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?”