Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

“Take one more s-s-step and I-I-I’ll scream!”

“Signorina. If you would simply listen to me—”

“I’ll sc-sc-scream so loud, I’ll w-w-wake the whole city!”

Marco narrowed his eyes. He had never been a Boy Scout and he had no wish to start winning merit badges at this point in his life.

“A little far-reaching, don’t you think?”

“I’m s-s-serious.”

“As am I. Besides, this is New York. What good will screaming do?”

Her chin lifted. “Get b-b-back into th-that car or you’ll f-f-find out!”

Interesting. She was wet, alone and obviously terrified but she would not give in to defeat without a fight—and what kind of nonsensical discussion was this? Why were they having a discussion at all?

The wind-driven rain felt like tiny needles beating against his flesh. Soon, he’d be as wet as she was.

A perfect ending to a perfect day.

The stolen Ferrari. The sudden departure of his PA His personal assistants quit with alarming frequency, though he could not understand the reason, but this one had not even had the decency to give notice. What about his trip to Paris in two days? Was he supposed to pluck a name from a hat and hope the winner knew how to do the hundred things it took to keep him from being buried alive in calls, faxes, e-mails, requests and complaints? Was he supposed to hope an untried assistant would be able to sense who to seat beside whom at the sort of dinner he might have to host? What were the odds of finding someone who could get through a casual meeting with clients when the lingua franca was not necessarily English?

Then he’d topped things off by attending a charity dinner.

He hated charity dinners. He hated events at which the rich and powerful spent their time showing each other just how rich and powerful they were where raffles for expensive toys could set a man back a small fortune just to keep a woman from whining.

Jessalyn, his mistress, had whined anyway.

His soon-not-to-be mistress. It was a thought he turned to for consolation.

“I s-s-suppose it’s pos-pos-possible your intentions are honorable.”

Marco blinked and focused his gaze on his mission of mercy. His intentions with regard to women had not been honorable since he’d turned seventeen, but he knew what she meant and he wasn’t about to make things worse with some small, crude joke that she would surely misunderstand.

Time to try a different approach.

“Good. I am pleased that you understand.”

“B-but it d-d-doesn’t matter. I’m f-f-fine. Th-th-thank you for stopping but—”

“If you get into my vehicle, we will drive you to your destination.”

A flash of panic swept across her face. Brilliant. Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

This was ridiculous. The word wet no longer described her. Or him, for that matter, he thought grimly. Rain was dripping from his hair into his eyes. His jacket was taking a soggy beating though it would stand up to the elements far better than whatever she was wearing.

A dress. Silk, most probably.

Silk, it seemed, did not do well in the rain.

It clung to her body, outlining gently curved hips, a slender waist and small, high breasts. Now that he thought about it, he could even see the thrust of her nipples.

They seemed to be very nice nipples, of a size that would welcome a lover’s mouth.

“I know wh-what you’re thi-thin-thinking.”

Heat rushed into his face. “I beg your pardon?”