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“What makes you think I want something from him?”
The driver seemed friendly enough as he said, “He would’ve come himself if you were important to him. And you can’t work for the media because he doesn’t give interviews. So that means you probably want something from him.”
It was true and Isabel hated aski
ng anyone for help. She knew it had to do with her independent streak; she would rather not ask and give someone the power to say no. But her grandfather had pleaded with her and she had reluctantly promised him that she would film a collection of stories about the Carrara marble quarries.
Isabel clenched her hands together. “I’ve come to pitch an idea to Mr. Santoro and I know he’s difficult to impress.”
The driver nodded. “He’s just a man. Try not to let him rattle you.”
“I’ll do my best.” Isabel reminded herself not to show any nervousness. If Marc Santoro refused her request, then it would be impossible to create her documentary, as the grant was contingent on the Santoro Quarry being the focal point. Losing this project would cause her grandfather to sink further into despair and she worried his heart couldn’t survive more disappointment or loss. Alberto needed this film to feel honored. Since her grandmother’s death, he seemed to be a shell of his former vibrant and full-of-life self.
“Mr. Santoro isn’t a patient man. Know your facts and stand up for yourself. If he senses weakness, he will toss you out.”
Her grandfather had given her the same lecture. Isabel knew very little about Marc Santoro but remembered from their brief meeting that he was intense and had a look that reminded her of perfection. He was very much sought after in the mining world, often getting the most lucrative contracts and always invited to galas and black tie events. Although it seemed he seldom attended them. The most damaging press about him appeared a few years ago: he’d fired an apprentice, a second cousin, and the man told all. He talked about insane work hours, the absolute insistence of attaining perfection in each design and the inability to ever compromise.
“So you know Mr. Santoro quite well?”
“I don’t know how well any of the locals know him. He shuts himself away from everyone. But I guess that is the appeal of the Vineyard.”
Isabel nodded in agreement as she tried to dispel the feeling of doom overtaking her. Everything she knew about the marble business was from stories told to her by her grandfather and his friends. She had never even visited the abandoned family quarry in Carrara, Italy.
Isabel smiled fleetingly when she remembered the old men rejoicing that she was willing to meet with Marc Santoro. They had no idea that they were sending a damaged person to battle. She had to remind herself that he would never see her flaws. She would keep them hidden. She knew the scars repulsed her family, but she couldn’t imagine a man interested in perfection ever seeing them. Smoothing down the silk dress over her thighs once again——a nervous habit she’d developed——she could feel the marred skin.
She had her pitch ready. She knew that after traveling from Boston, he would probably give her twenty minutes.
Feeling on edge, she willed her body to relax as she methodically went through the typical interview questions that he might ask. She knew that he would probably question the gap on her resume.
Isabel turned on her tablet and made sure her presentation could be easily accessed, before slipping it back into her bag. She needed to be on her game today as so much was riding on this interview.
Looking out the window, she saw trees with the occasional driveway marked by a small wooden sign.
“Remember, be persistent,” the driver said kindly.
Isabel smiled. She might not look like she had strong convictions, but people often underestimated her. Growing up as a Neri, she’d learned how to stand up for herself. She was resilient and wouldn’t give up without a fight.
She had dressed carefully for the trip, deciding to wear a slim, sleeveless sheath in a bold print purchased to convince the high-strung perfectionist she was serious about her work. She knew she looked every bit of her Italian heritage: she had light olive skin and her hair was the color and texture of smooth dark chocolate cut to an elegant long length.
Turning off the road, the driver pulled into a gated entrance, marked “private.” Isabel thought it was strange that they were in the woods, not at the beach, until the driver made a sweeping turn and she caught sight of the Atlantic Ocean on the horizon. Driving up to a muted gray mansion with impressive architecture and landscaping, the car slowed and came to a stop.
The driver got out and held the door for her. “Good luck.”
Apprehension skittered along Isabel’s spine like a flat rock being artfully skipped over water before plunging into the depths.
Isabel felt a moment of panic as she watched the driver make a swift exit. She carefully walked up the stone path that led to the front door, being careful not to catch her black Manolo Blahnik heels in the stones.
The front door swung open and Isabel felt the oxygen leave her body. She wasn’t prepared for seeing Marc Santoro in the flesh again. She could feel his gaze rake over her in appraisal, apparently sizing her up. He looked every inch the wealthy business owner: he was dressed in an expertly tailored gray shirt with slightly darker gray trousers that were pressed to exactness. He was even more striking than she remembered, and she reminded herself to just breathe and focus on her pitch.
It was his intensity that she responded to; he seemed to be absorbing everything about her. Isabel hid her expression as she acknowledged to herself that while he may appreciate her outward appearance, he wouldn’t appreciate her damaged body.
Would he remember meeting her before?
She forced herself to reach out and offer her hand. As his warm fingers enveloped hers, she felt a spark of attraction travel through her body. She immediately pulled back, but not before she saw his eyes darken.
He merely smiled at her reaction, saying, “So you are not just a figment of Alberto’s imagination.” Guiding her inside, he added, “I was beginning to doubt that the old man had any relatives interested in the marble trade.”
Isabel felt her spine stiffen. Was he questioning her family’s loyalty?
