Chapter 3

THEY REALLY HAD BEEN unreasonably blessed with natural good looks, Portia thought as she looked around the sunlight-infused boardroom, eyes glancing from one Santoro to the next, admiring their strong, symmetrical features, thickly rimmed eyes, enigmatic smiles, swarthy complexions. Her boss sat at the head of the table—as CEO, that was almost always the case, but mainly it was because he'd called the meeting.

"I want to act quickly," he said, elbows braced on either side of the documents in front of him. Portia couldn't look at those. Not without seeing Marco's signature and remembering the way he'd made love with her two weeks earlier. Not that she needed the documents to remind her.

Ever since, her dreams had been tortured by recollections. Not just her dreams, but those idle moments when she allowed her mind to wander, even whilst at work, had suddenly been populated by Marco. Of their own volition, her eyes flicked to the empty chair at the other end of the table.

Marco's attendance at these meetings was requested, yet never expected. Perhaps there'd been a time, at some point in the Santoro family history, when they'd complained to him about that, pushed him to show up, to be punctual and interested, but if so, that conversation pre-dated Portia's tenure.

Still, she couldn't lie to herself. Where she knew she should have been relieved he wasn't here, that she didn't have to keep a mask of not-caring in place when Marco was in the room, she was also disappointed, because on some level, she'd been looking forward to seeing him again. Had wanted to see him, and had wanted for him to see him see her.

Her cheeks flamed as she remembered dressing that morning, choosing her outfit with care, aware that there was a chance Marco might appear at the meeting after all. She'd opted for a green silk blouse because she loved the way it felt against her skin and a black fishtail skirt that hugged her hips and fell to the knees. As her hands had slid the zip into place, she'd imagined him loosening it again, and had almost had to take a cold shower to cleanse the thoughts from her mind.

It had been a hard two weeks.

She felt as though sex—sex with Marco, specifically—was all she could think of.

Which was novel and frustrating for Portia in a variety of ways.

"What's the hold-up then?" Salvatore, the youngest Santoro brother, asked.

"The lawyers are still doing due diligence," Francesco, a cousin, responded, flicking his pen against the edge of the table. His brown hair had a slight wave to it.

"How long will that take?" Francesco's older brother Rocco queried from across the table, reaching for his coffee.

"Hard to say," Francesco shrugged his broad shoulders, the bespoke suit shifting with him.

"I need a timeline," Dante responded.

"I've told them," Francesco said with a nod. "I'll get back to you."

Dante thanked him; Portia made a note in her tablet to follow this up with Francesco's team later in the day. That was her job. She made sure nothing dropped off Dante's radar that should have been there. She cleaned up the loose ends, got the information he was likely to require so that it was at his fingertips the moment he needed it.

"There's also?—,"

Rafaelo, the youngest cousin, Francesco's other brother, who sat to Francesco's right, opposite the empty chair, paused as the door opened and they all turned, naturally, towards the interruption.

Portia had to use all of her self-control to silence the little squawk that had burst into her throat at the sight of Marco.

Marco Santoro. Here. In Dante's boardroom.

Wearing nothing like the other family members, in their tailored suits and starched shirts. Of course he wasn't. Marco hadn't bothered to dress for the occasion, but rather strode in wearing jeans, possibly the same jeans he'd pulled on the morning she'd been in his apartment, a brown belt, and a collared t-shirt in a light blue that only made his honey-coloured skin look deeper, richer, and all the more delicious. He also wore his trademark five o'clock shadow and air of nonchalance as he swaggered—it was the only word for it—into the room.

"Morning," he flashed a grin at the assembled family members, glanced past Portia as though he'd never met her before. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably, her eyes flashed to the tablet, where she pretended fascination with the document she had open.

There was a general break in the formalities as everyone greeted Marco with the pleasure of family reunited with a long-lost member. There were handshakes, hugs, general chatter, from all except Dante, who held his place, fingers templed beneath his chin. "Can we continue?" He asked with a quiet command to his voice that reminded Portia of a headmaster calling an unruly class to order.

The smiles stayed in place though, the family unconcerned with Dante's obvious displeasure. They did however take their seats, Marco the exception, as he moved towards the coffee machine and poured himself a thick, black cup.

"Raf," Dante invited. "You were saying?"

Rafaelo nodded. Portia stared at him, refusing to look at Marco, even as he walked across her line of vision, to take his seat. She focused everything on Rafaelo and the conversation, intent on missing nothing, on pretending Marco didn't exist.

"There's some hold up on their end."

"Whose end?"

"Acto Corp."

"Why do you say that?"

"They're dragging their heels. Due diligence is taking so long because they're failing to provide information when requested. We're chasing things two, three times. It's arriving incomplete."

"We're buying the company because of incompetence," Salvatore reminded them, shrugging. "Isn't it possible that incompetence merely goes all the way down?"

"No," Marco responded. "Raf's right. And it's not incompetence so much as neglect."

Dante leaned forward slightly. "We're talking about the Acto merger."

Marco shot him a grin that was laced with brotherly impatience. Portia looked away, one side of her mouth twitching involuntarily. "No shit."

Dante's brows drew together then he leaned back in his chair, a study in relaxed curiosity. Portia saw beneath it. He was annoyed. And she couldn't blame him. Marco was barely there, a figment that existed, occasionally in the shadows, but more often than not, as an absence in the company. Yet here he was, turning up so close to this massive deal they'd been working on for as long as Portia had been at the company, being finalized, and Marco was acting as though he knew more than anyone else.

"Okay, go on," Dante said, gesturing to the table. "You have our attention."

"Why would a company that's in such a sorry state be stalling?"

"Incompetence," Salvatore repeated.

"Every single person? No. It's strategy. They have another buyer."

"Impossible," Dante responded. "I'd know."

"Would you? How?"

"You can't keep something like this quiet."

"Of course you can. Mergers happen off the page all the time. Hostile takeovers are par for the course. How many companies have we swallowed up before the left hand knew what the right hand was doing?"

"You think someone in Acto Corp is looking for an alternative?"

"I think they've been made another offer, one they don't want to refuse."

"Ours is an offer they can't refuse."

"We're lowballing it because they're in trouble," Marco reminded him, and Portia's heart raced because she'd never seen Marco so invested in the company before, though of course she knew his family did rely on his insights and understanding of global financial markets and trends. It was just different to see him actually involved like this.

"As would any serious buyer," Dante pointed out.

"Not necessarily." Marco sipped his coffee, drained the cup. Portia studied his fingers, the way they curled around the handle, and her stomach tightened, remembering his touch on her body, her nipples. She glanced back at her tablet, skin over-heated.

They waited, in silence. Marco leaned forward, elbows on the table.

Portia couldn't help but turn to look at him again. He was mesmerizing, magnetic. They all stared. Waited.

"You're thinking two dimensionally," he said. "You think that everyone approaches business in the same way you do."

"To make money? How stupid of me," Dante drawled.

"What about enmity?"

Portia frowned, not understanding. But Dante became very still, his body unmoving, his eyes on Marco's. "Go on." There was no longer a hint of humour in his voice.

"While you've been looking at Acto, and how to incorporate them into Santoro, I've been watching the market. Specifically, the Valentinos."

Dante's eyes shuttered closed. Portia glanced from her boss to Marco, not understanding. There was a collective movement in the room, a murmur, some cursing.

"Who are the Valentinos?" She asked quietly, so she thought no one heard her.

But Marco spoke directly to her now, eyes lancing hers, almost as if he was looking through her, rather than at her. As though she was nothing to him. Her heart lurched, making it hard to focus on what he was saying.

"Pieces of shit," he said matter of factly.

She couldn't look away. He was a gravity well and she was being sucked in. "Why?"

Salvatore spoke next. "Once upon a time, when our grandfathers ran the companies, they were best friends. They worked side by side, furthering each other's interests. Then there was a deal that went bad, a setup by the Valentinos. The story is, they hit hard times and got jealous of our grandfather's success, so they undermined him at every turn. It's been this way ever since."

"Like some kind of Montague Capulet style vendetta?" Portia murmured, a smile playing at the corners of her lips, because it was impossible to think of a roomful of grownups having that kind of antagonism towards a whole other family.

"Except more serious," Marco responded, perfectly droll, but Portia was sure he was laughing too.

The room devolved into outraged conversation and conjecture once more until Dante spoke firmly, cutting through the noise. "Enough."

Silence fell.

"So they're freeing up cash. Why do you think that has anything to do with Acto?"

"You just heard the neat little summation of our family history, right? Does anything mean more to you right now than buying this company? How many hours have we put into this? What's the deal already cost us? How much restructuring have you pre-emptively done to accommodate this company? And how much would it hurt us if they swooped in and took it away at the last minute?"

Dante stood, prowling to the windows, staring out. "Preposterous."

"No, perfectly rational," Marco contradicted. "If you're a Valentino and you've sworn an oath to hate our guts."

Portia wanted to interject again but it wasn't her place. She could grill Dante on this later—on how adults could behave so childishly and not think it utterly absurd.

"Can they afford it?"

"It's hard to tell," Marco said. "I'm looking into it."

"I need all the answers you can get me, as soon as you can."

"I know."

Dante nodded once.

"I'm pretty sure they'd stretch themselves to do this, though," Marco continued. "And at the very least, by throwing their hat into the ring, they're going to make it harder for you to play hardball. If they can't get the company, they'll drive the price up for us. It's win, win, for them."

Dante ran a hand over his jaw, nodding once. "Let's meet again in two days," he declared. "Guys, get the due diligence cranking. I don't want any hold ups at our end. Marco—you know what you have to do."

Marco's eyes glittered when they met Dante's. Portia shivered. Everyone stood—meeting adjourned, meaning she was free to go, and she couldn't wait. Suddenly, she could no longer bear to be in the same room as Marco, breathing his air, hearing him speak. She had to get out.

"I'll be at my desk," she murmured, for Dante's hearing alone, scooping up her things and leaving with a heavy breath of relief.

They were all so distracted by the bombshell Marco had just dropped that no one watched Portia gather her things, and no one noticed Marco watching her, but he did. He couldn't help it.

She was wearing silk, and he'd always been a sucker for silk on a woman, the way it clung and hugged and had such a sensual feel to it. This particular blouse ran over her breasts like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination—not that he needed his imagination where Portia was concerned. He had his memories, and they were so white hot he couldn't look at them without being burned.

Clutching several notepads and her tablet to her chest, she kept her head bent, eyes averted as she strode from the room, the design of the skirt emphasizing the curves of her bottom, so he watched her all the way to the door, just as he'd done at his place, when she'd left the other day.

Two weeks ago, he reminded himself grimly.

He remembered the date because it had been on the contracts he'd signed.

Fortunately, he'd had the Valentino rabbit-hole to disappear into since then, so he'd been able to stay busy enough not to contemplate calling her and asking her to come over and sign some other document pledging meaningless sex that they wouldn't discuss with another soul, but hell, that didn't mean he hadn't had some moments of temptation.

Right now was a big one…

He took a step towards the door, figuring she'd be at her desk and the rest of the family was in here, wading through the surprise of betrayal at the hands of the Valentinos, yet again. But Raf forestalled him, drawing Marco into a conversation he couldn't easily escape, even when thoughts of silk draped over breasts was calling to him with the intensity of a thousand sultry voices.

"Do me a favour?" Dante said, striding out of his office and pausing besides Portia's desk.

It was a turn of phrase. Doing favours for Dante was part and parcel of her job. She paused, mid-way through typing the email and fixed her steady green gaze on him. It was strange to think that so many people found Dante intimidating. Portia had, when she'd interviewed for the job. He had one of those no-nonsense bearings that spoke of such inner-strength it was impossible not to be awed by it. But over the last eighteen months, she'd become used to that, and had even gotten beyond it. She liked Dante. They were friends, in a sense. His tragic history was something he kept close to his chest, but knowing who and what he'd lost, she couldn't help but feel sorry for him. When he was hard-edged, it was because he'd had to become that way, to protect himself from further pain. And when he was soft with her, it showed how much he trusted her, that he could let his barriers down with Portia.

"Can you call Marco? Make sure he's coming this afternoon."

She hoped there was no betraying blush in her cheeks; her face felt warm suddenly.

"The meeting's scheduled. I sent out formal requests via email yesterday."

"Yeah, but this is Marco. Remember he's got a bit of an allergy to checking emails or arriving at anything he's supposed to be at. He's probably in Cancun or somewhere by now. I tried, but couldn't get through."

Portia silently disagreed. True, she'd seen first-hand Marco's partying lifestyle, but she'd also seen something more than that. The way he'd been at the meeting a couple of days ago had shown her that he paid more attention to the company than anyone gave him credit for. If he was right about the Valentinos, then he'd found the smoking gun when there was presumably still time to move the targets.

Dante was staring at her, waiting for her to say something. Portia floundered. What did he want?

To know Marco would be at the meeting.

Right.

Great.

"I'll…call him," she said, with no intention of doing any such thing. "Leave it with me."

"Thanks." He dipped his head, returned to his office, closing the door.

Portia stared mutinously at it before lifting the receiver off her desk phone and putting a call through to the general assistants on the floor below.

"I need you to make a call for me, Becky," she delegated with crisp efficiency. "And please let me know if there are any problems." With that, she shunted Marco neatly off her radar and onto someone else's, expelling a big sigh of relief.

The meeting started in the afternoon and ran way over the allotted time, so it was nearly half six before Portia was finished taking notes and ready to bustle back to her own desk, escaping, once again, the strange, heavy magnetism of Marco's presence.

He had arrived only a few minutes late, dressed as though he'd stopped in on his way to dinner in Soho, all chic designer casual, messy but sexy, and she'd had to admit she was impressed by the level of information he not only brought to the meeting but knew completely off the top of his head.

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."

***