thought, smiling—and, after coming up empty, taking a job in an insurance office or maybe at a small retail shop for a couple of years while she saved up enough money to come north to the Big Apple.
She would know nothing of the life he led. She’d be as uncomfortable as the proverbial fish out of water.
Last night had been a page torn out of time.
Besides, suppose he did send her flowers. Or asked her to dinner. Once she realized who he was, what he was, a man building an empire, no matter how unsophisticated she was, that would change things. Like the easy way she’d dealt with him. Of course it would.
Plus, what would they talk about? Not that his conversations with the women he dated were ever deep and meaningful. Hell, he wasn’t looking for deep and meaningful, only that the women who passed through his life fit into it.
Seamlessly.
But he’d bet anything in the world that his rain-soaked tigress would fit into his arms.
Into his bed.
Emily, her skin silken and hot under the stroke of his hands, her mouth sweet and parted to the thrust of his tongue, her body arching against his, her cries of need and desire rising into the silence of the night…
His elbow jerked.
Half the stack of messages tumbled to the floor.
Marco muttered a curse, retrieved them, dumped them on his desk and shot to his feet.
The window wall behind him offered a breathtaking view of the city. He swung toward it, flattened his hands against the cool glass and took long, deep breaths until his mind emptied of everything.
He’d been working too hard lately. He always worked hard but the past few months had been rough. He’d had acquisitions to deal with, the expansion of MS Enterprises into Brazil, endless projects that all required constant attention.
This was the result.
Foolish thoughts. Pointless imaginings. He was, and always had been, a logical man. He didn’t waste time daydreaming. He had built his empire on logic. On clear, cool thought.
Perhaps he needed a break.
“Mr. Santini?”
The Paris trip. Then a few days off. He’d fly down to La Tortuga , the island he’d recently bought in the Caribbean. Hadn’t he promised himself he’d find time to do that? There was a house there, adequate to stay in until he planned the one that would replace it. Maybe he could begin doing that while he was there.
“Mr. Santini. Sir.”
The sun, the sea, the isolation of the white sand beaches and lushly wild interior were the reasons he’d bought the island. Surely, a couple of days in that kind of privacy would restore his equilibrium—
“Mr. Santini. I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but a problem’s developed.”
Marco frowned and turned to the door. His people knew better than to walk in without knocking. If an efficient PA were at the desk she’d have—
Joe Stein, the head of the design team that had handled the Twenty-two Pascal project, stood in the doorway. Joe had been busy all week with final preparation for the building’s grand opening on Wednesday.
Normally, he had a ready smile and bright pink cheeks.
This morning, his face was pale. In fact, he looked as if he were going to be sick.
Marco felt a knot forming in the pit of his belly.
“What problem?”
“You, uh, you remember the plans for the atrium at the Pascal building?”
Marco’s frown deepened. Did he remember them? The atrium was the focal point of the restoration. His company had taken what was basically a useless empty space and turned it into a glass box, open to the sun, protected from rain and snow by a sliding glass roof.
“ Si ,” he said carefully. “I remember it quite well.”
“Yes. Well—well, we’ve run into some difficulties with it.”
“Dammit, man, don’t pussyfoot. What difficulties?”
“The orchids. For the display.”
The orchids. White orchids. Ten thousand branching stems of them.
The knot in Marco’s gut tightened. “What about them?”
“We’re—we’re not getting them.”
“What do you
She would know nothing of the life he led. She’d be as uncomfortable as the proverbial fish out of water.
Last night had been a page torn out of time.
Besides, suppose he did send her flowers. Or asked her to dinner. Once she realized who he was, what he was, a man building an empire, no matter how unsophisticated she was, that would change things. Like the easy way she’d dealt with him. Of course it would.
Plus, what would they talk about? Not that his conversations with the women he dated were ever deep and meaningful. Hell, he wasn’t looking for deep and meaningful, only that the women who passed through his life fit into it.
Seamlessly.
But he’d bet anything in the world that his rain-soaked tigress would fit into his arms.
Into his bed.
Emily, her skin silken and hot under the stroke of his hands, her mouth sweet and parted to the thrust of his tongue, her body arching against his, her cries of need and desire rising into the silence of the night…
His elbow jerked.
Half the stack of messages tumbled to the floor.
Marco muttered a curse, retrieved them, dumped them on his desk and shot to his feet.
The window wall behind him offered a breathtaking view of the city. He swung toward it, flattened his hands against the cool glass and took long, deep breaths until his mind emptied of everything.
He’d been working too hard lately. He always worked hard but the past few months had been rough. He’d had acquisitions to deal with, the expansion of MS Enterprises into Brazil, endless projects that all required constant attention.
This was the result.
Foolish thoughts. Pointless imaginings. He was, and always had been, a logical man. He didn’t waste time daydreaming. He had built his empire on logic. On clear, cool thought.
Perhaps he needed a break.
“Mr. Santini?”
The Paris trip. Then a few days off. He’d fly down to La Tortuga , the island he’d recently bought in the Caribbean. Hadn’t he promised himself he’d find time to do that? There was a house there, adequate to stay in until he planned the one that would replace it. Maybe he could begin doing that while he was there.
“Mr. Santini. Sir.”
The sun, the sea, the isolation of the white sand beaches and lushly wild interior were the reasons he’d bought the island. Surely, a couple of days in that kind of privacy would restore his equilibrium—
“Mr. Santini. I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but a problem’s developed.”
Marco frowned and turned to the door. His people knew better than to walk in without knocking. If an efficient PA were at the desk she’d have—
Joe Stein, the head of the design team that had handled the Twenty-two Pascal project, stood in the doorway. Joe had been busy all week with final preparation for the building’s grand opening on Wednesday.
Normally, he had a ready smile and bright pink cheeks.
This morning, his face was pale. In fact, he looked as if he were going to be sick.
Marco felt a knot forming in the pit of his belly.
“What problem?”
“You, uh, you remember the plans for the atrium at the Pascal building?”
Marco’s frown deepened. Did he remember them? The atrium was the focal point of the restoration. His company had taken what was basically a useless empty space and turned it into a glass box, open to the sun, protected from rain and snow by a sliding glass roof.
“ Si ,” he said carefully. “I remember it quite well.”
“Yes. Well—well, we’ve run into some difficulties with it.”
“Dammit, man, don’t pussyfoot. What difficulties?”
“The orchids. For the display.”
The orchids. White orchids. Ten thousand branching stems of them.
The knot in Marco’s gut tightened. “What about them?”
“We’re—we’re not getting them.”
“What do you
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