And he trusted her. With everything he was or ever would be. His soul. His life. His heart.
Dio, he was a wreck.
If only Emily would appear—but she had all but thrown him out of their bedroom.
“I can’t get dressed with you watching me,” she’d said.
“Why?”
“Because I want to look perfect, that’s why!”
He’d smiled, stepped behind her at the cheval mirror, cupped her shoulders and kissed the side of her throat.
“You already do.”
“You don’t understand. I’m meeting your friends.”
“And?”
She’d sighed the kind of long-suffering sigh he knew women gave when men were too thick-headed to understand the mysteries women were born understanding.
“And, I’m nervous.”
“Cara. They are nice people.”
“I’m sure they are but—but I’m just on edge. So please, wait for me downstairs.”
Well, he had waited. And waited. First in the living room. Now on the terrace. Maybe the cool night air would calm him. Maybe he’d stop second-guessing himself. Had he chosen the right ring? Should he have taken Emily with him? What if she said, It’s a pretty ring and it’s very nice of you to ask me but—
“Marco?”
Emily’s voice was soft. He put the ring in his pocket, turned around—and almost stopped breathing.
She was wearing red. Red silk, red chiffon—he’d never been very good at telling one kind of fabric from another. He only knew that the dress was incredible. It had thin straps and it skimmed her body while somehow clinging to all the right places. Her shoes were black strappy things with nosebleed heels. Her hair was loose, the way he loved it; she was wearing long pearl earrings that he’d bought for her at a tiny shop in Soho just last week.
“Art nouveau,” the vendor had assured them.
Marco had known only that they looked as if they’d been made for the woman he loved.
She flashed a quick, nervous smile. “I didn’t overdo? I mean the dress…”
He held out his arms and she went straight into them. “Tu sei bella, cara mia.”
Her smile warmed. “Grazie, signor. Anche tu bello.”
Marco framed her face with his hands. His heart was so full. To hell with waiting until later. He would give her the ring now, ask to her be his forever…
Beep.
“Emilia,” he said, “il mio cuore …”
Beep.
“Sweetheart.” Emily put her hand over his. “It’s the intercom.”
The intercom. He had been about to propose. Besides that, the woman he loved had just called him “sweetheart.” No woman had ever called him that before.
“To hell with the intercom.”
“It’s probably the concierge saying that your friends are here. Remember?”
His friends. Khan and Laurel. Talk about bad timing…
He took her hand, kissed it, then tucked her arm within his. Together, they walked through the living room to the foyer, where he plucked the white house phone from the wall.
“Mr. Santini. Your guests are here, sir.”
“Si. Excellent. Please send them up.”
He put his arm around Emily’s waist. She looked up at him.
“You sure I look all right?” she whispered, as if her words might carry into the rising elevator car.
He tilted her face to his and gave her a slow, tender kiss.
“Molto bella.”
Emily smiled. The light above the elevator blinked as the car came to a gentle stop.
Marco gave her one last kiss just as the doors slid open...
Laurel gasped. “Emily?”
Khan shook his head. “I don’t understand. Marco? You never said… Emily? Emily Wilde?”
And the world came apart.
******
Scant moments later, Marco and Emily were alone, he tight-lipped with cold fury, she weeping in despair.
She sat in the middle of one of the sofas, a pillow she’d fluffed to within an inch of its life not an hour ago clutched to her breasts like a life preserver.
Marco was pacing the same path he’d paced earlier tonight as a nervous suitor but now his footsteps were heavy, his hands were fisted in his trouser pockets, and the look on his face said that nothing in the world would ever be the same again.
“I tried to tell you,” she said in a trembling voice. “I tried and tried but you wouldn’t listen.”
“You told me nothing,” Marco snarled. “Not one damned thing!”
“I did. I said you had the wrong idea about me, that I—that I wasn’t the small- town girl you’d decided I was.”
“I decided? I decided nothing except to believe your sad story.”
“I didn’t tell you a sad story. You’re the one who—”
“Did you tell me you worked as a piano player in a bar?”
“Yes. And it was the truth.”
“Did you tell me that you lived in that—that abominable slum?”
“I did live there. And it wasn’t an abominable sl—”
“Perhaps it was I who I decided your father had spent his life being shuffled from army base to army base.”
“You’re distorting everything! I never said—”
“Or perhaps it was my decision to think of your brothers as—as men who went to work each morning and clocked in to their jobs!”
“I never said any such thing.”
“You never said they were the Wildes of Wilde’s Crossing, either.”
Emily narrowed her eyes. “I see. So being the Wildes of Wilde’s Crossing makes them better than if they worked with their hands?”
“I did not mean—”
“Because if that’s your problem—”
“My problem,” he said coldly, “is that I was allowed to think that your family could not help you lead a more comfortable life and yet one of your brothers is an investor with the power of an emperor, another is an attorney who is the first choice of corporate powerhouses everywhere and the third is a man who manages a ranch the size of a small nation and breeds horses that sell for more money than most people will earn in their lifetimes!”
Emily rose from the sofa, still clutching the pillow.
“I tried to tell you the truth. Several times. And, just for your information, I didn’t want their help.”
“That is not the point!”
“Then what is? Are you saying that my brothers are too successful? That would be a strange complaint from a man who owns an international conglomerate that makes millions upon millions of dollars each year.”
Color suffused his face. She knew that wasn’t what he’d meant, but anger was creeping in to replace despair and she welcomed it.
“I am not saying that!”
“No?”
“No. I am saying that letting me believe the Madisons were an average American family was a falsehood. Hell, letting me believe they even existed was a lie!”
“What if it was? It didn’t harm anyone.”
“It created a woman who did not exist!”
“I changed my name,” Emily said, “not who I am inside!”
“You let me think you were someone you are not.”
Emily flung the pillow across the room. “Meaning what? That you got off on showing the world to a little country girl?”
His jaw tightened and she regretted the words as soon as she’d said them. The accusation was all wrong. He’d wanted to make her happy, that was all.
And he had.
“I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly. “I know that wasn’t why you—”
“Perhaps it was. Perhaps that was all this was.”
“No. I don’t believe that.”
He didn’t answer. His expression was stony. Emily took a step forward.
“Marco.” Her voice softened. “Don’t you want to know why I became Emily Madison?” He folded his arms. God, she hated when he did that! “I couldn’
t get a job. I couldn’t get anybody to see me as a real person.”
His lips pulled back from his teeth in a thin parody of a smile.
“Perhaps that is because you are not a real person, Ms. Madison.”
“Dammit, the name is rightfully mine. It’s my middle name. It’s right on my birth—”
“The more you say, the worse it becomes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What does it say on your passport, hmm? Emily Madison? Or Emily Wilde?”
“Emily Wilde. But what—”
“Do you recall handing your passport to my co-pilot when we flew to Paris? He took it to airport security. Strangers read that passport and knew your name was Wilde even as I believed it was Madison!”
She gave a strangled laugh. “How does that even matter?”
How, indeed? Marco knew that she was right. What mattered was that this woman, whom he had believed to be so honest, so innocent, so pure of heart and mind that she was unlike anyone he’d ever known, had made a fool of him.
He, the man who had never needed anyone, had let himself need a woman who didn’t exist.
He’d been had. Scammed. Made a laughing stock, although he sure as hell didn’t feel like laughing.
Marco swung away and walked to the other end of the room. He dug his right hand into his trouser pocket, felt the ring he’d dropped inside it what seemed like an eternity ago. The ring he’d bought for Emily Madison, the woman he’d wanted to be with for the rest of his life.
He stopped, his back to her, and closed his eyes, saw once again the shocked look on Khan’s face, the bewilderment on Laurel’s.
He spun around.
“How could you have done this to me?”
“I didn’t do anything to you.” Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “I love you. I never meant to hurt you.”
“You deceived me.”
“I keep telling you. I didn’t mean to deceive you. I was caught in a web, don’t you understand? And whenever I tried to tell you the truth, either you stopped me—or I lost courage.”
“You lost courage,” he said, his words flat and cold. “Charming. Did you think so little of me that you believed I would stop caring for you if I knew you were a woman named Emily Wilde and not a woman named Emily Madison?”
Emily gave a short, sharp laugh.
“Take a look at what’s happening now and we’ll see if you still want to ask me that question.”
“That is a distortion of the facts. I only learned the truth because someone found you out.” His face darkened. “That I should have had the blindfold torn from my eyes by strangers…”
“They aren’t strangers. Khan is your friend. Laurel is mine.”
“Exactly. Friends who now see how I was duped.”
Emily swiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Anger was changing to fury. Given a choice, it was the better emotion.
“Is that what this is all about? Your ego?”
“It is about your lies.”
“Give me a break. It’s about you. It’s always about you and your high and mighty arrogance.”
“I am not arrogant,” Marco said and even in his cold rage, he winced at the stupidity of what he’d said.
Emily strode toward him, chin up, eyes blazing. “In fact, arrogance is the one real emotion you possess.”
“Arrogance is not an emotion. And do not try to change the subject! The point is, you lied to me.”
“The point is, I didn’t lie to you. I was already lying when I met you…”
She broke off in mid-sentence, as stung by the truth of her admission as by the stoniness of his expression.
There was a second truth here, as well. A terrible truth.
“You fell in love with Emily Madison,” she said softly.
“Such a brilliant revelation!”
“You fell for some—some symbol of perfection.”
“I do not know where you are going with this.”
“But I’m not perfect, Marco.” She flung out her arms. “I am what you see. A woman. Flawed. Imperfect. You can’t label me. I’m not any one thing. I’m many things and not all of them are good. The only certainty is that I love you.”
“You love me.”
“Yes. I love you.”
Silence stretched between them. He looked at her. A pain so sharp it almost brought him to his knees knifed through him. He had bared his soul to this woman. He had given her his heart.
What mistakes to have made! To have forgotten the lessons of his childhood, his manhood, his marriage…
He was not good when it came to seeing through women’s lies.
“Marco,” Emily whispered. “I love you.”
Her voice broke; she was weeping again. He felt a muscle knot in his jaw as she held out her hand.
Take it, a voice inside him implored. Put aside your pride and take her hand.
But he didn’t. Instead, he heard himself say the words that would haunt him to the end of time.
“For all I know, that is just another lie.”
Her head shot back, as if he’d hit her. He thought she was going to break down completely, but she didn’t. Instead, the shimmer of tears in her eyes became the glitter of ice.
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t love you. I pity you.”
He watched her turn on her heel and walk away from him, her pace quickening, as she got closer to the foyer. Her handbag was on a glass table where she’d left it hours ago; she’d left a black pashmina there, as well, in case they had dinner out. Now, she grabbed the shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders and then picked up her purse. The only sign of what she might be feeling came when she reached the elevator and hit the call button with her fist.
The doors whisked open.
Marco felt his heart start to thud.
“Emily,” he said…
Too late.
The doors shut.
And Emily was gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Thanksgiving had always been Emily’s favorite time of the year.
There was something about the idea of families gathering together that was warm and real.
When she was little, really little, she and Jaimie and Lissa would spend the day before Thanksgiving in the kitchen, helping their mother and the housekeeper, getting in the way, spilling flour and sugar and making cookie cutouts of their hands.
And, at night, it meant getting down the big picture book with Santa and his sleigh and reindeer on the cover.
Her mother had said that reading “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” starting on Thanksgiving Eve had always been a tradition when she was growing up. She said she had no idea why, but now it was a tradition she kept, too. So each year, the night before Thanksgiving, the sisters and, when they were young, Travis, Jacob and Caleb had all gathered around her and, together, they read the classic old poem with lots of Ho-Ho-Ho’s and improvised ringing of reindeer bells and even the beat of tiny hooves.
Their father had been stationed half a world away. He’d phoned to wish them a happy holiday; Caleb, Travis and Jake were all home from school and they’d done their big-brotherly best to keep their little half-sisters happy, but at midnight Lissa had awakened and started to cry. Emily and Jaimie had climbed into her bed and they’d wept and wept until their brothers heard them, came into the bedroom and turned on the light.
They’d taken one look at the three sobbing little girls and asked no questions.
Jake had climbed onto Lissa’s bed and gathered all three girls into his arms.
“’Twas the night before Christmas,” he’d said without having to ask what they needed to hear and without the book, too, because they’d all heard the poem so often.
And while he told them the well-loved story, Caleb and Travis had gone downstairs, Travis to make cocoa, Caleb to pile a plate with cookies.
After a few years, it seemed silly to read a children’s poem every night for almost a month. Besides, Emil
y, Jaimie and Lissa certainly didn’t believe in Santa anymore. Their brothers were sometimes away, Caleb off doing what he solemnly called Secret Stuff in heaven only knew where, Travis and Jake flying jets and helicopters, and it was a given that the general would not be there but would send a card with a Pilgrim on the front or pay a Skyped visit.
This Thanksgiving, except for the general, the Wildes were together.
Emily, Lissa and Jaimie had all flown in, and Caleb was there with his Sage, Jacob with his Adoré, Travis with his Jennie. There were babies there, as well: Travis and Jennie’s little girl, Eleanor; Caleb and Sage’s little boy, Cameron; and, as Jake proudly announced, his hand curved protectively over his wife’s slight belly bump, she was pregnant, not just with one baby but two—”By God, we’re having twins!” he’d said.
There would be even more little Wildes on hand at the next gathering of the clan.
On Thanksgiving Day, Jaimie put together champagne cocktails for everyone but Adoré, who got a glorious concoction of club soda and freshly squeezed orange juice topped with a sprig of mint.
The housekeeper had the day off. Lissa cooked a feast. An enormous stuffed, roasted wild turkey took place of honor, but there was also a huge roast beef, asparagus, baked brussels sprouts, three kinds of potatoes, bread pudding, apple, mince and pumpkin pies.
Emily brought out the handmade chocolates she’d found in a beautiful little shop in Soho, tiny truffles and creams that, Jaimie said, put five pounds on your hips just to look at them.
Everyone drank, ate, laughed, played with the two littlest Wildes and talked about what they’d been doing since they’d last seen each other.
When it came to that topic, Emily was conspicuously silent. Well, her sisters agreed, she’d been kind of quiet altogether.
Maybe something was wrong.
Her sisters waylaid her in the kitchen.
“Em?” Lissa said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said brightly. “Why would anything be the matter? What kind of question is that?”
A very good question, Lissa and Jaimie thought, exchanging glances. Jaimie cleared her throat.
“Well, you haven’t had much to say.”
Emily: Sex and Sensibility Page 19
