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Committed to memory were specific figures regarding the Valentino empire over the last ten years. He’d done a deep dive on their strategies, market share, industry movements, guessed at their overall game plan, how they’d invested, who they were in bed with financially, who they supported, where they were strong, weak, vulnerable and most importantly, how they’d been maneuvering the pieces over the last year. Dante had called the meeting and all the Santoros had shown up, but it was Marco who’d dominated.
Meaning she’d had to look at him. A lot. And listen, carefully. Paying attention to the numbers, the strategies, working out what she needed to record for Dante to pour over later, when he was home alone and looking at the figures, coming up with his own response to the Valentino scenario.
It was two hours of heavy concentration, made all the more difficult by the fact there was something about Marco that was instantly, immediately derailing to her train of thought, so she had to wade through a sea of distractions to be able to find any level of focus.
She sat at her desk, neatening the document as much as she could, preparing to send it across to Dante. When footsteps approached her desk, she didn’t immediately look up, presuming it was Dante with some last-minute request or other. She finished typing, lifted her gaze, then had to employ every ounce of self-control not to visually react to the sight of Marco standing just two feet away from her.
Not speaking.
Looking.
“No silk today?” He asked, eyes dropping to her shirt, lingering on the swell of her cleavage.
Her gut churned. So he’d noticed the shirt she’d worn last time? It brought a rush of pleasure to her gut, and a swelling to her chest. She blinked her attention back to the screen.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A quick flick back to his face showed an arrogant grin tilting his lips. “Have you got plans tonight?”
Her fingers trembled. She pressed them to the keyboard to disguise the tell-tale reaction.
“Why do you ask?”
“Why do you think?”
She blinked up at him. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
She swallowed quickly. “What do you want?”
“A repeat of the other morning. You?”
This she hadn’t been prepared for. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re—,”
He waited, watching her, but Portia drew a blank.
“Pick your reason,” she said on a small sigh, eyes glancing towards the office space beyond him, watching the boardroom for any sign of activity. “You’re my boss’s brother. You’re a complete sex-addict. You’ve probably been with a thousand women since then and I’m not really interested in forming another notch on your bedpost.”
“I don’t keep count,” he said with quiet confidence. “And I think you’re more than interested.”
Damn him and his arrogant ego.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” He prompted smoothly.
Her heart fluttered. “Looking for compliments?”
“Because I did. I really enjoyed myself, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. But fucking you in my dreams isn’t anywhere nearly as satisfying as doing it in real life. Nor is getting myself off in the shower each morning to the memory of you. So?”
She stared at him, totally flummoxed by the way he spoke, by the imagery he created. Which, she deduced quickly, was the point. Was he testing her again? Her primness? Or making fun of it?
Sound reached them from the boardroom. Rafaelo, Dante and Salvatore were locked in conversation, though going from the smiles on their faces, it wasn’t about the Valentinos.
“You have a key to my place,” he reminded her. “Use it tonight.”
