Antonio had known the press fall-out would be big, but Roanna King and her regular exposés on the private lives of the rich and famous had made his engagement sound torrid. That she had put the word secretary in italics was bad enough, but the presumption that Emma might be pregnant?
Antonio threw the newspaper across the small table before him in disgust.
He checked his watch. His private jet had taken off from a New York airport less than forty-five minutes ago. Glancing across the narrow cabin now, he observed Emma taking in the lavish decor of the Arcuri jet, and hoped that it hadn’t turned her head. She needed to be ready for the call with Bartlett.
A thought which reminded him of the last phone call he’d received on his almost constantly vibrating mobile since the news of his engagement had broken.
No, he’d assured his mother, his PA was not pregnant. Yes, he was sorry that he hadn’t called to tell her himself. Dio, he cursed himself, he hadn’t even thought to warn her, to tell her. He’d been so focused on Bartlett and his father that he hadn’t realised how his engagement would look to his mother and sister.
As to his mother’s question about when she might meet her future daughter-in-law, he’d only been able to put her off. Would they meet? he asked himself. He had no doubt that the two women would get along fine. More than fine, if he thought about it. His mother would appreciate the smooth efficiency and dry humour of the small brunette. But it sat awkwardly with him, and he couldn’t stop the words that Emma had said earlier that day about her own parents from ringing in his mind. “I won’t lie to them.”
She had been forced by the newspapers to contact her mother and father and explain the situation. He didn’t like it—he didn’t want anything jeopardising this deal—but he hadn’t been able to refuse her request.
His own mother was a sentimental woman, who believed that love and happiness were a vital part of life and should be a vital part of her son’s life. But he couldn’t bring himself tell her that he had no room for such things. So, he’d lied to his mother and ignored the clenching in his gut. It was a sacrifice worth making, he assured himself, as finally Benjamin Bartlett had agreed to a phone call.
He had twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to convince Bartlett to come for a sit-down in Buenos Aires. Or all this would have been for nothing. Rather than allowing doubts to enter his mind, he shoul
d be using that driving force to push him forward. He would succeed. He had to.
* * *
Emma could feel impatience and expectation pouring from Antonio in waves. She tried to block it out and instead focus on the very strange and really quite wonderful experience of travelling in the company’s private jet.
The limousine had taken them to the airport where, instead of queueing to get through Customs and Security, they had simply been looked over and then led up a set of stairs beside the plane.
Emma feared she might have been spoiled for ever.
She had ignored the way that the air stewardess had cast a disparaging look her way, seeming to take in her appearance and discard it as beneath her notice. It wasn’t exactly Emma’s fault that she was wearing yesterday’s office clothes, having been unable to get back to her apartment and not yet having had the opportunity to buy new ones.
Still, she’d accepted the glass of chilled Prosecco the unnervingly beautiful woman had placed on the table in front of her.
The stewardess was clearly reserving her blood-red lipstick smiles for Antonio. Perhaps it was because of the article. She could hardly have missed the headline screaming about Emma and Antonio’s shocking engagement on the newspaper beside the man in question. Not that it seemed to prevent the woman’s bright gaze lingering on him as if she would like to consume him whole. Nor had it prevented the way her hand rested on his shoulder just a little bit too long to be appropriate.
Emma cursed the way her stomach dropped as she wondered whether they had perhaps enjoyed each other’s company before. Jealousy wasn’t part of their bargain and she wouldn’t let it dim the fizz of excitement that was building as she adjusted to the realisation that they were actually going to Argentina.
Her Living List might be full of hopes and dreams, but they had been practically based on her income, on her finances. This deal with Antonio took her possibilities to a whole new level. As his PA she had only ever borrowed a taste of that elegance, but now she could experience it for herself. Perhaps for these six months she could enjoy all that Antonio had to offer. Well. Almost all. She knew she wouldn’t have the one thing that her body refused to realise she couldn’t have.
Antonio’s phone started to vibrate noisily.
‘I’m going to put it on speaker,’ he said, leaving the phone to jerk around on the table between them, as if this wasn’t the one phone call he’d been waiting a week to receive. ‘I’d like your opinion on Bartlett, given your research.’
She nodded, and he finally accepted the call.
‘Mr Arcuri?’ Bartlett’s assistant was on the line.
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Bartlett for you. Hold, please.’
The line went silent for a moment.
‘Arcuri! I hear congratulations are in order...’
Antonio froze at the American’s cultured tones; for a second they had sounded so much like his father’s. He muted the call momentarily, cleared his throat and then resumed the call, cursing at the fact that Emma had witnessed this errant chink in his defences.
‘Thank you, Mr Bartlett, your congratulations are very welcome.’
‘Am I to presume that your insistence to speak to me is down to the fact that you have uncovered the news that I am looking for investment?’