“Mr. Santini—”
He laughed. She blushed.
“Marco. That is my luggage. It holds my clothes. My—my stuff. You had no right—”
He waved his hand. Louis XIV could not have done it with more arrogance.
“Tomorrow, we buy you new clothes.”
“Tomorrow, we buy you new clothes,” Emily mimicked. “What are you talking about?”
“Do not mimic me. And do not look at me that way. The clothing allowance, remember?”
Emily let go of her hair. It was her turn to fold her arms. “You probably spent all of it already.”
“I spent what needed to be spent.”
“Really?” Her chin lifted. “You know, you never did tell me the amount of that allowance.”
“I did not tell you the amount of your health insurance, either.”
“It isn’t the same thing.”
“It is what I say it is—and why are you arguing with me?”
“Does no one ever argue with you?” she snapped. “Because someone should. You are the most—”
“The most arrogant man in the universe. Si. You told me that before. Perhaps you have forgotten that Charles is waiting. So are my guests.”
“Well,” Emily said, grabbing for her hair again, “they’ll just have to—”
“Madre de Dio, stop that nonsense with your hair!”
He caught her wrist. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders and down her back.
“See what you’ve done,” she said crossly. More crossly than the situation warranted, and for what reason? Why was her heart racing? Why was she so aware of his closeness? Of the scent of man and soap? Of the heat of his hand on her flesh? “I cannot possibly go to an important meeting looking like—”
Marco cursed, hauled her toward him and silenced her with a kiss.
She went crazy.
She moaned. Cupped his face between her hands.
He made an answering sound, deep in his throat, wrapped his strong arms around her and gathered her tightly against him.
Her lips parted.
Their tongues met.
She sucked the tip of his into her mouth.
He growled, slid one h
and down her spine, cupped her bottom and lifted her into him.
His erection was swift, hard and exciting. She felt its urgency, felt the urgency of her response.
She began to tremble.