ANTONIO HAD SPENT the last twenty-four hours going over the research files Emma had put together on Bartlett—and the other research she had provided.
If he found anything distasteful about looking at the pictures and brief biographies Emma had collated of several of the single female attendees of that evening’s event, he ruthlessly forced it aside. He had but one goal. And tonight would be the first step in achieving it.
Emma buzzed on the intercom, interrupting his thoughts to announce that the car was there to take them to The Langsford Hotel. Although it was only a fifteen-minute walk from the office, and he’d been inclined to make that walk, Emma had swiftly denounced the idea, saying that it wouldn’t ‘do’ to have the CEO of Arcuri Enterprises walking up to the red carpet in front of the world’s press. After all, she had said, she was apparently now in the business of safeguarding his reputation.
He’d repressed a smile. He was beginning to enjoy these brief glimpses of a dry English humour that she had hidden from him until now. Pulling at the sleeves of the tuxedo’s jacket to fit them to the lines of his arms and torso, he opened the door to his office—and stopped.
Emma was perched on the end of her desk, leaning over towards the phone and looking quite unlike any way he’d seen look before.
She was still adorned in her usual monotone colours of black and white, and the wide panels of her loose dress covered all but the faintest glimpses of her figure. But her dark hair was piled up on her head in thick twirls, revealing strands of gold and deep reds that he had not seen before. It framed her heart-shaped face perfectly, and a light dusting of make-up served to accentuate the hazel and green of her eyes. A nude gloss lent a sheen to her lips that sent a punch to his gut more powerful than any brighter, richer colour could have achieved.
She looked natural and fresh—and so very different from the women he usually spent his time with.
‘Yes, don’t worry. The waiters know what to do. But because Ms Cherie was a last-minute addition to the invitation list we couldn’t have known her dietary requirements before. The kitchen staff always make three extra portions of each main, so just reassure her that a vegan option will be made available to her.’
Antonio watched as Emma hung up the phone, catching the unusual sight of a long, shapely, creamy calf.
‘Vegan?’
Emma turned, clearly surprised to find him standing there.
‘Enough of a crime to scratch her off the fiancée list?’ she asked.
‘Not yet,’ Antonio said, forcing his libido under control.
During the day—in her usual office attire—she wasn’t so much of a problem. But even though Emma was covered from head to toe, that glimpse of smooth marble-like skin was enough to snare his attention. And he suddenly understood why Victorian England had deemed ankles the most threatening thing to society since smallpox.
Shaking his head to rid his mind of inappropriate thoughts about his PA, he led the way to the elevator that would take them down to the limousine waiting for them in the underground car park.
In the confines of the metal box, with Emma beside him, Antonio realised that it was going to be a long night.
*
Emma couldn’t wait for this night to be over. They hadn’t even arrived at the gala and she was already exhausted. It had taken every waking minute she’d had, not only to put together her research on Bartlett and compile the dossiers on Antonio’s prospective fiancées—not that most of them knew they were prospective fiancées—but also to ensure that the foundation’s gala wasn’t single-handedly ruined by the very man in charge of organising it in the first place.
Marcus Greenfeld was a fusty old man, with fusty old ideas about how to run a charity. And it made her mad. She’d caught sight of his opening speech on the photocopier on the twenty-third floor and realised that something had to be done.
She’d hastily rewritten the thing, told a bold-faced lie to Greenfeld’s assistant that Antonio had wanted to take a look at it, and sent it off to the teleprompter before Greenfeld had even been able to think of questioning it. Or question the three extra invitations she’d had issued to fiancée options four, five and six.
Antonio might have told her what he needed in a fiancée but, honestly, the man’s taste in women was so varied she couldn’t tell which way he would go. Though option two—the vegan Ella Cherie—was looking increasingly less likely.
As the limo pulled up to The Langsford she remembered she had yet to tell Antonio about the other last-minute invitation.
‘Dimitri will be here tonight,’ she said as they slowed to a stop. ‘Danyl was...unable to attend.’
‘Well, he is running a country.’
Emma wasn’t so sure. She’d heard angry words in the background when she was on the phone to his assistant. There had been something behind the bitterly shouted phrase, ‘I wouldn’t go back to that hotel if you paid me!’ that had made Emma concerned that her suggested location for the gala might be a mistake.
But there was nothing online other than praise for this exquisite, world-renowned hotel. A hotel she’d heard of even back in London, when she’d scoured the press reports of its grand opening. She might never be able to afford to stay in the amazing hotel herself, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t experience it vicariously through work.
‘Why?’ Antonio asked, and Emma wondered briefly if she’d missed something.
‘Why, what?’
‘Why did you invite them?’
‘I thought that you might need some independent advice on your choice.’
Antonio looked at her, but she was unable to divine his thoughts.
‘Wingmen—I thought you might need wingmen,’ she clarified.
‘Emma,’ he said, with censure heavy on his tongue. ‘I have never needed a wingman.’
And the answering shivers that rippled through her body told her just how right he was.
*
As she did at most events Antonio attended for work, Emma stayed discreetly behind him during the initial introductions, her quietly whispered words prompting him with the names of the gala’s guests and their partners. There had been times in the past when the additional information she provided had saved him from embarrassment—especially once when Antonio had nearly mistaken a man’s mistress for his wife.
He was surprised to see so many recognisable faces. He could honestly say that he had never given this gala a first thought, let alone a second. If it didn’t contribute to bringing Michael Steele down, it didn’t matter to him. Marcus Greenfeld—the man Antonio had inherited along with the foundation he had secured for Arcuri Enterprises all those years ago—had never demanded anything of him and he liked it that way. Antonio had never taken to the man.
‘Natasha.’
Emma’s voice cut through his thoughts. He turned to find her welcoming the statuesque and considerably beautiful black woman making her way towards him.
‘How lovely to see you again,’ Emma said, kissing the woman on both cheeks.
The answering smile spoke of a friendship between the two and he instantly recognised the woman as fiancée option number one.
‘Natasha—allow me to introduce you to Antonio Arcuri. Antonio—Natasha Eddings,’ she said, gently proffering the woman to him like a gift, before swiftly disappearing to leave him alone with her.
Within minutes Antonio didn’t have to bring to mind Emma’s handwritten scrawl on her brief bio—This is my favourite—to see why Natasha was Emma’s choice. Natasha was articulate and intelligent, beautiful and, in short, practically perfect. But while she might meet his requirements, he had the odd impression that he did not meet hers.
‘It would seem that my usual and widely reported charm might be falling a little flat this evening,’ he remarked, testing his theory.
Natasha smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Arcuri. Emma did explain to me the delicate nature of your...interest,’ she said, clearly searching for suitable phrasing.
A shiver of alarm passed through him quickly, but she pressed on.
‘I assure you that I don’t know why—only that you are looking for a fiancée—and no one will hear about it from me. I know that Emma has not spoken to anyone else of it. But...’
‘You are perhaps involved with someone?’ he offered, giving Natasha a way out.
‘I am. Whoever you choose will be a lucky woman. I am sure of it. But I’m afraid I am not she.’ Natasha smiled gently, smoothing any potentially ruffled feathers.
‘Rest assured, Natasha, whoever he is,’ he said, referring to her involvement, ‘he is the lucky one.’
The smile that lit her features was bright and spectacular.
‘Thank you. May I offer a suggestion, Mr Arcuri?’
When he nodded his assent, she continued.
‘Perhaps you don’t have to be looking so far afield.’
With that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Antonio with a thought that was matched only by a growing suspicion on his part. But the clinking of glass interrupted his partially formed idea, sounding out the fact that the opening speech from Marcus Greenfeld was about to begin.
Having prepared himself for the most boring fifteen minutes of his life, Antonio was faintly surprised at the warm, heartfelt introduction given by the man as he clearly outlined the charity’s main functions. Though his voice was slightly stilted, the words were full of compassion and drive—and were, in a sense, a call to arms.
Looking across the audience, he saw them resonate, and a ripple of emotion shuddered through each of the attendees that he, himself, was not immune to. The only thing preventing the speech from being truly inspirational was the man delivering it.
From the corner of his eye Antonio saw his CFO, David Grant, approach quietly, and they greeted each other with a fond nod of welcome.
‘I have to say,’ Antonio said in hushed tones, ‘Greenfeld’s doing much better than I remember.’
His CFO frowned, then smiled. ‘Ah... I heard that it was down to you, but now I’m beginning to think that your PA has been sprinkling her magic fairy dust over his speech—as well as over this gala.’
Antonio was confused. What had Emma to do with all this?
David let out a gruff laugh. ‘For the last two months Emma has been running interference with Greenfeld and doing everything possible to ensure this night is an unusual success. You’re always out of the country for this event, but it’s been growing steadily more boring and more dull each year. It was Emma’s decision to move the gala to The Langsford and provide gift packages for the guests. Not to mention rewriting the speech. She’s done wonders.’
Wonders, indeed. Antonio was about to voice his frustration at the fact that his perfect PA had effectively been moonlighting, but David’s next words stopped him short.
‘I suppose it’s only natural, given her personal experience. Cancer research is one of the main focuses of the Arcuri Foundation, and that clearly makes her the perfect support for the event.’
Antonio stared at his CFO. Cancer? Emma had experienced cancer?
A roar sounded in his ears and it took him a moment to realise that it was the sound of the guests applauding.
*
Emma had watched Greenfeld’s speech from the sidelines of the large entertainment suite at the top of The Langsford. She had pretended to be checking the gala’s gift bags, ensuring that the male and female packages were all present and contained the small bottles of champagne a local winery had been happy to supply. Other companies had also lent their support, through handmade bracelets and perfume for the women, aftershave and cufflinks for the men.
She knew she’d thrown Antonio’s name around as if it was currency, but it had been worth it. And if her boss took issue with it, then she would set him straight. Tonight the gala was predicted to raise more money in donations than the last two events put together.
Once again she was pushing something bigger than herself out into the world, and this time she could do some actual good. Funding would reach beyond the not so small world of Arcuri Enterprises and help people—really help people who desperately needed it. And for that...? Yes, for that she would go into battle with her boss if needed.
But as her hands had hovered over the blue and pink cloth gift bags Greenfeld’s voice had projected her own words back to her, and she’d cursed the man for not being moved, for the barrier between his words and the emotions she felt in her chest. The man was simply not good enough at his job.
Still, Emma chided herself, she couldn’t do everything. Tonight she should really be checking on how Antonio was getting on in his search.
Although she was pleased with the fiancée options she’d miraculously pulled from the gala at the last minute, she had noticed Natasha’s departure from her conversation with Antonio with something horribly like relief. She liked Natasha. The bright, intelligent woman had been at several of the foundation’s functions, but hadn’t been able to help the awful sting of jealousy curling in her chest as she had seen them talk.
Antonio might be an unconscionable playboy, and she might have had to smooth the emotional waters for his ex-lovers, but she’d never had to see it personally. Through the hackneyed words of the international press that followed him almost constantly, she’d been able to see simply an incredibly attractive man who enjoyed beautiful women with good grace and no false promises.
And if she was foolish to wonder what it would be like to be one of those beautiful women, then that was her own look-out.
She had long given up on fantasies of being a beautiful blushing woman on the arm of a dashingly handsome man. Her experience with cancer had seen to that. It may have stolen her breasts—which she had been prepared for. But somehow it had been the prospect of nipple reconstruction that had truly defined its effect on her sense of self. Unwilling and emotionally unable to face yet another surgery, Emma had instead opted for medical tattoos. The tattooist had been kind and had worked wonders. The tattoos meant that she didn’t look in the mirror and immediately see something missing. The implants she could handle, and the scars she could deal with, but that last thing had been the hardest.
And, beyond the fight she’d won against cancer, it wasn’t just flesh and time that it had taken from her. It had stolen her parents’ marriage, and it had stolen her sense of femininity. At seventeen she’d been a child, and now, at twenty-three, she had yet to feel like a woman. She was unable and unwilling to put herself out there and find someone she might trust her delicate sense of self to—trust, should the worst happen, that they’d be there for her on the other side.
Her eyes were drawn to Antonio’s presence across the room. Standing almost a foot above most of the guests, he was never hard to find. And as she saw him laughing with fiancée option number four—one of the last-minute additions she had added just in case—she gave herself a little mental slap.
Putting her feelings back into a box, she went to check on the preparations for the gala meal.
*
Had anything ever been as annoying to him as this woman’s laugh? Ever?
Antonio couldn’t help but think not, as she pealed out another reel of hysteria at an inane observation that had fallen flat on his own ears.
He couldn’t hold it against Emma. Amber—he couldn’t keep thinking of her as option four—was fine. On paper. Two degrees...a board member at her mother’s make-up company...daughter of an international diplomat. Tick, tick, tick. But in person...? She was a car crash. She was loud, there was that awful laugh, and then there was her appearance. Clearly she was a stunning woman, but as she nearly fell out of her tightly constricting dress he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than distaste.
‘So, you’re into horseflesh? I love to have a flutter on the ponies occasionally. You’re going to be in Buenos Aires for the first leg of the Hanley Cup next week?’
His noncommittal ‘mmm’ wasn’t enough to put her off. But it did remind him of the need to check in with John—the trainer he had secured for the Winners’ Circle from the staff his family had been forced to let go.
It had been both a gift and a curse to work with the gruff northern Englishman. Antonio was still unable to relinquish fully the stranglehold the past had on him even now, in the present. He wondered if Mason McAulty was still furiously adhering to the strict schedule she had set herself...
But his train of thought was interrupted as Amber placed a long-nailed hand on his forearm, and Antonio resisted the urge to flinch.
‘Is it true that you have a female jockey riding your horse? How simply thrilling!’
Cue more laughter. Laughter that made him wonder what dry response Emma would have come up with.
Damn it.
Emma—the woman he had worked with for eighteen months and never known about her medical history. He wasn’t so uncouth as to require one for members of his staff, and neither was he such an ass that he would have treated her any differently. But as his eyes raked over Amber and her figure-hugging outfit he suddenly realised what it was about Emma’s figure that had always niggled at the back of his subconscious.
Breast implants. He hadn’t initially noticed them—in fact had only just realised that they were implants. They weren’t obvious—in reality they were incredibly subtle—and the disguising of them was clearly intended by her choice of wardrobe.
In an act of what could only be described as self-preservation, any time he had come near to considering his PA’s assets, he had swerved sharply away. So, even as a man who considered himself a connoisseur of beautiful forms, perhaps he could be forgiven.
Assimilating this new information about Emma didn’t make him think any less of her—only more. It added yet another layer of complexity to a woman who was beginning to take up far too much of his thoughts for a member of his staff.
‘And that was when—’
‘I’m sorry,’ Antonio said insincerely, ‘I’ve just seen someone I need to speak to.’
He left the blonde woman practically stamping her foot in his wake and went to find... Anything would be better than that.
Until he walked smack-bang into Marcus Greenfeld.
‘Mr Arcuri,’ he proclaimed, before Antonio could extricate himself from the situation. The man took off his greasy glasses and began rubbing them with his tie. ‘Kind of you to come. Didn’t have to, of course,’ he said apologetically. ‘I hope you don’t mind the...the extravagance. But then, of course, it was your suggestion so, yes... Thank you. I—’
‘You have done an amazing job.’ The lie was giving the man far more credit than he was clearly due, but it was necessary to ensure that Emma’s inspired intervention was fully felt. ‘This evening’s gala has garnered a huge amount of positivity,’ he said, loudly enough for Emma to hear as she made her way over to the two of them.
Did he notice a slight blush on her cheeks?
‘Mr Greenfeld... Mr Arcuri—the meal will be served shortly,’ Emma informed them.
Antonio’s hawk-like gaze raked over her—all of her. Even dressed in the clothes he now saw that she wore like armour, she outshone Amber like the north star.
‘I was just telling Marcus how much I’m enjoying the gala. A truly wonderful event. And with that in mind I have decided to double the donations raised this evening. Marcus,’ he said, turning back to the man, ‘please be so good as to announce that before the meal starts. Let’s see if it greases some wheels.’ He tried not to look at the man’s glasses as he spoke.
His statement signalled the end of the conversation, but Marcus Greenfeld still took an awkward moment to realise it was his cue to leave.
Emma was looking at him with huge round eyes. The same eyes that had first caught his attention in London. He needed to get his own eyes off his PA and on to the next fiancée option. He needed to keep his mind on track. He wasn’t here for the charity—he was here to help secure the Bartlett deal.
‘That’s...that’s wonderful, Antonio. Thank you so much.’
‘You don’t have to thank me. It’s my charity, after all. Besides... It’s good publicity.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ she said, levelling him with a stare that saw far too much, and speaking in a voice that held too much optimism. ‘I think you’re doing it out of the kindness of your heart.’
‘Don’t paint any illusions about me, Emma. Trust me—there’s very little good left in me.’
‘Well, then. I’ll just have to nurture that last little bit of goodness.’
As she slipped away into the throng of guests his errant mind wondered what else she might nurture and he cursed himself to hell and back.
When the guests started to make their way in a somewhat chaotic line through to where the meal was being served, he saw Dimitri peel off from a group of attractive women.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ Antonio asked as they stood back and watched the guests pile in for the meal.
‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,’ Dimitri replied, full of laughter.
‘I’m glad you find humour in this.’
‘And in your purpose,’ Dimitri responded, clinking his glass of champagne against Antonio’s. ‘So, anyone caught your eye yet?’
As Antonio scanned the guests at the gala, all decked in the kind of finery that suited their opulent surroundings, his eyes snagged on Emma once again.
‘Emma shared the list of suitable candidates with me, and I must say, apart from that girl Amber, she’s chosen wisely. Though if you’re not overly taken with option one I’d be happy to take her off your hands.’
‘Che palle, Dimitri.’ Antonio cast Dimitri a dark look, but his friend only shrugged.
‘Ti?’ Dimitri queried in Greek.
‘Natasha Eddings—“option one”—is not up for grabs. This isn’t a cattle market, Dimitri. This is important. If Bartlett is even going to meet with me, then I need a fiancée to resolve any detrimental effects of my previous...assignations.’
‘Is that what the kids are calling it these days?’
‘Don’t joke. This is a serious matter.’
‘I know,’ Dimitri said, his eyes shining with understanding. ‘But, Antonio, you can’t just stumble across a woman you’ve never met before, make her an offer to be your fake fiancée, expect her to have little or no ulterior expectations, and present her to Bartlett wrapped in a bow.’
Antonio bit back a curse. Dimitri was right. Urgency and necessity had made his usually quick and clever mind sluggish and slow. He saw the many flaws in his plan immediately.
What had he been thinking? He needed the deal, he needed to bring Steele to his knees, and he needed a fiancée who would understand and support him in it.
His eyes caught Emma, laughing with a member of the hotel’s staff before stepping away through the glass doors to the balcony that wrapped around the outside of the hotel. She had done so much. He was impressed with how she’d multi-tasked, clearly making an unprecedented success of the event whilst never missing a beat in her day-to-day role. She was conscientious, bright and articulate. And above all she was professional. In short, she was perfect.
*
‘Mum, it’s...’ Emma paused, pulling her mobile briefly away from her ear to check the screen for the time ‘...one a.m. in London. What are you doing up?’
‘Oh, I got stuck into a painting and the next thing I knew it was midnight.’
As Emma looked out onto the famous New York skyline she imagined her mother in the brightly lit, airy loft of her home in Hampstead Heath. When her parents had divorced her father had been the one to leave, moving into a flat nearer to the school where he worked, but only round the corner from the home they had all once shared.
The divorce had signalled the end of the nightly fights that had become a regular feature of Emma’s life—desperate and painful arguments her parents had thought she hadn’t heard. The heart-wrenching accusations, the arguments over how differently to handle their sick daughter, and her father’s confusion as to why Louise Guilham had changed beyond his recognition.
Emma had initially felt relief when they’d separated, and then guilt, knowing that her father still desperately loved her mother. His painful bewilderment at the transformation in his wife and child had cut Emma deeply, and prompted the awful thought that had it not been for her illness her mother might have somehow stayed with her husband, and she might have somehow found a way to keep them all together.
‘Where’s Mark?’
Emma liked her mum’s partner. He made her happy, and he also gave her the space she needed to be creative at unsociable times. Emma knew better than most that when her mum ‘got stuck into a painting’ she could be gone for days. She loved her mum’s paintings—her favourite one hung on the wall of her little Brooklyn flat—and still felt bad that her mother’s work had been put on hold during her illness at a critical time in her mother’s career.
‘Asleep. I just wanted to know how the gala went.’
‘It’s still going, but it’s going well. Antonio has offered to double the event’s donations.’
‘That’s wonderful, darling.’
But even through her mother’s happiness for her Emma could sense her distraction. She was probably staring at the painting critically right at that very moment.
Emma was about to ask when they might come over to visit her. Her mother and Mark hadn’t made it out there yet, but that was okay, because she’d hardly had a spare moment since working for Antonio. But as if the very thought of him had conjured him from thin air, she felt rather than heard his presence behind her.
‘Love you lots, but I’d better go.’
Emma hung up the call and put her mobile back in her purse. She gathered herself, knowing that her emotions were a little too close to the surface for her to face her boss just yet.
Adjusting her mind’s eye back from her home in Hampstead to the beautiful night-time vista of famous skyscrapers silhouetted against the stars, she felt a cool breeze pass over her skin—and that was why she had goosebumps, Emma assured herself. Not because Antonio had come out here to find her.
He should be with the other guests sitting down for the meal. Perhaps he’d come to tell her that he’d found his perfect fiancée, she thought, uncharacteristically bitter.
She needed to pull herself together. Surely she could handle Antonio Arcuri’s fiancée as well as she could handle him. But the thought of handling her boss gave rise to some very explicit images, and she had to push them aside as firmly as she placed a smile on her face and finally turned to see him.
He stood half in shadow, peering at her through bitter-chocolate-coloured eyes. There was something about the way he held himself. As if his body was restraining some kind of pressing energy. Energy she felt all the way on the other side of the balcony.
‘Who was that?’
‘What?’
‘Who was on the phone that you love?’ he asked, his Italian accent thick on the words.
Emma frowned at the personal nature of this conversation. She and Antonio didn’t do personal. It was one of the things she liked and respected about him, and in her deepest heart she was thankful for it.
‘My mother.’
‘So there’s no one at home waiting up for you? No boyfriend or otherwise?’
‘No,’ she replied, still confused.
‘Then, Emma, I can see only one option before me. In order to secure the Bartlett deal I need you... You will be my fiancée.’