nodded, and also thought about telling him, once again, that such formality was not necessary, but the elevator doors whisked open and he stepped inside.
He didn’t like being treated like a potentate. Why would he?
The car stopped at the fiftieth floor. The executive level, fronted by a big glass desk and a receptionist.
“Good morning, Mr. Santini…”
“You are not to rise to your feet,” Marco snapped.
The woman looked bewildered, and rightly so. She, at least, had taken him at his word after the millionth time he’d told her to remain seated when he arrived in the mornings.
What had happened to his good mood?
“Sorry,” he said as he marched past her and headed for his office.
He knew what had happened to his good mood.
Reality had killed it. And here was the further proof. He would have to spend the day dealing with the temporary and completely incompetent PA sent up by Human Resources—and, merda , there she was, springing to her feet.
“Good morn—”
“Good morning,” Marco snarled. “And sit down, dammit.”
“Sorry, sir. I only—”
Cristo, was her voice shaking?
“Yes. I understand.” Marco smiled. At least, he hoped he was smiling. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Any messages?” he said briskly.
“Yes, sir. I put them on your desk.”
Marco thanked her, entered his office, shrugged off his suit jacket, hung it away and went to his desk.
The stack of messages looked three feet high. His regular PA would have winnowed it by more than half. And the very first message was not a good one. The garage needed more insurance information. His PA should have handled it.
Correction.
Would have handled it, if she were still here.
Marco reached for the phone, stabbed the button for his HR manager.
“What is happening about finding me an assistant?”
She told him that she had contacted an agency that specialized in administrative assistants of the highest caliber.
“I explained the urgency of the situation, Mr. Santini, and they’re sending what they assure me are three excellent candidates for interviews this morning. I’ll narrow it to the one who seems most suitable and send her to you for your approval.”
One problem down.
Another thousand to go, including one that was personal.
He took a piece of letterhead engraved with his name, gave what he would write a minute’s thought before coming up with words that were brief, to the point and not open to interpretation.
For shared memories.
He scrawled his name beneath the words, put the note in an envelope and sealed it, and then he phoned Cartier, just a couple of blocks away on Fifth Avenue, arranged for a duplicate of the diamond bracelet raffled off the night before to be delivered to Jessalyn along with the note, which he sent to the store by messenger.
Excellent.
Now he could concentrate on organizing the data he’d need for his trip to Paris tomorrow morning.
Had Emily ever seen Paris?
Marco frowned.
What a foolish thought. And what was she doing, back in his head?
Maybe he should send something to her, now that he’d sent something to Jessalyn. Not jewelry, of course. Nothing that intimate. Chocolates. Flowers. And a note saying he hoped things would go well for her and if they didn’t, she should feel free to get in touch with him and…
And what?
Chocolates and flowers and notes of any kind would be a bad idea. Hadn’t he just been telling himself he’d been mistaken in thinking he’d been attracted to her? Yes, she was different from the women he knew and that made her interesting, but the truth was, how long would such an interest last?
He already knew that she was unsophisticated. Her accent told him that she was a girl from somewhere in the South, probably a small town where life moved at a slower pace. He figured she was in her twenties. It was easy to imagine her finishing high school, trying to find work as a pianist—a piano player, he
He didn’t like being treated like a potentate. Why would he?
The car stopped at the fiftieth floor. The executive level, fronted by a big glass desk and a receptionist.
“Good morning, Mr. Santini…”
“You are not to rise to your feet,” Marco snapped.
The woman looked bewildered, and rightly so. She, at least, had taken him at his word after the millionth time he’d told her to remain seated when he arrived in the mornings.
What had happened to his good mood?
“Sorry,” he said as he marched past her and headed for his office.
He knew what had happened to his good mood.
Reality had killed it. And here was the further proof. He would have to spend the day dealing with the temporary and completely incompetent PA sent up by Human Resources—and, merda , there she was, springing to her feet.
“Good morn—”
“Good morning,” Marco snarled. “And sit down, dammit.”
“Sorry, sir. I only—”
Cristo, was her voice shaking?
“Yes. I understand.” Marco smiled. At least, he hoped he was smiling. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Any messages?” he said briskly.
“Yes, sir. I put them on your desk.”
Marco thanked her, entered his office, shrugged off his suit jacket, hung it away and went to his desk.
The stack of messages looked three feet high. His regular PA would have winnowed it by more than half. And the very first message was not a good one. The garage needed more insurance information. His PA should have handled it.
Correction.
Would have handled it, if she were still here.
Marco reached for the phone, stabbed the button for his HR manager.
“What is happening about finding me an assistant?”
She told him that she had contacted an agency that specialized in administrative assistants of the highest caliber.
“I explained the urgency of the situation, Mr. Santini, and they’re sending what they assure me are three excellent candidates for interviews this morning. I’ll narrow it to the one who seems most suitable and send her to you for your approval.”
One problem down.
Another thousand to go, including one that was personal.
He took a piece of letterhead engraved with his name, gave what he would write a minute’s thought before coming up with words that were brief, to the point and not open to interpretation.
For shared memories.
He scrawled his name beneath the words, put the note in an envelope and sealed it, and then he phoned Cartier, just a couple of blocks away on Fifth Avenue, arranged for a duplicate of the diamond bracelet raffled off the night before to be delivered to Jessalyn along with the note, which he sent to the store by messenger.
Excellent.
Now he could concentrate on organizing the data he’d need for his trip to Paris tomorrow morning.
Had Emily ever seen Paris?
Marco frowned.
What a foolish thought. And what was she doing, back in his head?
Maybe he should send something to her, now that he’d sent something to Jessalyn. Not jewelry, of course. Nothing that intimate. Chocolates. Flowers. And a note saying he hoped things would go well for her and if they didn’t, she should feel free to get in touch with him and…
And what?
Chocolates and flowers and notes of any kind would be a bad idea. Hadn’t he just been telling himself he’d been mistaken in thinking he’d been attracted to her? Yes, she was different from the women he knew and that made her interesting, but the truth was, how long would such an interest last?
He already knew that she was unsophisticated. Her accent told him that she was a girl from somewhere in the South, probably a small town where life moved at a slower pace. He figured she was in her twenties. It was easy to imagine her finishing high school, trying to find work as a pianist—a piano player, he
Similar Books
