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“Boring,” she responded with a flicker of her eyes. “Can’t wait to be done with it.”
“Are you going to work with us?”
“I’m considering my options,” she said mysteriously, focused on Marco. “So what gives?”
Dante was impatient. “Is it the Valentino matter?”
“Sure,” Marco lied with a shrug. “That’s not ideal, right?”
“Far from it.” Dante dragged a hand through his hair. “Any more news?”
“I’ll let you know when I have something.”
“Keep Portia posted too,” Dante urged. “If I miss a message, she can grab me. She knows how important it is.”
Marco flicked his fingers to his brow in a mock salute, ignoring the way his heartrate sped up at the mention of Portia.
And despite what he’d promised Portia, he found himself wanting to bring her up, to probe his brother for information about her, to know what Dante knew about her breakup, that had apparently been so bad.
“She’s impressive,” he said, finally, grudgingly.
Dante flicked a glance at Marco, suspicious at first, but Marco’s bland expression evidently convinced Dante that he was simply making an observation.
“She’s fastidious, organized to a fault, incredibly intelligent and hard-working, and I would trust her with my life. You could say that’s impressive.”
“You sound like you can’t live without her.”
“I wouldn’t want to try,” Dante responded seriously. “You have no idea how much she’s improved my efficiency, just by streamlining the admin side of things. I can delegate almost anything to her, and she knows just what to do with it.”
A strange emotion bubbled in Marco’s chest. Pleasure? Pride? Why should he feel either of those things? Portia’s job performance was absolutely no reflection on him. This was her achievement, all hers.
“Like me?” Marco couldn’t help responding, tongue in cheek. “How many times have you sent her over with contracts to sign or to check up on me? Is that because you know she’s going to get whatever you need, no matter what?”
“Yes.” Dante’s eyes glared. “Do you blame me? You’re somewhat difficult to pin down.”
Marco’s nostrils flared as he expelled a breath, all his attention on the rolling hills behind which the sun was happily losing itself.
“I don’t blame you,” Marco muttered, unsure why he was feeling dark and gloomy, only that he was here, in Italy, and he wanted Portia with an ache that was pervasive and all-consuming.
Tell me when you get tired of me,she’d beseeched him and Marco had promised he would, but it had been such a strange request, that he couldn’t help but wonder: who’d let her down? Who’d broken her heart? Who’d promised her the world then taken it away again?
* * *
“Marco!”She glanced left and right, to make sure no one was looking at her door. Then again, who would be in the very early hours of Monday morning? “What are you doing here?” She shook her head. “How do you know where I live?”
“Your personnel records.”
She stared at him, lips parted. “Your—what?”
“I’m a director of the company,cara.Or had you forgotten?”
Her cheeks flushed. “I suppose I sort of had.” She pulled the door wide, dressed in only a flimsy night gown, because she hadn’t expected to peek out and see Marco standing there. She’d thought it would be kids playing Ding Dong Ditch or something, that she’d be able to ignore the knock and go straight back to bed.
But now she was looking out at Marco and her heart was racing and her stomach was squishing and she was rapidly running through a catalogue of her apartment, trying to remember if she’d finishing putting away the dishes and the laundry and the lingerie she had hand washed and dried over a radiator…if there was anything else unsightly she’d really have preferred to move before Marco saw her place.
Before?
As if it was a foregone conclusion that he would?
