Chapter Seven
Emerald hovered by the door to the café, unsure whether she should go in or wait outside. Her stomach churned with nerves while she tried to look laid back and poised, to appear an easy match for her new boss. She had learnt to paste on a credible veneer of confidence and to use body language to her best advantage, at the convent school where she spent her hated teenage years, quickly finding out that the spiteful ones targeted any weakness. And, right now, this man made her feel like she was back in her dormitory surrounded by beady-eyed girls waiting to find the chink in her armour, while she wanted only to retreat to the safety of the garden with her sketchbook and solitude.
She pushed the door open, then changed her mind and hovered for a moment, indecisive, in the entrance, before finally taking a seat by the window so she could at least watch the aeroplanes glide by. She hoped that if she ordered, and drank a coffee quickly, he would speed up the infuriating meeting when he found her tapping her fingers on the table, waiting to go home.
She tried to attract the attention of the waitress, who was chatting by the counter, but her gaze swept past Emerald as if she didn’t exist and Emerald couldn’t be bothered to try harder — she didn’t want a coffee anyway. She stared out of the window as she waited, a mixture of worry and the unexpected twinge of excitement churning up her stomach.
The roar of air brakes from a large Russian Antonov blocked out all thoughts as it screeched to a halt outside, smoke pouring from its tyres. She marvelled that such a huge beast could stay in the sky. The smoke from the burning rubber would be an interesting challenge to draw , she thought, and reached into her bag for her sketchpad.
‘Miss Montrose.’ The voice was deep and authoritative, the foreign accent more pronounced. Her new boss had caught her unawares again, and the telltale heat of awkwardness suffused her cheeks as she stuffed the sketchbook back in her bag, guiltily. Not now, please . She prayed for her body not to give her away by blushing. She tried an old trick she’d learnt and focused on someone else, zoning in on a huge, muscle-bound engineer in baggy overalls, his blond hair mowed flat on the top like a lawn. He was eating a bagel at the table next to hers and chatting animatedly, despite his mouth being full of food. She stared at his face as hard as she could, watching tiny morsels of food spurt from his mouth as he spoke.
Such a tactic usually enabled her to block out her own emotions and stop the blushing that had dogged her teens — and which appeared to have returned with a vengeance since Marco Cavarelli had re-entered her life.
‘You know him?’ he asked, his gaze following hers.
‘Him? Oh, no, I just . . .’
Mr Cavarelli shrugged, clicked his tongue, and sat down opposite Emerald. His mobile phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out and glanced at it before shoving it back in his pocket, frowning.
She had the feeling that she’d done something wrong again. Maybe he thought she fancied the huge engineer she’d been staring at. She was dragged away from her thoughts as the far more handsome — and dangerous — man lifted out a file from his briefcase and dropped it on the table with a thud.
He rifled through the thick folder and pulled out another folder and with a jolt, she recognised her own name written on the front. ‘You have a file on me?’ She focused on the buff-coloured folder, wincing as she saw her middle name, written large as life in black marker pen. Wilhelmina, greatly ridiculed by the girls at the convent, had been a curse all her life and she wondered how this man had found it out — she certainly hadn’t disclosed it to the airline when she joined.
He opened the folder and rifled through some bits of paper.
This is so much more than a casual chat , she thought, as she wiped her sweating palms down her thighs and edged forward on her seat.
‘Okay, so Miss Montrose, this is strictly off the record, but I would like to talk to you about your role in Hot Air Aviation.’ He flinched as he uttered the name of her airline and she had to stifle a giggle. Finbar had dreamt it up two years ago when they’d worked with a franchise specialising in adventure holidays. He’d said it was inspirational and showed they had a sense of fun. She still couldn’t believe that Mr Clarke, Finbar’s uncle, had fallen for it — but at least it made the passengers smile whenever it was uttered.
She managed to remain composed and nodded, widening her eyes slightly to show she was listening to him.
‘It’s no secret that the airline needs a massive overhaul of its old aircraft and an injection of cash, and I am hoping that with a new budget and the hard work and cooperation of the staff, we will be able to turn this around into a successful first-class airline.’
Emerald nodded enthusiastically, relieved that Mr Cavarelli wasn’t singling her out because of their shaky start.
‘For example, champagne and chocolates before take-off is fine for an airline with a huge budget, but for one like . . .’ He faltered, obviously having trouble uttering the name of his newly acquired airline. ‘For Hot Air Aviation it is doubly ridiculous, since I am led to believe that the champagne is taxed — is that correct?’
‘Yes, we’re only allowed to open the duty-free bar after take-off.’ She’d queried it herself, but Finbar normally had the last word and sometimes his flamboyancy and generosity got the better of him.
‘And the ground guy leaving the water bottle behind. I am assuming you have filed a report on him?’
‘George? No way. He was really busy. They’re often understaffed — it really wasn’t his fault.’
‘Then if it wasn’t his fault, it was your fault.’ The eyes grew steelier, if that were possible.
‘Oh.’ Emerald had no answer to that one. She would have to take the flack as she certainly wasn’t going to report George, who was under enough pressure as it was.
Marco Cavarelli’s jaw tightened and he clicked a ballpoint pen open and closed repeatedly, drawing Emerald’s gaze to his hands. The skin was tanned, with a dusting of dark hair by his knuckles, the nails short and well-groomed at the end of long, finely shaped fingers. They would make an interesting study in charcoal , she thought idly.
‘Are you listening to me, Miss Montrose?’
‘Sorry. Yes.’ Her head snapped up as she focused on his face, once again.
He continued. ‘I was saying that the security on that flight was lax — you should have asked me for identification before allowing me into the flight deck.’
‘Yes, sorry.’ Emerald nodded dumbly. She was done with arguing her case, and what could he do about it — sack her?
‘These are the sort of problems that need addressing, Miss Montrose, but for now I need to focus on you.’
His words set her heart hammering. ‘Focus on me?’ She prayed that he wouldn’t mention the night they’d met — surely he wouldn’t.
His nostrils flared slightly and the pen clicking stopped. ‘Yes, Miss Montrose, we need to set some ground rules right now regarding your personal weaknesses. That is, if you want to continue working for me.’
She sat up straight. ‘Pardon?’ Why was he saying such a thing and why did he keep repeating her name, loading it with ominous overtones? She was so taken aback she gawped at him. ‘Personal weaknesses — what do you mean?’ And what was that about keeping her job? She hadn’t known it was on the line. Was he actually going to sack her? She put her hands to her cheeks as they flamed, too shocked to try her usual diversion tactics.
With no more than a nod from Mr Cavarelli, the waitress appeared and minutes later she placed two coffees in front of them, giving her handsome customer a wide smile — while completely ignoring Emerald. She turned away from the table with a coquettish flick of her long ponytail.
Emerald was thankful that her new boss had waited until the waitress disappeared before he continued with his accusations, but she could only watch in disbelief as he began shaking out papers from the wallet and putting them in some sort of order. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine how he had enough on her to fill a file — she hadn’t exactly set the world on fire with her career so far.
She looked away from the typed pages that might hold her fate in their printed words and stared at the waitress, now blatantly flirting with a young man wearing a baseball cap backwards. She wished she could behave in such a coltish way, but she had proved herself incapable of even the slightest hint of expertise when it came to seduction. The man sitting right opposite her could attest to the fact. He’d seen it first-hand. She groaned, wishing fervently that she could turn back time.
Marco Cavarelli glanced up sharply. ‘Miss Montrose, please pay attention.’
Realising that he had heard the groan, she turned it into a cough and wondered if things could possibly get any worse.
She jerked back to the reality of sitting opposite the man whose eyelashes bothered her, whose finely shaped fingers bothered her: the man with whom she’d humiliated herself in the worst possible way, who was now mouthing words she really couldn’t afford to miss, but couldn’t quite believe she was hearing.
‘I need your cooperation in all areas and I will expect you to play your part with dignity and poise. We will not be a two-bit airline anymore, and if you want to come along for the ride—’ he smiled slightly at the pun and she smiled back, but her mind was reeling at his words ‘—then you will have to shape up.’
She watched his mouth move, only half listening, as in her mind she was outlining his full and sensual lips in dark charcoal, filling in the paler fullness, his tanned, olive-skinned face, setting the whole thing off to make a dark, brooding Marco Cavarelli — committing him to paper forever.
‘Will you give me those guarantees?’
‘Mm . . . Sorry?’ She blinked in surprise. ‘What guarantees?’ She took out a pen and a notepad from her bag, hoping to deflect the focus away from herself, or more particularly, her flaming cheeks.
She didn’t need to take notes as she had an excellent memory and although she was never without a notebook in her bag, it was normally used for sketching images that took her fancy, not for writing lists.
Mr Cavarelli’s cup chinked back onto his saucer as he repeated his words, his irritation apparent. ‘I need you to promise that you will not drink alcohol when you are on duty, and that includes when you are at corporate functions. Also, I need you to keep your lascivious tendencies under wraps. I have a high profile with the media, as you might know, and I do not want one of my staff bringing attention to me via the gutter press.’
Her pencil clattered to the table. ‘What?’ Her mouth dried as a bolt of adrenaline coursed through her. ‘But I don’t drink. I also don’t have any tendencies — of the sort you’re suggesting, or otherwise.’ Her voice rose as she took in his accusations.
A muscle twitched in his jaw, but apart from that there was no indication whatsoever of emotion, as he continued in the same vein as if reading out a list of charges. ‘Miss Montrose, are you denying that you were drunk in my hotel?’
‘ Your hotel?’ Her outrage evaporated as she took in this news.
‘Suddenly, she remembers.’ His mouth was a thin line. ‘Maybe you will also suddenly remember that you wanted me to have sex with you. Do you deny that a man you had never met in your life before was in your room when you were drunk?’
‘Of course not — that man was you.’
‘But you didn’t know me — at all.’
She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again as she couldn’t recall what had really happened.
He sighed. ‘You were in a vulnerable position and I would like some reassurance that this kind of situation won’t arise once I take over the airline. It’s not true when they say all publicity is good publicity. Trust me on that one.’ His gaze didn’t waver and she was totally laid bare by this man as he waited for her reassurances. She took in the look of pity on his face and hated him at that moment for being so convinced that he was right. But his stare remained fixed,
Finbar was right, her situation would be comical if it wasn’t so pathetically tragic. The one and only person she’d offered herself to, on a plate, in her whole life, was her new boss, who, if she were to believe Finbar, was rich and famous enough to have bagged any film star, millionairess or top model that took his fancy.
She touched her burning cheeks with the back of her fingers to cool them down, before placing her hands flat on the table to stop them shaking. Sister Mary Bennett was right too. It was a fluke that she had managed to conduct herself sensibly so far, in this world that was so distanced from her sheltered convent school upbringing, surrounded by fields and bogs and very little else. She had let herself down in Italy by getting drunk and behaving like a cheap tart and she deserved his loathing.
This forbidding man had every reason not to trust her, even though all was not as it seemed. Bloody Rick: he was the cause of all this. All she’d done was fallen for his smooth lines — and just look where it had got her. She supposed she should be grateful that Mr Bloody Perfect Cavarelli had come to her rescue, but right now she was finding it hard to even like him, let alone consider thanking him.
Tears of self-pity pricked at the back of her eyes and she kept her head down as a tear plopped onto the table. She tried to dash it discreetly away, but as her hand reached the table, she felt the warmth of another hand on top of hers. For one second she wanted to clutch at it gratefully — human contact in any form was preferable to this desolate feeling that swept through her, but when she looked up into Mr Cavarelli’s eyes she saw only the softness of pity. She shucked his hand away. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. She’d dealt with enough of it at St Teresa’s Convent, putting on a brave front against broken promises, lonely Christmases and long, empty summers. Let him think what he wanted. She could do what he asked without even trying. He’d got her so completely wrong that she should really be laughing — so why had her emotions so easily turned to tears?
* * *
Marco removed his hand from hers, oddly hurt by her reaction when he was trying to show that he understood. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t risk his new business getting bad press from any quarter — an airline was reliant on customers bringing in revenue and any reports of salacious behaviour from his staff could be a disaster. He knew to his bitter cost that there would always be a low-life journalist on the lookout to sully his reputation.
He looked at the unhappy woman in front of him and wished he could make it better for her. He would probably have just found a way to sack her, if it wasn’t for — wasn’t for what? He had no loyalty towards her. If it wasn’t for her big sad eyes, brimming with tears in her lovely face, or her pink lips quivering with the effort of holding back her emotions? No, he didn’t let that kind of thing get to him anymore. But he was still staring at her lips when she rose gracefully, her face shuttered and inscrutable.
She met his gaze. ‘If we’re done here, I’d like to go home. It’s been a very long day.’
He stood up. ‘Of course, but finish your coffee.’ He nodded towards her still-full cup just as his mobile rang deep within his jacket pocket. The frown she was already becoming used to, was instantly back in place. He dug into his pocket, looked at the screen and said, ‘I have to take this. I look forward to working with you, Miss Montrose.’ He walked out of the door, somehow feeling he’d behaved with less decency than he should have, and that somewhere along the line he had missed an opportunity to connect appropriately with his new cabin services manager.
* * *
Emerald was so horrified by their conversation that she just sat, stirring her cooling coffee, unable to think straight. She couldn’t believe that her new boss saw her as a woman who slept around. She would have to resign! She couldn’t possibly work for such a man. But where would she go? Her thoughts strayed back to the convent. It would have been so much easier if she’d become a nun. She shook her head — no one in the real world became a nun anymore, did they — not even in Ireland?
The anxiety of living in a world she was ill-equipped for washed over her again. She fought against it — introspection just wouldn’t do. Marco Cavarelli needed to be exorcized and she knew just the right way to do it.
She picked up her pencil and pulled out her sketchpad from her bag once again. Without thinking, she began to draw. Soon, barely realising she was doing it, the face of Marco Cavarelli began to emerge from the page. Black eyes, glowing like burning coals, and a pair of bushy, brooding eyebrows. A hard, straight mouth when he was angry was the thing she remembered most about him and she quickly drew an exaggerated version of it, adding pointy fangs dripping with blood. Lots of crazy, wild hair curled around his head and she drew puffs of steam coming out of his ears for good measure.
She scribbled quickly, feeling better with every stroke, finishing the caricature off with a pair of horns that an antelope would be proud to sport. There. She felt so much better now that he was reduced to his bare essentials: a sexist man with bad attitude.
Emerald pondered over her position within the airline. In reality she could easily agree to what he demanded of her — since she didn’t tend to drink and had no interest in getting into another tangled, heart-breaking mess. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to see much of him. In fact, once he’d finished bossing everyone around, he would probably swan off back to Italy to be worshipped by an entourage of beautiful women who no doubt followed him around like adoring handmaidens. They were sodding well welcome to him , she thought, glancing once more at the caricature. His jaw was probably slightly more angular than she’d drawn it, and his lips were definitely more sensual. No matter, he was still arrogant and rude.
She left the café and headed for her car, phoning Finbar on the way in her need to talk to someone — although she knew he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.
‘How did it go?’ he asked immediately, in a voice that sounded hungry for gossip.
‘He said I had lascivious tendencies.’
‘Wow, I’m impressed. He’s Italian and he can say words like that.’
‘Ha, ha. That’s not the point, Fin, as you well know. I have no such tendencies — you know that. I couldn’t even spell it, let alone be it.’ She heard a splutter of laughter from Finbar and felt better immediately. Maybe she was taking it all too seriously and needed to chill out.
‘Sorry for laughing, Emerald, but how is he supposed to know the real you, when you were sprawled out on the bed offering your cute little bod to him?’
‘I wasn’t,’ she protested again, half-heartedly this time, trying not to conjure up the image of herself on that bed, in that hotel — with that man.
Joking about it made it seem less horrific. Maybe her boss would realize the truth when he got to know her better. It still hurt, though, and she burned with shame as she played out the conversation in her head. As she threw her overnight bag in the back seat of her car and turned on the ignition, a buried memory surfaced: of Mr Cavarelli holding her tenderly, of a kiss that had deepened and had been reciprocated, and of a warm hand running down her spine. Had such a thing really happened, or was she now weaving fiction into her memories?