Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,70

impulse on my part, but one I can’t bring myself to regret. Last night didn’t scratch my Emma itch—if anything, it made it stronger—and my fascination with her is growing by the minute. I want to know everything about her, to crawl into her mind and see the world from the inside of her pretty head.

At the very least, I want to meet everyone important to her, so I can figure out how to become one of those people.

Finally, Emma’s grandparents seem satisfied that I’m neither a bum nor a serial killer, and we’re already saying our goodbyes, with Emma standing next to me, when Mary says, “You’re not flying in with our Emma this coming week, are you, Marcus? Because if you are, I’ll be sure to make some extra food.”

Before I can say a word, Emma is already shaking her head. “Of course not, Grandma. I told you, we’ve just met, and besides, Marcus’s work is crazy busy. Right?” Her eyes cut to me. “You have an insane week at the fund, don’t you?”

“Yes.” My voice doesn’t sound entirely like my own. “Yes, I do. A killer workload all week long.”

“We understand.” Mary smiles gently. “But if you do manage to get free, you’re always welcome at our Thanksgiving table, Marcus. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise,” I say, and give the phone to Emma to disconnect the call.

I had no intention of going to Florida this week—even I know that’s too big of a step so soon—but for some reason, the knowledge that Emma doesn’t want me there stings worse than a Portuguese man-of-war.

38

Emma

Marcus is unusually quiet, almost brooding, as he leads me downstairs for brunch. Is he upset with me for allowing the grilling? Because he pretty much asked for it—insisted on it, really. Still, I feel a little bad that I let my grandparents put him through the wringer.

I should’ve shielded him from the worst of it, like I’d always done with Jim, my college boyfriend.

Oh, well, too late now. And Marcus had held his own the way Jim could never have. He’d spoken to my grandparents respectfully but as an equal, answering their questions without the slightest hint of nervousness or uncertainty. At the same time, he hadn’t boasted about his accomplishments, all of his answers factual but revealing little of the extent of his power and wealth. Of course, Gramps and Grandma had been impressed anyway—and why wouldn’t they be?

It’s not his billions that make Marcus Carelli formidable; it’s the steely, indomitable core of the man himself. A few minutes in his company is all it takes to know that he’s a force of nature, someone you’d never want to cross.

“You okay?” I ask softly as we approach the dining area with Marcus still not saying a word. The rich, savory aromas emanating from the kitchen are making my stomach growl, but I’m too concerned about his strange mood to think about food. “I’m sorry about my grandparents. They’re just—”

“Protective of you.” He smiles, and though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the strange tension between us fades. “They seem like lovely people. Your grandfather reminds me a bit of Mr. Bond.”

I beam at him. “Yes, they’re great. And Gramps actually was a teacher. He taught English and Social Studies for almost forty years before retiring.”

Marcus’s smile warms. “Really? What about your grandmother?”

“She was a nurse, a really skilled one. I almost never went to the doctor when I was living with them. Grandma can handle anything short of major surgery.”

“Mr. Carelli?” A thin man with ramrod-straight posture steps into our path as we approach the table. With a noticeable British accent, he announces, “Your food is ready.”

“Excellent, thank you.” Marcus glances at me. “Emma, this is Geoffrey, my butler. Geoffrey, this is Emma, my… guest.”

I manage a smile despite the sudden acceleration of my pulse. I caught that moment of hesitation before Marcus said “guest,” the split second of indecision that must be as rare for him as a lobster dinner is for me. Had he been about to say something else?

My date?

My friend, maybe?

There’s no way he was going to say “my girlfriend.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Geoffrey says, inclining his head. “Now, please, have a seat. I will bring out the food.”

He hurries away, and Marcus leads me to the table—which is set with two straw mats topped with square white plates, sleek modern glasses, and gleaming utensils next to white cloth napkins. In the middle is a carafe of water infused