“There are hundreds of people who would disagree with that assessment.”
She laughed. “Then they don’t know you as well as I do.”
His smile faded. “No. They do not. I have revealed more of myself to you than I have to anyone else. Ever.” He paused. “I was married once, a very long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“We were wrong for each other. I was wrong for her, anyway.”
“Do you still—”
“No! I tell you this only because I want you to know the real me, cara. And I have never wanted that before, not with anyone.”
His admission sliced into her heart. He was giving her truths about himself, and she had given him lies and fabrications.
If there was ever a time to return his gift of honesty with the gift of her own, now was that time.
But what would he think if she did?
“Hey.” He touched his forehead to hers. “What’s that sad look for? I was not some saintly little kid, sweetheart, if that’s what you are thinking.”
“No. I wasn’t thinking that.” She hesitated. “I was thinking how—how important it is for people to know the truth about each other.”
“I agree. And now you know the truth about me,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “I am not just a disgustingly rich, amazingly wonderful lover. I am a brilliant self-made man.”
It was impossible not to laugh—but there was still her truth to deal with.
“Yes, you are.” She dragged in a breath. “Seriously, though—”
He smiled. “You think I am not being serious when I tell you that I am brilliant?”
“You’re wonderful. And I think you for being so—so honest and open with me. But—”
“There is no ‘but.’ I am honest with you, cara, because of your honesty with me. I have learned to believe no one. People say what they think I want to hear, from the guy who wants to sell me a car to the CEO who wants to sell me his company. And women…” He shook his head. “They say, ‘Yes, Marco,’ and ‘That’s marvelous, Marco,’ and they say it no matter what I do or say because they want to impress me.” He cupped her face, threaded his hands into her hair. “You treat me as if I were a real man, sweetheart. You are who you are, no subterfuge, no lies, no games, and you expect the same of me. Do you have any idea how rare that is in my world?”
“Sometimes—sometimes people have reasons to be—to be less than honest.”
“You have a kind heart. It is why you look for the best in others.”
“There’s good in everybody, Marco.”
“You are the eternal optimist, Emily. I am a realist.”
“A realist would understand that nobody is perfect.”
He smiled. “You are such a beautiful innocent, cara.”
Sudden anger swept through her. How could an otherwise intelligent man make such an easy assessment of her? Did he still see her as a rain-soaked waif?
She put her hands on his chest and pulled back.
“Dammit, do not talk to me as if I were a child!”
Marco took her in his arms. She stayed motionless within his embrace. He murmured her name, kissed her temple, her chin, her mouth and, gradually, she let herself lean into him.
Staying angry at him was impossible, especially when she knew that her anger was really at herself and the fact that he saw her as someone she wasn’t.
If she were known to him as Emily Wilde, raised in luxury, instead of Emily Madison, the rain-soaked waif he’d saved, would he still want her?.
She gave a long sigh and dropped her head to his shoulder.
“The world isn’t all black and white,” she said.
“You are my world, Emilia mia.”
He kissed her again and she forgot everything but him.
******
He took her shopping on l’Avenue Montaigne and l’Avenue George V.
Chanel. Vuitton. Prada. Givenchy. A dozen other places she’d never have thought of entering on her own.
Even the daughter of a general knew there were limits.
Marco didn’t think so.
When she said that the pricing was so discreet there was no way to know what anything cost, he said she didn’t have to worry about cost.
“The clothing allowance, remember?”
Yes, but how much was that allowance for? She told him that knowing the amount he’d budgeted was logical and necessary.
“I will tell you when we come close to going over it.”
That would have made sense, but he couldn’t see the prices, either, and she never once heard him ask.
He told her to let him worry about it.
He said it with such careless dismissal that the words arrogant and male chauvinist danced on the tip of her tongue, but he looked like a kid in a toy store, pointing at this and at that, beaming each time she tried something on and came out to the private fitting room to show it to him, and when she realized how happy he was, she didn’t have the heart.
Instead, once she was alone with the sales clerk, she told her what she’d take and what she would not take.
In store after store, the clerks—the associates—smiled politely and said oui, madame, certainement. They said it so easily that she should have known the answers had nothing to do with reality, and when they returned to their suite hours later, the second bedroom was almost hidden beneath stacks of gaily wrapped boxes and beribboned shopping bags.
Marco had bought everything, or close to everything and when she protested he gave her a look that was serious and businesslike and he reminded her, again, of the clothing allowance.
When she began to protest, he looked at his watch, said they were running behind and she’d better get moving or they’d be late for their appointment.
“I thought the French deal was all done,” she said.
He shrugged. “It is. All but this one last detail.” He looked at his watch again. “You have half an hour, cara.”
Half an hour?
Emily stared after him.
The man was impossible. He’d given her forty-five minutes last night. Thirty tonight. How could she get ready in such a rush? And if he really thought she’d keep all those boxes full of outrageously expensive clothing…
She knew buying her all those things had pleased him.
And yes, the job included a clothing allowance.
Did mistresses get clothing allowances? Was she, after less than a week, his mistress? Did he think she was? Because that was never going to happen. Bad enough she was already a woman he thought he knew but didn’t; she would certainly never be in a relationship based on sex and availability.
And lies.
Her own lies.
Emily took a long, shaky breath.
How could things have gotten so complicated so fast?
She kicked off her shoes. Went into the bathroom. Turned on the shower, peeled off her clothes, stepped into the shower stall…
The glass door swung open. She gasped, turned, and found Marco, arms folded, standing there.
His posture was serious. His expression was serious.
And he was seriously naked.
So what? She was annoyed at him. Did he think sex could solve every problem?
“Would you please close the shower door?” she said. “It’s cool in here.”
He stepped inside the stall and shut the door behind him.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m trying to take a shower.”
“So am I.”
“You gave me thirty minutes.”
“You’re down to twenty five.”
“There’s a shower in the other bathroom.”
“There is a shower there. I agree. But there is a problem with it.”
“What problem? It works just fi—”
“The problem,” he said softly, “is that I am not in it with you.”
He stepped under the spray and gathered her in his arms. She wanted to be angry or at least irritated but how could she be either of th
ose things when she was in his arms?
Maybe he was right.
Maybe she truly was naïve.
And maybe everything was going much, much too fast.
“You are upset.”
“Yes.”
“Because I bought you those things?”
“That’s part of it.”
“What is the rest of it, then?”
She looked up into his eyes.
“Things are—things are happening too quickly. “
“Life happens quickly, cara.”
She felt another little rush of anger. “Don’t answer me with platitudes, Marco. I mean what I said. I feel as if—as if I’m traveling at the speed of light.”
Marco raised her face to his and kissed her.
“We have to talk,” she said.
“We do talk.”
He kissed her again. And again. She felt the questions, the anger draining away.
“You said we had to be out of here in thirty minutes…” She caught her breath. “Don’t. If you do that—”
“What?” he said gruffly. “What will happen if I do that?”
Lost, she could only cling to him, the center of her universe.
“We’ll be late,” she whispered.
“The Frenchman is a Frenchman,” he whispered back. “He will figure out the reason and be happy for us.”
She sighed. “Have I ever told you that you’re impossible?”
His smile was wonderfully wicked.
“Have I ever told you that there is no such thing as impossible?”
He kissed her. Lifted her in his arms. And proved that he was right.
Nothing was impossible, especially when the water was warm and the moment was perfect—and you let all your concerns and doubts slip away.
******
The evening appointment went well.
The next day, Marco took a call from a German banker. As luck would have it, he, too, was in Paris and he had some business to discuss.
They met him for lunch.
The banker was tall and handsome. He gave Emily his very best smile, kissed her hand and rattled off something in German.
Emily laughed and rattled something in return.
Marco hung back a little as they were shown to their table.
“You didn’t mention that you spoke German,” he said softly.
“Well, I don’t. I mean, not very well. Just a few words, really.”
She spoke more than a few words. By the end of the meal, the banker had agreed to all Marco’s terms for acquiring a property the bank owned and why wouldn’t he, when the man’s major interest was clearly Emily?
Ridiculous.
This was business. The banker would not let his interest in a woman get in the way of that.
The banker said something to Emily that made her smile. The banker didn’t just smile, he grinned.
Enough, Marco thought. He reached for her hand, threaded their fingers together and kept their joined hands on top of the linen-covered table.
Emily was startled. She was with him as his assistant, just as she had been last night.
Her eyes flashed a question. What are you doing?
His flashed an answer. I am claiming you as exclusively mine.
It was not very professional… but it made her heart soar.
The German looked from Emily to Marco. Then he gave a dramatic sigh.
“I am too late,” he said ruefully.
“Much too late,” Marco said, and brought Emily’s hand to his lips.
******
She confronted him that night.
They were sitting on the terrace, drinking brandy.
She thought of a dozen ways to say it. In the end, what had been in her head for days was what she told him.
“I’m not Jessalyn,” she said.
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Why would you tell me that?”
“Because—because I won’t be your mistress.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have I asked you to be my mistress?” he said, his voice cold, his words clipped. And why did those words hurt?
“Good,” she said. “Because I won’t be. Not ever. I don’t believe in that whole thing. You need to know that before—”
“I have no wish for you to be my mistress.”
Stupid. The words did more than hurt. They twisted into her heart. She put down her brandy snifter; it tilted and amber liquid spread over the table. To hell with this, she thought, and shot to her feet.
“I’m tired, Marco. Good night.”
“Emily.”
He was on his feet, too.
She shook her head, started inside…
“Dammit, Emily,” he said gruffly. He caught her arm, swung her toward him. “I have no wish for you to be my mistress.” His expression softened; what she saw in his eyes made her breathless. “I want you to be my lover, as I am yours.”
Tears rose in her eyes.
He saw them, drew her close, kissed them away.
“Something is happening between us,” he said softly. “If you want the truth, it scares the hell out of me. But I am not going to walk away from it, Emilia mia, and I plead with you not to walk away from it either.”
She began to weep.
Good tears, the kind that came from a heart full of joy.
Marco wrapped his arms more tightly around her.
“I am yours, Emily Madison. And you are mine.”
She was. But she wasn’t. She had to tell him that. Surely, it wouldn’t matter. Not now that he knew her. The real her. Because everything that made her Emily Madison also made her Emily Wilde.
She hadn’t set out to deceive him…
“Emily,” he whispered, and she lifted her head from his shoulder and kissed him, and once again, she let the world spin away.
******
They ended up staying an extra four days in Paris.
“But don’t you have things on your calendar?” Emily said.
Marco shrugged. “As it turns out, I have an easy week ahead.”
He didn’t. He found himself wondering if that qualified as lying after that foolish, impassioned speech he’d made about lies and liars. No, of course it wasn’t. A lie was something that caused hurt.
Telling Emily they could be here another few days, making the surreptitious phone calls necessary to cancel his appointments, was hurtful to no one.
Besides, that didn’t matter.
This was Paris. It was a city of lovers.
There were so many wonderful things to see and do. They strolled through the Louvre. The Jeu de Paume. They walked the winding streets of Montmartre. They people-watched over demitasse at a sidewalk café on the Champs-Elysées. They went to Les Puces, the famous flea market that Emily had not been able to see when she and her sisters had been here visiting their father, because he hadn’t approved.
She dropped that piece of information—that she and her sisters had been in Paris visiting their father—unexpectedly, and instantly regretted it. A flea market wasn’t where she wanted to tell her lover the truth about herself, which she was increasingly desperate to do.
“So,” Marco said as they held hands, walking down the long, crowded aisles of the market, “you have sisters?”
She nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“A nice-size family.”
She looked at him. Should she tell him it was a bigger family than that? That she also had three brothers?’
Yes. She should.
“We’re a big family,” she said. “I also have three brothers. Half-brothers. Our father’s first wife died and he married our mother.”
“And everybody got along?”
“Yes. “ She smiled. “We never think of each other as half anything’s.”
He laughed. “Did your father take your brothers to France, too?”
“Well, there’s an age gap. Our brothers were away at school. We were
still home.”
“Ah. Must have been fun, a holiday like that.”
She knew he was trying to reconcile what he thought, that she’d grown up poor, with a family that could afford a holiday in Europe.
“It wasn’t actually a holiday. As I told Mrs. Barnett, my father was—is—in the army. We visited him when we could.”
“It must have been difficult. Your mother, raising three girls and three boys with him gone.”
“Actually, she died when we were little.”
Marco let go of her hand, put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his side. “And who took care of you?”
Nannies. The housekeeper. The ranch hands. And Jacob, Caleb and Travis when they weren’t away at school.
“Hey.”
She looked at Marco. He smiled, hugged her closer and kissed the top of her head.
“If it hurts too much to talk about—”
“No. It doesn’t hurt. It’s just, you know, it’s kind of complicated. There were—there were always lots of people around.”
“Good. Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. You were not alone, cara. I am happy to know that you were cared for and loved.”
That much, at least, was true. She had been cared for and loved, though not by aunts and uncles and grandparents.
Her belly knotted.
She had to end this litany of omissions and half- truths. What had begun as a self-protective way of keeping people from seeing her as a Poor Little Rich Girl had turned into the kind of falsehood she would never have told this man she had come to care for.
Her throat constricted.
To care for? What a lifeless way to describe what she felt.
She loved him. With all her heart. With everything she was.
All the more reason to tell him the truth, but when she did…
Would he be upset? She sensed that he might be. But if he really cared for her…
He must.
She’d seen how he looked at her. When they were alone. When they were spending a simple day together. Or over dinner in the elegant restaurants where he was greeted like visiting royalty? The tiny bistros where the owners fussed over them?
“They hope we’re from the Guide Michelin,” she whispered to him that evening and Marco laughed and said she was probably right.
Emily: Sex and Sensibility Page 16
