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“That part I auditioned for last week? The second lead in the touring company production of Coming up Roses, remember? Well, I got it!”
“Oh, wow! I’m so happy for—”
“Yeah. But the thing is, we head out next week. And we’ll be gone for six months. So—so—”
The floor seemed to tilt under Emily’s feet.
“You’re moving out?”
“See, they offered the role to somebody else and she said yes but then something went wrong and she had to back out and that’s why they only just contacted me and—”
“That’s fine. No, really, I mean it. That’s why Max called. He, ah, he’s got something even better lined up.”
“You sure? ’Cause it didn’t sound as if—”
“Oh he’s all bluster. He’s going to call me back with the details.”
By the time the phone rang again, Nola had left for the theater. Emily was in the shower. Her pulse soared. Maybe it really was Max.
By the time she skidded to a stop in the tiny kitchen, the call had gone to voice mail.
“Emily?” a husky voice said. “Pick up if you’re there. It’s Marco. Marco Santini.”
Her heart thudded.
She hadn’t expected him to call. Why would she? She’d made a fool of herself, and if she’d had any doubt about that, all she had to do was remind herself that he hadn’t even asked for her number. He hadn’t mentioned seeing her again. If anything, his last words had struck her as not just “goodbye” but “goodbye and it’s been nice knowing you.”
Her face heated at the memory.
So, why was he calling? How was he calling? He didn’t have her number.
She reached for the phone. Changed her mind. Stared at it. Waited for him to speak. Finally, he did.
He spoke briskly. Impersonally. He was offering her a job playing piano at the opening of that building, the one she’d told him she lived in because common sense had told her not to let a stranger know her address.
Too bad common sense hadn’t told her not to let him kiss her.
Not that it had meant anything. The proof of that was hearing his crisp assurances that she would have no involvement with him whatsoever. She would not see him or deal with him. She would be interviewed by a Jane Barnett in his company’s Human Resources Department.
The message ended.
Emily slumped against the wall.
There had to be a better word than humiliating.
What, was she his charity deed for the week? Saving her from the elements. Finding her a job.
“To hell with you, Mr. Santini,” she told the telephone. “You can take your big-deal offer and—and—”
And offer it to somebody else.
She scowled.
Was she nuts? A job was a job. Who gave a damn if it came from him? She wouldn’t have to see him, speak to him, have anything to do with him.
Of course she’d take his offer.
She grabbed the phone, replayed his message, scribbled down Jane Barnett’s name and telephone number. Two minutes later, she’d arranged for a one-thirty appointment at MS Enterprises on Madison Avenue.
