Mr. Big.

  She had Sir Arrogant.

  The thought made her laugh. What a perfect title! Sir. Arrogant. Not Marco Santini, CEO. Not Marco Santini, Employer. Not Marco Santini, Studly Hunk…

  Because he was. A studly hunk. How come she hadn’t mentioned that to Jaimie?

  “Woof!”

  Something rubbery, wet and cold jabbed at her hand.

  Emily looked down. The owner of the something rubbery, wet and cold looked up. It was a small gray mop of a dog with bows in its hair, polish on its nails, a nose that sniffed at everything nonstop, and the desire to pee on the entire world.

  Like her suitcase.

  “No,” Emily said firmly.

  The Mop bared its teeth. The gesture, combined with the bows and polish, turned it into a virtual clone of its owner, Emily’s downstairs neighbor and the premier neighborhood gossip, Mrs. Flynn.

  The dog inched closer to the suitcase.

  “Forget it,” Emily said, shooting to her feet and grabbing the case by the handle. Not that that would help. She’d had to bump the thing down the stairs.

  “Precious only wants to mark his territory,” Mrs. Flynn said.
<
br />   “The suitcase is my territory.”

  “Then you have no right to leave it where… Oh my! What-is-THAT?”

  Emily followed the woman’s stare.

  “That” was Sir Arrogant’s limo, pulling to the curb. Last night, it had looked big. By daylight, it was the size of a yacht.

  The little dog woofed and trotted down the steps with Mrs. Flynn hanging on to the end of the leash.

  The rear passenger door opened. Marco stepped from the car.

  Mrs. Flynn gasped.

  Who could blame her? Emily thought, as her mouth went dry.

  He was, in a word, spectacular.

  Not in a suit.

  In jeans, a dark blue T-shirt, an open leather bomber jacket and scuffed leather boots with a light early-morning-I-forgot-to-shave stubble on his jaw. The jeans were faded; they clung to his narrow hips and long legs. The T clung to his chest and flat belly.

  He was a fantasy come true, and if her pulse beat any harder, surely he would hear it.

  “Good morning.”

  His voice was early morning, too, rough and low and husky.

  Emily’s heart jumped.

  So did her libido.

  Who was she kidding?

  She’d nailed the truth last night. Of course she wanted to climb into bed with Marco Santini. Reality was that she’d climb into the back of the limo with him. She’d climb into anything with him, anything, anywhere, anytime…

  “No.”

  She stared at him in horror. Had she spoken her thoughts aloud?

  She hadn’t.

  Sir Arrogant had delivered the quiet command to The Mop just as it lifted a skinny leg against the limo’s front tire. The dog looked at him, lowered its leg, tucked its ratty little tail between its hindquarters and scurried back toward Mrs. Flynn.

  Emily looked at Marco. He raised an eyebrow.

  Laughter bubbled in her throat.

  “You are,” she said, “very good at giving commands.”

  He grinned. “So I’ve been told.” His gaze moved over her, slowly, from the top of her head to her toes and then back up again. “Ready for travel, I see, cara.”

  “Where are you and this—this charming gentleman going, Emily?”

  It was Mrs. Flynn. Until that moment, Emily hadn’t thought the woman knew her name.

  Marco gave Emily a quick wink.

  “And who is this delightful woman, Emily?”

  “This is—she’s my neighbor.”

  “Catherine. I’m Catherine Flynn,” Mrs. Flynn said breathlessly.

  “Caterina. Such a lovely name.” Marco smiled. “Emily and I are on our way to Paris, Caterina.”

  “To—to—”

  “Paris,” Emily said, what the hell, getting into the spirit of things.

  “Oh, my,” Mrs. Flynn whispered.

  Marco went up the concrete steps and eyed Emily’s suitcase.

  “I can see you followed my directions,” he said wryly. “About not packing many things.”

  It was as good a time as any to establish how she felt about being given orders.

  “I’m not always good at following directions,” she said sweetly.

  He grinned again, hoisted the suitcase as if it were weightless and handed it off to Charles, who stood at polite attention on the curb.

  “Are you ready, cara?”

  The cara seemed to sizzle.

  “Ready,” Emily said.

  He reached for her hand.

  “Good,” he said softly. “So am I.”

  He brought her hand to his mouth, pressed a light kiss to her palm and closed her fingers over the kiss.

  How could she feel that kiss straight to the tips of her toes?

  The last thing she saw before the Mercedes pulled into traffic was Mrs. Flynn staring after them, her hand plastered to her heart.

  “Honestly,” Emily said, swinging around to face Marco, “that wasn’t—”

  He was laughing. “It was. I suspect we made Caterina’s day.”

  How could she not laugh, too?

  “How about her entire year?”

  “She is an annoyance, yes?”

  “She complains about everything. Last week, she said we’d left the water running in the basement. There’s a washer and dryer there, and an old sink, but—”

  “We?” he said, his smile suddenly tight.

  “I have a roommate. Had a roommate. Nola.”

  “Nola.”

  “Yes. And—”

  “Is there no man in your life?”

  Such a quick change in conversation. And in the way he was suddenly looking at her. That same feeling came over her again, as if there weren’t enough breathable air between them.

  “No. There isn’t.”

  He reached out. Caught a strand of her hair.

  “You left your hair loose,” he said softly. “I like it this way.”

  “Marco. We agreed—”

  He nodded. Drew back. “Yes. You’re right. What about Nola?”

  “What about…”

  “Nola left the water running.”

  “Oh. No. She didn’t. I didn’t. There was a puddle by the sink but it was probably from Mrs. Flynn’s dog.”

  “A pee puddle,” Marco said solemnly.

  Emily laughed.

  “A canine protest. Against foolish owners dressing them up with ribbons and polish and things that are undoglike.”

  Emily laughed again.

  “That is nice,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “Hearing you laugh.” His smile tilted. “I have the feeling you have not laughed enough in your short life.”

  “That’s not true. I mean—”

  “I can see that things have not been easy for you, Emily.” His voice was low, his eyes dark and serious. “Playing piano in a bar, living in a building like that—”

  “Marco,” she said quickly, “really, my life hasn’t always been—”

  “Si. I am sure you have some good memories.”

  “Yes. I do. What I mean is—”

  His phone rang. He cursed softly, took it from his pocket and checked the screen.

  “I must take this, cara. Give me a minute, please.”

  Emily nodded. Marco began speaking in rapid French. It was about business, a financial deal he was making. After a few seconds, she tuned out.

  He thought she was poor. That she’d come from poverty.

  She knew she ought to correct him.

  I’m not poor at all, she’d say. My family has money. Lots of it. I was raised in luxury and maybe that’s why I’m so determined to make it on my own, or maybe it’s because I’ve never really accomplished anything in my life. Either way, you’re wrong about me…

  “So,” he said briskly, “I have something for you.”

  She blinked. He’d ended his call. In his hand now was a duplicate of his iPhone.

  “From now on, this is yours. All of my contacts are programmed into it. There is no need for any phone.”

  Emily rolled her eyes.

  Sir Arrogant was back.

  And that was probably a very good thing.

  ******

  He had a private jet. It waited in the general aviation parking area at Kennedy Airport like an enormous silver bird.

  A small, pleasant-looking man met them, shook hands with Marco and with her.

  “Emily, this is Jim Bryce. Our first officer. Jim, this is my assistant, Ms. Madison.”

  “It’s Emily,” Emily said.

  Bryce smiled and asked for their passports. Emily had a bad moment when she realized the name on hers was Wilde, not Madison, but Bryce didn’t so much as glance at them.

  “I’ll have these cleared in a couple of minutes, sir,” he said.

  Security and customs procedures were different for those who flew in private planes. She’d almost forgotten that.

  Charles boarded with their luggage; Marco took her elbow as they climbed the stairs to the cabin door.

  “Th
is is Leslie. Our flight attendant.” The flight attendant, elegantly groomed, smiled at her. “Leslie, this is my administrative assistant. Ms. Madison.”

  “It’s Emily,” Emily said again, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Leslie.”

  The man standing behind the attendant was the captain, Kier Tate. More smiles, handshakes and introductions all around.

  Marco’s hand remained cupped around Emily’s elbow.

  It was a simple gesture. Polite, nothing more—but his fingers seemed hot against her skin as he led her deeper into the cabin.

  “There’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said softly, his lips at her ear.

  “Why would I be nervous?” Could it be the feel of his hand? The warmth of his breath? The realization that she was leaving her own world and entering his?

  “Surely, you’re not nervous about being with me.”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly, whipping her head toward him. Big mistake. His head was still bent to hers. One more inch and her lips would touch his cheek.

  He smiled. It was a bone-melting smile.

  “If it is because this is your first flight on a private plane, I can assure you that we meet—we probably exceed—all standards.”

  He certainly exceeded all standards.

  As for flying on a private jet… Should she tell him that she had three brothers? That they owned private planes the equal of this? That she had flown with Jacob and Caleb and Travis dozens of times, that she had a friend, Laurel, whose husband, His Royal Highness Sheikh Khan ibn Zain al Hassad of Altara, owned a jet that had taken Emily and her sisters to Altara for a visit last summer?

  No.

  None of that had anything to do with her as Marco’s new assistant.

  The truth was, the less anyone knew about her and her background, the better. Even Nola knew very few of the details--only that she had brothers and sisters and that she’d grown up in Texas—because she’d met Nola after she’d decided to stop being Emily Wilde and start being Emily Madison.

  One thing you learned when you came from a wealthy, powerful family was that some people saw you not as a person but as a curiosity.

  Sometimes, it was harmless.

  Sometimes it wasn’t, especially if you were trying to make it on your own.

  That had been her experience, anyway.

  Coming East had meant a new start.

  Here, she’d imagined that Wilde would just be a name. She wouldn’t be the youngest daughter of a general, the kid sister of three amazingly successful brothers. She wouldn’t be one of the three Wilde girls, certainly not the one who was having the most trouble following in those almost-impossible-to-fill footprints.