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“Because you were one of the guests of honor.”
“Because?”
“Because you are the founder of the Step-Up Foundation for Boys.”
“Does that mean I am a good guy, Charles?”
“It means you believe in charity, sir.”
Despite everything, Marco laughed. “Nice phrasing.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And what are we doing now?” Marco said his smile fading.
“We are trying to be of assistance to a lady who appears to be in some difficulty.”
“And getting soaked to the skin in the process.”
“Indeed.”
“To the best of your knowledge, Charles, do villains ever permit themselves to be rained on?”
“Not to my knowledge, no, sir.”
Marco looked at the woman. The look on her face had changed. That chin was still lifted at a defiant angle, but unless he was imagining things, there was the faintest upward curve to her lips.
“Thank you, Charles. You may return to the car.”
His driver walked briskly to the Mercedes and got behind the wheel. Calling Charles his “driver” didn’t come close to being accurate. He was also the person who ran Marco’s household whether that household was in New York, Rome, London or Brazil.
Right now, he was Marco’s final hope.
He had run out of ideas. Either the woman would let him take her away from the rain, the cold and, most of all, the inherent dangers to be found on city streets in the middle of the night, or his attempts at being a Boy Scout were over.
“Last chance,” he said quietly. “I’m almost as wet as you are, but contrary to what seems to be your plan for the evening, I don’t intend to get any wetter. Charles and I will take you to your door. Or you can use my phone. Call someone to come for you. Or I will do as you have asked and go away. The choice is yours.”
For what seemed forever, she didn’t say anything. Then she cleared her throat.
“D-do—do you ha-have a name?”
“Forgive me.” Marco closed the last few inches between them. He held out his hand. “I am Marco. Marco Santini.”
Emily stared at the stranger’s outstretched hand. It was a strong-looking hand, the nails clean and well-cared for. Her brothers had hands like this. Masculine, powerful, just a little work-hardened.
“And you are?”
She drew a long, deep breath.
“Em—Emily.”
“Well, Emily, now that we have formally introduced ourselves, may I see you home?”
He smiled.
She wished he hadn’t, because
he had a devastating smile and a smile didn’t mean a thing. For all she knew, Jack the Ripper had had a great smile and what was it people said about Ted Bundy? That he’d been good-looking. Handsome.
