Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

Certainly not more handsome than this.

He reached back, his eyes never leaving hers, and opened the rear door. Then he bent down and picked up her shoes.

“Please. Get in.”

She hesitated but not for long.

Oh, she thought as she stepped inside the Mercedes, oh, lovely.

The interior was warm, the immediate relief from the rain glorious. She tried to show some decorum but that was difficult when you were dripping your way across a leather seat toward a woman who looked as if she’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue.

Impeccable hairdo. Impeccable makeup. Impeccable fuchsia silk jacket over impeccable pale pink gown. Stilettos heels, the kind that would never be so unsophisticated as to fall apart in the rain.

“Be careful,” the woman snapped, shrinking away from her. “You’re dripping all over everything!”

“Sorry! I di-d-didn’t mean t-to—”

“This is ridiculous. You should be sitting up front.”

Marco Santini’s hard, warm thigh pressed against Emily’s. The car door slammed shut. She looked at him.

“She might b-b-be right. I mean, I really am awfully w-w-wet.”

“You’re fine where you are. Charles? Turn up the heat, please.” Marco leaned forward and pressed a button. The door to a discretely-designed compartment clicked open; he reached in and took out a bottle of amber-colored liquid and poured a dollop into a crystal glass. “Brandy,” he said, holding it out to her. “Take a sip.”

Emily eyed it warily. “Thank you, b-b-but—”

Marco rolled his eyes, brought the glass to his lips and drank. “See? Absolutely safe. Go on. It will help.”

Their hands brushed as she took the flask from him, lifted it to her mouth and took a drink. Liquid fire swept from the top of her head to her toes.

“Better?”

She nodded.

“This will help even more,” he said, withdrawing a small blanket from a drawer under the same compartment.

“I d-d-don’t think I’d better. I’ll get it all weh-weh-wet.”

“Give it to me, then,” Jessalyn said coldly. “I’ll use it to keep myself from getting all weh-weh-wet.”

Marco flashed her a look, shook the blanket open and draped it over Emily.

“Now,” he said briskly, “where are we taking you?”

Emily looked at him. He was almost as wet as she was. Drops of rain glittered in his dark hair and on his thick, spiky lashes. His shirt clung to his wide shoulders and broad chest, betraying the shadow of hard, delineated muscle.

She thought about offering to share the blanket with him.

A rush of heat, similar to what she’d experienced when she’d swallowed the mouthful of brandy, went through her.

“Good.”

She blinked, looked up, met his gaze.

“You have some color in your face. Now, tell me where you live.”

“The E-E-East Village.”