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She was still adorned in her usual monotone colours of black and white, and the wide panels of her loose dress covered all but the faintest glimpses of her figure. But her dark hair was piled up on her head in thick twirls, revealing strands of gold and deep reds that he had not seen before. It framed her heart-shaped face perfectly, and a light dusting of make-up served to accentuate the hazel and green of her eyes. A nude gloss lent a sheen to her lips that sent a punch to his gut more powerful than any brighter, richer colour could have achieved.
She looked natural and fresh—and so very different from the women he usually spent his time with.
‘Yes, don’t worry. The waiters know what to do. But because Ms Cherie was a last-minute addition to the invitation list we couldn’t have known her dietary requirements before. The kitchen staff always make three extra portions of each main, so just reassure her that a vegan option will be made available to her.’
Antonio watched as Emma hung up the phone, catching the unusual sight of a long, shapely, creamy calf.
‘Vegan?’
Emma turned, clearly surprised to find him standing there.
‘Enough of a crime to scratch her off the fiancée list?’ she asked.
‘Not yet,’ Antonio said, forcing his libido under control.
During the day—in her usual office attire—she wasn’t so much of a problem. But even though Emma was covered from head to toe, that glimpse of smooth marble-like skin was enough to snare his attention. And he suddenly understood why Victorian England had deemed ankles the most threatening thing to society since smallpox.
Shaking his head to rid his mind of inappropriate thoughts about his PA, he led the way to the elevator that would take them down to the limousine waiting for them in the underground car park.
In the confines of the metal box, with Emma beside him, Antonio realised that it was going to be a long night.
* * *
Emma couldn’t wait for this night to be over. They hadn’t even arrived at the gala and she was already exhausted. It had taken every waking minute she’d had, not only to put together her research on Bartlett and compile the dossiers on Antonio’s prospective fiancées—not that most of them knew they were prospective fiancées—but also to ensure that the foundation’s gala wasn’t single-handedly ruined by the very man in charge of organising it in the first place.
Marcus Greenfeld was a fusty old man, with fusty old ideas about how to run a charity. And it made her mad. She’d caught sight of his opening speech on the photocopier on the twenty-third floor and realised that something had to be done.
She’d hastily rewritten the thing, told a bold-faced lie to Greenfeld’s assistant that Antonio had wanted to take a look at it, and sent it off to the teleprompter before Greenfeld had even been able to think of questioning it. Or question the three extra invitations she’d had issued to fiancée options four, five and six.
Antonio might have told her what he needed in a fiancée but, honestly, the man’s taste in women was so varied she couldn’t tell which way he would go. Though option two—the vegan Ella Cherie—was looking increasingly less likely.
As the limo pulled up to The Langsford she remembered she had yet to tell Antonio about the other last-minute invitation.
‘Dimitri will be here tonight,’ she said as they slowed to a stop. ‘Danyl was...unable to attend.’
‘Well, he is running a country.’
Emma wasn’t so sure. She’d heard angry words in the background when she was on the phone to his assistant. There had been something behind the bitterly shouted phrase, ‘I wouldn’t go back to that hotel if you paid me!’ that had made Emma concerned that her suggested location for the gala might be a mistake.
But there was nothing online other than praise for this exquisite, world-renowned hotel. A hotel she’d heard of even back in London, when she’d scoured the press reports of its grand opening. She might never be able to afford to stay in the amazing hotel herself, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t experience it vicariously through work.
‘Why?’ Antonio asked, and Emma wondered briefly if she’d missed something.
‘Why, what?’
‘Why did you invite them?’
‘I thought that you might need some independent advice on your choice.’
Antonio looked at her, but she was unable to divine his thoughts.
‘Wingmen—I thought you might need wingmen,’ she clarified.
‘Emma,’ he said, with censure heavy on his tongue. ‘I have never needed a wingman.’
And the answering shivers that rippled through her body told her just how right he was.
* * *
