Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

He would never be so crass. So chauvinistic. So self-centered.

“Sir?

“Ms. Madison’s qualifications are limited.”

“Testa di cazzo,” Emily snarled.

Was he going crazy? Had Emily the Innocent really just called him a dickhead?

Shocked, he swung around just in time to see her pluck her handbag from the chair where she’d left it and head for the door.

Marco reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Let go!”

His fingers tightened around her elbow.

“Dammit, let go!”

“Jane. I am afraid I’m busy right now—”

“Have you looked at her employment application? I faxed it to your temp.”

Emily glared at him. He glared back. She kicked him in the shin. Marco pushed her against the wall, raised a finger to warn her not to move, wrenched open the door, marched to the fax machine and ripped two pages from its belly.

“Sir? I said, have you looked at—”

Marco disconnected. He grabbed Emily’s arm and stepped back inside his office,

He held out her employment application.

“Is this yours? Did you fill this out?”

“I did—but then, I had no idea you had already categorized me as—as whatever it is you think I am.”

“You’re distorting this entire thing. There is nothing wrong with—with—”

“With working in a bar.”

“Yes. No. Dio, did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to.” Emily folded her arms. “I get it now. You were on your way home from that charity something or other—”

“A dinner. And what has that to do with anything?”

“You were on your way home from a la-di-da party where the whole idea is to convince everybody that you’re richer than they are.”

That was precisely what those parties were all about, but he’d sooner have swallowed his tongue than admit how perfect her description was.

“You know nothing of these things,” Marco snapped.

She did, of course. She’d endured enough of them, but why tell him that when he was so certain he knew all there was to know about her?

“You were feeling pretty good about yourself. Big car. Fancy mistress.”

“Jessalyn is not my mistress!” True enough. She wasn’t, not anymore.

“And then, from out of nowhere, you saw me. The twenty-first century version of—of the poor little matchstick girl!”