She knew she was stumbling over her words but, given his current mood, she clearly had to choose them wisely.
‘I am about to set up a meeting with Benjamin Bartlett, who is touting for investment in his company. A company in which I must be the sole investor. And, being a notoriously moral man, Bartlett might be reluctant to involve himself with Arcuri Enterprises given...’ He trailed off, circling his hands in a typically Italian gesture.
‘Given your recent experience with Inga the Swedish—?’
‘I know what she was, Ms Guilham,’ Antonio cut in.
‘Quite. So you need a beard?’
Antonio’s hand went to the smooth planes of his chiselled jaw. ‘A beard?’
‘Not that kind of beard,’ she said, suppressing the smile that toyed at the edges of her mouth. ‘You need a fake fiancée to mask your previous indiscretions so that Bartlett will find you more palatable and therefore be more likely to welcome your investment.’
‘In a nutshell, yes.’
‘And am I to presume that all of this—’ she said mirrored his Italian gesture ‘—needs to be kept under wraps? No one is to know about this, as well as the research into Bartlett?’
He nodded his dark-haired head once. ‘There is another party interested in investing with Bartlett. My interest cannot get out to that person—or any other for that matter.’
The darkness of the warning in his voice was something that Emma hadn’t yet encountered in her boss. And that in itself was enough to inform her that this wasn’t to be taken lightly.
Her quick mind filed the top-line notes of his request. ‘Okay. I’m going to need to clear your schedule tomorrow evening.’
This was why Emma was good, Antonio thought to himself. Apart from the slight slip-up of her earlier sarcasm, which he would happily put down to surprise, when she took on a task she was efficient, direct and held none of the self-doubt he had seen in staff twice her age.
He knew her announcement of his change of plan for tomorrow would be wholly and one hundred per cent in line with her new-found task. A task that she hadn’t balked at, and had only posed pertinent questions on. Mostly.
‘Done.’
‘I’ll have your blue tuxedo sent to the dry cleaners and prepared for the gala.’
‘What gala?’ Antonio queried.
‘The Arcuri Foundation’s yearly charity gala. You are usually in Italy during these two weeks, which is why you are never sent an invitation.’
‘We have a charity gala?’
For the first time in eighteen months Antonio was surprised to see something like anger in Emma Guilham’s eyes.
‘Yes, we do.’ She paused, once again masking her obvious feelings on the matter with her legendarily cool gaze. ‘And it will be the perfect place for you to find a fiancée.’
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