Emily: Sex and Sensibility (The Wilde Sisters 1)

Back to square one.

He had made a mistake, hiring a woman he found desirable.

It was too late to do anything about it now. He needed Emily’s services on this trip, but as soon as they got back to New York…

“We’re here, sir.”

The Bentley had pulled into the semicircular drive of the hotel. His hotel. La Boîte à Bijoux.

He smiled.

If there was anything it was safe to be emotional about, it was a building like this.

******

Emily had spent the trip from the airport telling herself that she should quit her job before it all blew up in her face.

She’d worried about being in over her head as far as the responsibilities of it were concerned. What she hadn’t considered was that she was in over her head in terms of—what could she call it except her libido?

She wanted a job, not an affair. She was bad enough at keeping jobs; she could never keep a man. Not that she’d ever tried, but a man like this…? She wasn’t cut out for one night stands or one-week stands or however long the Marco Santinis of this world could be expected to find a woman… what had called her? An interesting puzzle.

If he only knew.

There really wasn’t anything puzzling about this. Pared down to basics? She wanted to sleep with the boss.

In other words, it was time to go home.

Only one problem.

She’d agreed to work for him for six months. Was that an oral contract? Even if it was, she could break it… and that led to the second problem.

Where was she going to get the money to fly home?

Dammit, this was the borrow-to-pay-the-rent thing all over again. She couldn’t turn to her brothers, couldn’t go to her sisters...

“Emily.”

Could she stick it out for just a couple of days? They wouldn’t be here very long…

“Emily.”

She blinked. The car had stopped. The door was open. Marco was standing outside, holding out his hand.

“We’ve arrived,” he said.

She nodded. Pushed her hair back from her face. Took his hand because it was the polite thing to do and…

And, where were they?

She hadn’t really thought about it but if she had, she’d have figured they’d be staying at the George V or the Plaza Athénée. Where else would a man like Marco Santini stay than in one of the city’s famous hotels?

This building wasn’t a hotel she’d ever seen before. She reminded herself that she hadn’t been in Paris in a very long time.

A semicircular drive. A building made of gray stone. Bright blue awnings. Flower boxes filled with yellow chrysanthemums. And a doorman who beamed from ear to ear as they approached a set of wide brass doors.

“Monsieur Santini! Bienvenue!”

Marco ginned. “Bonjour, Cristoffe. Comment allez vous?”