Chapter Fourteen
Emerald headed into the first department store she came across and managed to get the attention of a sales assistant, who stuck closer than a limpet on a rock when she realized her customer was going for the whole works: shoes, bag, dress and makeove r .
“Call me Gemma” persuaded her to buy a long, fitted red jersey dress that was beautifully fluid, draping around her body as she moved. Emerald couldn’t help admiring herself in the mirror, wondering why she’d thought red wasn’t her colour. An elegant sparkling necklace and high wedges with contrasting bag was added to the ensemble, and at the last minute she added some diamanté hair jewels to twist into her hair. It was all carefully wrapped by Gemma while Emerald had her make-up done at the beautician’s counter.
The make-up artist went a bit overboard with the red lipstick , Emerald thought, although having said she was going for the vampy look, what else should she have expected? She blotted the gash of bright red that was her lips as soon as she left the store, but thought the soft grey eyeshadow and coral blusher suited her colouring.
She was pleased with the look and felt good as she walked back to the hotel, half hoping that Marco would fall immediately in lust with her, just so that she could rebuff him.
Unfortunately, he was asleep on the sofa when she let herself back into the room, which rather diluted the whole, “Oh, my God, how come I didn’t realize how beautiful you are?” effect that she’d been hoping for. A newspaper, flat on his chest, fluttered in the breeze from an open window. He had showered, by the looks of his damp hair — and the fact that he only wore a T-shirt and boxers. His features were softened in sleep and she gazed at him, a deep ache filling her chest. He was infinitely more beguiling when he wasn’t bellowing down the phone over some misdemeanour or frowning over an inflated invoice.
She smiled to herself, feeling her own features relaxing as she watched him. Quickly she took out her pencil to sketch him, her eyes sweeping over his body. She took in his perfection. From an aesthetic point of view he was an artist’s dream. His long legs were firm and his T-shirt showed off his impressive abs. She drew in his face, deftly colouring in his closed eyes and spiky, long lashes and used charcoal to shade in his heavy eyebrows and sharp cheekbones. His lips didn’t look severe when he was asleep, they looked soft and generous, and as she sketched them on her drawing pad she felt a tiny pull of something in her gut — a small twisting like a flutter of tenderness.
He stirred in his sleep and she flipped the page on her sketchpad, hiding the charcoal image while backing away from him, in case he woke up and caught her spying on him. He remained asleep and blissfully unaware of her, though, and she watched his chest as it rose and fell in time with his steady breathing. She ached to touch him, but knew she wouldn’t — couldn’t. Just imagine his reaction if he woke up to find her caressing his face? It didn’t bear thinking about. She paced the floor a bit, her earlier tension returning.
Her mouth twisted at the irony of her situation. Here she was, make-up-ready, dress to die for, just waiting to wow Marco with a grand entrance, and instead she was watching him sleep, with no more than the urge to stroke his face.
As Emerald watched over this handsome man who, against all odds, she was beginning to like, she wondered why he had such a deep need to be a perfectionist and what it was that impelled him to be a ruthless businessman. She knew deep down that there was another side to him — a caring side that he didn’t often show — but she hadn’t exactly tried too hard to find it, had she?
The tug happened again, deep down: a sharp, sweet, aching feeling that almost hurt as she fought the desire to smooth his hair and trace the lines around his eyes. She snuck a few inches closer. His face was so much softer in sleep, the resolute and forbidding Marco banished for the moment.
She needed to stop staring at him, she thought, but she felt incapable of tearing her eyes away. Quickly, to distract herself, she took her parcel into the bedroom and changed into the dress. She looked sophisticated, even she could see that, but did she also look like a wanton hussy who would have sex with any man who crossed her path? Possibly. She sighed and threw a longing gaze at her flowery day dress drying on the radiator. Should she? She glanced in the full length mirror again smiling with approval. Why should she have to adapt herself for Marco? She hadn’t even used his money. Deciding she might as well go the whole hog she put on the earrings, threaded the hair jewels through her hair, and slipped into the shoes.
Sashaying back into the sitting room, smiling as she did so — it was so unlike the woman she was — she peered at the still-sleeping figure, willing him to wake. As if on cue he opened his eyes and Emerald almost fell over her feet in her haste to distance herself from him. She expected him to snap at her — she was so conditioned to feeling wrong-footed — but he smiled a lazy, sleepy smile and she returned it, spontaneously.
‘Hi, I must have dozed off.’ He stretched and pushed himself upright, sending the newspaper scattering to the floor. He blinked and screwed his eyes up, focusing on Emerald. ‘Wow. Who stole Emerald and replaced her with a movie star?’
Marco propped himself up on his elbow and looked her up and down approvingly, and this time she didn’t find it rude or patronising.
‘Very nice — lovely, in fact,’ he continued. She couldn’t resist doing a twirl, but his nod of approval was short and sharp and she felt slightly disappointed. What did she expect? Did she want him to sweep her off her feet and tell her she was the only one for him? Unfortunately, she rather thought she did.
Marco instead swung his legs off the sofa and walked over to the kettle, flicking on the switch. ‘I need a coffee. Would you like a cup of tea as we have some time to kill? You can tell me a bit about yourself so that Mr Edwards doesn’t think I’m paying for you by the hour.’
She narrowed her eyes, but he didn’t seem to be aware that he was blatantly insulting her again. ‘No thanks.’
He laughed in surprise. ‘No thanks to which bit, the tea or the talking? Most people cannot say enough about themselves — and most English girls do not refuse tea.’
‘Fine. What do you want me to tell you?’ She sat, unenthusiastically on the sofa that was still warm from Marco’s body. She glanced up at him, her gaze straying to his muscled thighs and then upwards towards the boxer shorts before she snapped her eyes resolutely back to his face. Was she really having a conversation with her boss while he walked around in his pants and a T-shirt? He certainly didn’t seem as affected by her new vampy look as she was by his semi-naked state, as he folded his arms and leaned against the wall waiting for the kettle to boil and for Emerald to talk.
‘This isn’t an interrogation, Emerald, I’m just hoping to get to know you better — so we are comfortable with each other.’
His tone was gentle enough to convince Emerald that he had no sinister motive, so she took a steadying breath and prepared to tell Marco a little about herself, albeit reluctantly. ‘I was born in England, but my father is Irish. I see my mum rarely as she lives in Joburg and I can’t afford to visit very often. Finbar is a good friend, as you probably know, and I have a cousin in London who I am close to. She rescued me from the Dominican nuns, as she likes to say.’ She all but dusted her hands with the finality of summing up her life and friendships. ‘That’s about it, I guess.’
‘You needed rescuing?’
‘I suppose I did. I was twenty years old and was doing little more than teaching the children at the convent in Ireland, unofficially, as I had no other income and nowhere to go. I was existing, rather than living. Suzie brought me to England from Ireland. She knew Mr Clarke and got me this job and I finally managed to earn a decent enough wage to rent my tiny flat.’
‘I like the sound of this Suzie.’
‘Yes, she’s the only family I have — that I’m in regular contact with, anyway. Suzie makes gorgeous jewellery and sells it in a gallery in London that also sells art and artefacts. I go over there and help out sometimes when I have a few free days.’ She stood up and dusted down her dress. ‘Okay?’
‘What? We’ve only just scratched the surface. Sit down.’
She balked, but sat again when he added please to his demand. ‘Tell me about one of your pets. You must have had a pet when you lived in Africa.’
‘You know I lived in Africa? That’s not on my CV.’
Marco fixed their drinks, man-handling an intricate looking coffee machine with ease and pouring boiling water into a small teapot along with a couple of teabags, while she watched, warily, as if he was going to try and slip a truth drug into her drink.
‘I make it my business to find out about my staff,’ he said, as he took milk out of the mini fridge and popped the lid.
‘So why have you asked me?’ She stared belligerently.
In reply, he simply raised an eyebrow.
Because he can , Emerald decided, her mind racing as she acknowledged that the extent of his efficiency had included background checks on her life. She wasn’t pleased. Her past was for her to know and no one else, and she wanted it to stay that way.
Marco, however, didn’t appear to notice her reluctance to share. He simply stirred the tea and fished out a teabag from her mug adding milk and gazing morosely into the milky liquid. ‘Tea and the English.’ He shook his head unable to hide his disdain for it. He set a cup down for her and picked up his coffee mug sipping as he quirked an eyebrow to show he hadn’t forgotten their conversation and expected an answer.
She looked at him and sighed heavily and pointedly, knowing she wasn’t going to get away with ignoring the question. ‘My parents moved to a farm near Zambia when I was three as my dad was — is — a gemmologist and he works at the emerald mines there. That’s how I got my name. It seemed quite natural to be called Emerald in Africa, but when I moved here, well, it was something else to be teased about especially as I was the typical gawky teenager, all elbows and knock knees — hardly worthy to be named after a beautiful precious stone.’ She pursed her lips remembering times she would rather forget at school. ‘Still, my life was idyllic in Zambia. I was given a pony as soon as I could ride, and eventually my own horse.’ She smiled at the memory, even as she resented his probing. She looked at the floor as her memories surfaced, before gazing back at Marco. ‘He was more than a horse to me — he was my soulmate. I’d ride him for miles and miles to beautiful, secluded places where exotic plants and twisting trees concealed animals you’d never see in Europe. They weren’t afraid of me and I felt safe, too — as if we had an understanding, you know? Probably a bit naive of me, but, well — I’m still here.’ She checked Marco wasn’t laughing at her and huffed into her tea before continuing. ‘I would take my stepmother’s mastiff, Tubby, to my . . .’ She swallowed and bit her lip, finding it inexplicably hard to continue.
Marco sat on the arm of the sofa and waited, his serious eyes fixed on hers, as she struggled to finish the sentence. She couldn’t tell him about the shelter she made to escape from the real world, it was too ingrained in her to keep such things to herself. She could, however, glower at him for being so intrusive — then maybe he’d stop quizzing her.
‘Do you still have a horse?’
‘Yeah, he’s parked right out back next to the Porsches and Ferraris, swishing his tail at the ladies and wowing them with his stud history.’
‘I don’t mean here.’ He smiled gently, but she didn’t want to smile back, the memories were too painful. She stared into her mug, her mind in a different time, a different place.
‘No, my father wouldn’t pay for the upkeep once I hit eighteen and refused to go home to visit him and his wife. As far as I know he was given to a neighbour. I never really found out.’
‘That’s a hell of a story.’
‘You think I’m making it up?’ Her head shot up and she flashed hurt and angry eyes at him.
‘No, that’s not what I meant! I’m sorry, that is really not . . .’ He raised his hands to placate her. ‘What was your horse’s name?’
‘Star.’
‘Star! You’re kidding me.’
‘What’s wrong with Star?’ She threw him a warning look. If he carried on the way he was going she’d tell him to shove his dinner date. She’d get straight into her pyjamas and binge-watch Netflix all night. That or she’d start walking home.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the name Star. Sorry.’ He sipped his coffee and prodded the thick pile of the cream carpet with his toes, looking thoughtful.
She glared at him, her chin jutting out. It was bad enough that he’d made her return to a part of her life she wanted to forget, without him laughing about it into the bargain.
‘It’s just not a very original name.’
She shrugged wearily. ‘Ava, our maid, bought me a hamster and I called him Hammy, so I probably didn’t think too deeply about such things.’
‘I had a duck called Puddleduck, so perhaps I am not much better.’ He smiled again, and this time she returned it. ‘I was brought up on Beatrix Potter, so I guess that was inevitable. If I’d had a rabbit it would be named Peter.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘See how easy a conversation can be?’ he said. ‘I already know you had two pets and your maid was your only friend.’
‘Well, we were a bit short on neighbours to hang out with, so yeah, I suppose Ava was a friend. She was kind to me at least.’ She looked down at her tea, willing him not to dig deeper, but it seemed he wasn’t letting up. ‘So, you stayed on the farm for most of your childhood — until you went to senior school? Were you happy at home?’
‘I was until Mum left and she moved in, then I went a bit wild.’ She looked at her nails, trying to tamp down the spark of anger that used to fire her up at the unfairness of how her life changed. She swallowed. ‘I didn’t really go to school when I was little but then I was sent to boarding school in Ireland where my father grew up. It was a convent school for young ladies. I was twelve — and a bit too out of step with everyone else to make proper friends — and far too young not to care.’ She shrugged. ‘Not making friends seems to be a habit I’ve found difficult to break.’
‘Was school better than home?’
She shrugged again and Marco raised an eyebrow in encouragement.
She looked at him bleakly, knowing that he expected to hear that maybe life was better away from her stepmother. Finally, she said, ‘I was a wild redhead with a dodgy accent and a penchant for keeping stray animals hidden in my room. You tell me.’ She sipped her tea, hoping the cross-examination was almost over.
Marco nodded. ‘I can understand that being difficult when you are at an awkward age, although I find your accent quite charming.’
She peered at him from under her lashes, trying to work out if he was being sarcastic. She didn’t think so. In fact he sounded almost emotional when he spoke. ‘I cannot imagine a life so different from my own upbringing, filled with love and nurturing.’
‘Yeah, well Italian families are famous for that, but don’t brag about it too much, you’re not exactly sorted out in the life department, if everything in the society magazines is true.’
He winced but smiled. ‘Ouch. I suppose I asked for that.’
‘You did. And now it’s your turn, if we’re going through with this touchy-feely bonding experience.’ She settled into the squashy sofa, tucking her legs neatly by her side. ‘Pets are optional.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Is that the time? I’d better get ready.’ He drained his coffee and took Emerald’s mug from her hand.
‘Nice one,’ Emerald said. ‘Wish I’d tried that move,’ she called after him as he headed towards his bedroom door.
Marco turned and winked at her. ‘I’ve had more practice.’ He stopped, his face becoming serious. ‘I honestly didn’t mean to offend you, Emerald, when I offered to buy you a dress. You really must let me reimburse you.’
‘That’s okay, I needed one anyway.’ She grinned lopsidedly.
‘You’re such a bad liar,’ Marco said, taking a step towards her smiling. ‘I’m sorry we seem to rub each other the wrong way, but I am trying.’
‘Yeah you are. Very.’ She grinned at her weak joke.
Marco raised his hands. ‘Walked into that one, didn’t I?’ His eyes crinkled endearingly as he smiled again, and she felt a warm glow in the pit of her stomach when he said, ‘You will outshine everyone tonight, trust me on that one.’
‘And I hope you appreciate how much trouble I’ve gone to, so don’t try to upstage me with your glitzy connections and your magazine smile.’
‘I will go just as I am.’
‘I hope not — boxer shorts tend to be frowned on in posh restaurants, and it would give you an unfair advantage over me. There’s bound to be a pap lurking around somewhere, to splash you all over social media.’ She grinned and nodded towards his bare legs, his T-shirt only just covering his boxers. If she hoped to embarrass him, she was sadly unsuccessful.
‘Ah, I miss being at home in the mountains where everyone wears shorts.’
‘I’d like to visit the Italian mountains.’ She could have bitten off her tongue as soon as she said it, realising that it sounded as if she was angling for an invitation.
Marco gave her a measured look before saying, ‘It’s the best place in the world. It is where I intend to live out my days, eventually.’ He placed the mugs side by side on the service tray. ‘I will be ready to leave in half an hour,’ he said before walking into his bedroom.