Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

Her future was not his concern. Solving Wednesday’s problem was.

Still, calling Emily himself struck him as almost as unwise as going to see her.

Marco frowned.

Normally, he’d have told his PA to handle things, but…

But he did have an HR manager.

He dialed her extension, quickly explained that there’d been a change of plans for the Wednesday opening of Twenty-two Pascal.

“Of what, sir?”

Hell, he was an idiot! What would Human Resources know about it?

Marco filled her in on the situation and on how the company was dealing with it.

“Well,” the head of HR said cautiously, “that’s great news—but what does it have to do with Human Resources?”

Marco cleared his throat.

“Obviously, we need someone to play the piano.”

“Ah. Well, sir, unfortunately, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how to go about locating a pianist—”

“A piano player,” Marco said, “and I already know of someone. I’ll give you her name and number. Call her, explain that we have a one-day job for her and ask her to come in this morning.”

“You want me to call this person, sir?”

“Of course,” Marco said briskly. “We will be employing her, will we not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“All hiring at MS Enterprises is done through your office, Mrs. Barnett.”

“I really don’t know what to ask her, Mr. Santini. I mean, what should I look for in her résumé?”

“Never mind a résumé,” Marco said briskly. “Just call her, tell her what we want and have her come in to sign the necessary documents.”

“And if she asks how we know about her, sir?”

Marco put his hand to his forehead. It was an excellent question.

“Never mind.”

“But you said—”

“I’ll handle this myself.”

Was he insane? He was making more of this than necessary. Emily played piano. She needed work. He had a piano. Well, a building his company had restored had a piano or it would have a piano and Dio, all he had to do was phone her and tell her he was offering her a job. Easy, especially since he wouldn’t even be in town on Wednesday.

He’d be in Paris.

Marco took a deep breath. Picked up the phone. And stared at it.

His mouth was dry.

This was ridiculous! He was behaving like a teenage kid calling a girl for a date. Not that he’d ever been a teenage kid calling a girl for a date. He’d discovered sex at seventeen with the mistress of the rich American who’d hired him to clear out the tangle of trees and shrubs behind the house the man had put up on the cliffs outside Catania.