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“What is a matchstick girl? And what in hell are you talking about?”
“A waif,” she said, and the way he looked at her told her she’d scored again. “A pathetic creature in desperate need of help from the all-powerful Marco Santini.”
“This is ridiculous!”
Emily stepped forward, eyes glittering. She unfolded her arms and jabbed her index finger into the center of his chest.
“And there it was. Another opportunity for you to feel smug.”
“Stop jabbing me!”
“Look at this building,” she said, jabbing harder. “This office! How many little old ladies did you have to steal from to afford such—such opulence?”
“This is insane!”
It probably was. Her brothers were rich as Midas and she knew damned well they’d never stolen from anybody, but why stop when she was on such a self-satisfying roll?
“That offer of a job. Wow. The ultimate in—in welfare for the matchstick girl.”
Marco grabbed her hand, folded it within his own. “This is not crazy! You are!”
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Santini. I am not whatever you’ve decided I am.” Emily jerked her head toward the two-paged employment application. “Read it.”
“I have no interest in—”
“You’re supposed to humor crazy people. Well, humor me.” She snatched the application from his hand and all but jammed it under his nose.” “Read!”
Marco ground his teeth together. He looked at the application.
“Read it out loud!”
“Name: Emily Madison.”
“Not that. Education. Start there.”
“Education,” he said, trying for bored and getting satisfyingly close. “University of Texas at Austin. BA in art history. Minor in…” He looked up. Emily had folded her arms again. The expression on her face would have turned water to ice. “Minor in… philosophy?”
“Go on.”
“Dean’s list, eight semesters. Phi Beta—Phi Beta Kappa…”
He lifted his gaze to Emily. She was smiling with all her teeth. Years back, picking up a few bucks crewing on a boat off the coast of Long Island, he’d seen less impressive smiles on sharks.
“There’s more.”
There certainly was. She spoke French, Spanish, Italian and Chinese.
“Chinese?” he heard himself say.
“Unfortunately, only Mandarin.”
That brought his head up. No smile this time. The apology had been dead serious.
Another look at the application. Jane had scrawled a note in the margin. He read it aloud: “Ms. Madison has traveled in Europe, South America and Asia.”
This time, when he looked at Emily, there was no discernible expression on his face.
“Playing piano in a bar,” she said coldly, “does not mean the absence of a functional brain.”
