The cushion shifted as Alex sat down.
“What have you got?” she asked.
“Glenroddich on the rocks.”
“Wrong hemisphere.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. “That’s as exotic as I get.”
She smirked, wiggling her bare toes in the cool ocean breeze. “I knew you’d be a dud as soon as I saw the outfit.”
He opened one eye. “You messing with me again?”
She took another sip of the tropical drink. “I’m merely entertaining myself while we pose for the photographers.”
“By playing mind games with me?”
“Afraid I’ll win?”
He snorted and closed his eyes again. “Afraid you might sprain something trying.”
Emma glanced at his slacks, then she glanced at her slushy drink.
He made a show of settling back to a more comfortable position. “But, go ahead and give it your best shot.”
“Really?” she simpered. “Can I?”
He grinned, and she upended her drink in his lap.
He shot up straight, his roar loud enough to attract attention from the dancers directly below them. Then he turned to stare at her in horror.
“That was my best shot,” she explained, scrambling for the courage to hold her ground. Dousing him had seemed like a good idea about ten seconds ago. Now…
“I can’t believe you did that.” He gritted his teeth as the sticky peach-colored mixture trickled between his thighs.
“You might want to make it look like we’re having fun,” she suggested with a quick glance at the crowd below.
Alex curved his mouth into a pained grin. “You asked for this.”
Without further warning, he scooped her up, and sat her square in the middle of the mess on his lap.
“It’s Katie’s dress,” she shrieked. Then she cringed as the ice seeped through her panties.
His fingertips went to her ribs, and she shrieked a second time when he started tickling. “Don’t,” she gasped. “Stop.”
“Don’t stop?”
“No. Stop!”
“Try to sound like you’re having fun,” he advised.
“No.” But she kept laughing. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure where he’d learned to tickle, but he was definitely a master.
“Help,” she called weakly to the crowd below.
But they couldn’t hear her over the music.
Alex’s hands suddenly stilled, but it was only to lift her from the lounger and carry her unceremoniously back through the French doors.
He set her down and closed it to the whoops and hollers of those below.
“What did I tell you?” he asked, eyes flashing dark and purposeful in the dusky suite.
“About what?” She took an involuntary step backward.
He matched her pace, keeping the distance constant between them. “About messing with me, that’s about what.”
His meaning hit, and she scooted up against the wall. “Oh, no.” She shook her head.
He moved forward, trapping her between the sofa and the wet bar. “Oh, yes,” he said menacingly. “It’s a matter of pride now.”
Her glance darted to his ruined trousers. “You already got me back.” Her dress was just as wet as his pants.
He shook his head. “Not good enough. Admit I turn you on, Emma.”
She knew she should say it. She should say it and get it over with. He’d make good on his threat, that was for sure. And ten kisses from now, she’d be admitting the earth was flat and that she was a witch, never mind that he turned her on.
But she shook her head anyway. She couldn’t bring herself to go down without a fight. He might get her admission, but he was going to have to work for it.
He moved even closer, his voice instantly seductive. “You know I’ll do it.”
She nodded.
“You want me to do it?”
She shook.
He raised his hand and tenderly stroked his palm over her cheek, tangling his fingers into the hair behind her temple. “You think you have a hope in hell?”
She stared defiantly up at him. “I know I have a hope in hell.”
He cracked a half smile. “Just one?”
“Maybe two.”
“I do like those odds.”
She almost smiled in return and wondered why she wasn’t more wary of the situation. Maybe it was his soothing tone, or his reassuring strength or his comforting scent. Or maybe it was because she was looking forward to his kiss.
His kiss? Who was she kidding?
She was looking forward to anything and everything he’d do before she said uncle. Confidence mounting, she stared directly into his slate dark eyes. “Go ahead, Alex. Give it your best shot.”
Eight
Alex went still, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at Emma. “Are we playing chicken?” he asked her. “Because it feels like we’re playing chicken.”
She forced herself to hold her ground. “Are you all talk and no action? Because it feels like you’re—”
He swooped down and enveloped her mouth in a hot, passionate kiss. His strong arms held her protectively, lovingly. Sensations racked her body as the damp of his slacks seeped through to her dress. His tongue flicked out, and his fingers anchored firmly at the base of her neck.
The room spun, even as her world came to a full stop.
Okay. Now that was action.
“Say it,” he rumbled.
She shook her head, no.
His hand moved to her rib cage, stroking upward to engulf her breast. Through the thin cotton fabric, his thumb unerringly zeroed in on her nipple, circling it once then abrading the tip.
Her body was instantly flooded with desire.
“Say you want me,” he tried again.
She locked her knees to keep them from buckling but refused to concede the test of wills.
“Have it your way,” he muttered, kissing her once more.
She tasted the mellow, nutty flavor of his scotch, inhaled the heady scent of his musk then felt his warm fingertips creep beneath her neckline. He inched his way closer, closer, closer still. Until she arched her back, pushing her aching breast into his hot hand.
He groaned in response, assuaging her nipple with an expert motion. Goose bumps rose on her skin. Her body clamored for more.
What was he doing?
He did it again, and she cried out loud.
“Say it,” he hissed, his mouth brushing against hers.
She whimpered a no.
He swore under his breath.
Then he scooped her up into his arms and carried her through the narrow doorway, depositing her on the thick comforter of the king-sized bed.
Before she had time to breathe, he bent over her, staring into her eyes as he released the tie of her wraparound dress. Silver flecks smoldered in the depths of black slate as he eased the dress open, revealing her cleavage, her navel, the lace front of her panties.
His breathing grew ragged. “Just say it, Emma.”
She reached beneath his shirt, running her fingers up his chest, through the sparse hair and over the flat of his nipples, giving back at least some of what she was getting.
He trapped her wrist. “Me wanting you was never the question.”
Right. Damn.
He slowly released her, sending his own fingertips on a sensual journey between her breasts, over her stomach, dipping ever lower. He touched the detailed top of her panties. Then he traced a line over the translucent fabric, zigzagging across her sensitive flesh, before stopping and cupping her, rubbing the heel of his hand on the center of her passion.
With his free hand, he separated her dress, exposing her naked breasts. His eyes feasted on her pale skin and her pink, tightly contracted nipples as her chest rose and fell with labored breathing.
He kissed one nipple, laving it with his tongue, pulling it into a tighter and tighter bud. Then he blew against the damp spot, and she went hot, then cold, th
en hot all over again.
“All you have to do is say it,” he repeated.
In answer, she flexed her hips. His hand was doing such delicious things down there that she didn’t think she could speak if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to. She didn’t want him to win, and she sure didn’t want him to stop.
He eased down beside her, burying his face in her neck, planting sharp kisses beside the necklace while he pushed down her panties and sought her warm wet flesh.
She grasped his shoulders, pinching tight as his fingertip found her center. He lingered and circled while her thigh muscles tightened, her toes curled and a small pulse came to life beneath his hand.
“Emma,” he gasped, fixing his mouth on hers, plunging his tongue in deep, dragging the dress from her.
He closed a hand over her breast, held it there, then seemed to hold himself back. His eyes were dark as midnight as he gazed down at her. His mouth glistened with moisture, and the dim light from the living room highlighted the planes and angles of his face.
Emma dragged in a lungful of oxygen.
“Either you tell me you want me,” he growled, “or I stop right now.”
He wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Her inner muscles convulsed with need.
“I want you,” she said hoarsely.
“Thank you.” His mouth came down on top of hers, and his finger sank inside.
She scrambled with the buttons of his shirt, tearing it apart, holding him tight and pressing her breasts against the roughness of his skin. The heat of his chest seared her even as his mouth found hers, and their tongues began an intimate dance.
Somehow, he kicked off his slacks and located a condom. She raked her fingers through his hair, stroked his stubbled chin, rubbed a finger over his lips and tucked it inside.
He kissed her palm, the inside of her wrist, the crook of her elbow. Then he rose above her and she brought up her knees.
“Emma,” he breathed. Trapping her hands, their fingers entwined, he kissed her hard as he plunged to the hilt.
She moaned his name, rising to meet him. The music, the party, the world disappeared in a haze of passion as his strokes grew harder and faster and her nerve endings converged on the place where their bodies met.
She closed her eyes as the fireworks pulsed. Small explosions at first. Then they grew higher and brighter and faster until the entire sky erupted in light and color and sound.
“Alex,” she cried, and his guttural moan told her he’d followed her off the edge of the earth.
The fireworks slowly ebbed to a glow. The music returned, and the sound of laughter filtered up from the party on the lower deck.
She willed the sounds away. Alex’s body was a delicious weight holding her down on the softness of the bed, and she didn’t want to surface just yet.
“You okay?” he asked, easing up.
She nodded. “But don’t move. For now.” She didn’t want to break the spell.
“Okay.” Then he sighed against her hair. “So nice to know I won.”
She tried to work up an appropriate level of indignation, but she was too satiated. “You couldn’t give me five minutes, could you?”
“You’re a hard nut to crack, Emma McKinley.”
“Funny. Here I was thinking I was easy.”
His fingers flexed between hers. “Easy? I’ve never worked so hard for sex in my life.”
Okay. The afterglow was officially ebbing. “You can get off now.”
He rolled his weight to one side, giving a deep sigh of satisfaction. “You want me.”
She bopped him on the shoulder. “Oh, get over yourself.”
He held up his hands in mock defense. “I distinctly heard you say it.”
“Well, you want me, too.”
“Of course I do.”
“So, we’re even.”
He grinned. “Not quite. You don’t want to want me. That’s not the same thing.”
“It was the night,” she waxed sarcastically. “The champagne. The cruise ship.”
“You telling me this was a shipboard romance?”
“Correct.” It had to be. She couldn’t go around wanting Alex for the duration of the marriage. The mere thought was…well…unthinkable.
“And it’s a very short cruise,” she said tartly, sitting up and drawing her dress firmly around her, already regretting having let herself go—with Alex of all people. Talk about taking a complicated situation and blowing it right off the charts.
She glanced around the room. What had she done with her shoes?
Alex sat in silence for a moment, then muttered to himself. “I’ll say it was short. We never even left the dock.”
“We should go back out to the party,” she said.
“Our clothes are covered in Wiki Waki.”
Emma made a face.
“I’ll call the concierge. I’m sure they can bring us up something we can change into.”
And walk back into the party wearing a different dress? “I think I’ll hide out here,” she stated.
Alex picked up the telephone from the table next to the bed. “Are you kidding? This is perfect.”
She turned her head to glare at him. Why were things that were so perfect for him always so embarrassing for her?
I slept with Alex.
Or, maybe: The funniest thing happened last night…Alex and I accidentally…
No, that wasn’t the right way to start a conversation either.
“Emma?”
Startled, Emma glanced at Katie across the office desk. Her sister had wandered in about five minutes ago, wanting to talk about Knaresborough in central England.
“You okay?” asked Katie.
“Fine.” Emma should spit it out, get it over with so she wouldn’t feel as if there was this huge secret between them.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Sure,” Emma replied. “The bed-and-breakfast in Knaresborough.”
“Right,” said Katie. “It’s over two hundred years old now, and David was saying…”
Emma had never kept a secret from Katie before. Not that this was a secret, exactly. But she’d sure never slept with a man and not told her sister about it the next morning.
“…because with the new competition,” Katie continued. “The probable payback on the redecorating costs would be fifty years.”
Emma blinked.
“Does fifty years make sense to you?”
“Uh, not really. Katie, there’s something—”
Katie stood up, a beaming smile on her face. “I totally agree. I’ll tell David.”
David? Wait. No. Emma wanted to talk about Alex.
“He can leave in the morning.”
“Alex?”
Katie stared at her for a second. “David.”
“For where?”
“Knaresborough, of course. What can he do from here?”
Right. The redecorating. “Okay. But, before you—”
Katie started for the door. “I’ll get Legal to draft up an authorization for us to sign.”
“Sure. But—”
“Can we talk later? He’s going to be so excited.”
“Katie—”
“Lunch?”
Emma sighed. “I can’t. I promised Alex I’d stop by his place.”
Katie waited, her hand on the doorknob.
“You know,” said Emma, her stomach buzzing at the very thought of formal wedding plans. “Invitations, flowers, catering.”
Katie’s eyebrows waggled. “You have fun now, you hear?”
“Yeah. Right.”
Have fun facing Alex after he’d seen her naked?
Have fun watching Philippe and Mrs. Nash reenact the Battle of Hastings?
Or have fun trying on a wedding gown while Amelia Garrison turned over in her grave?
None of it sounded particularly promising.
Amelia, it seemed, was a flapper, and maybe a bit of a rebel. Emma decided she liked tha
t.
Her nineteen-twenties dress was made of gorgeous cream satin with a long, overlay bodice of ecru lace. Sleeveless, it had a cluster of ribbons at the shoulder and hip, and a flared skirt that shimmered to her ankles.
“You were right,” she said to Mrs. Nash, turning in the wood-framed, oblong mirror in the Wiltshire bedroom, enjoying the whisper of satin against her skin.
“A perfect fit,” Mrs. Nash agreed, brushing the skirt and arranging the scooped neckline. “And exactly right for a garden party wedding.”
Emma paused. “Thank you for understanding about the church.” Instead of an altar, she and Alex had decided on a rose arbor in the garden, overlooking the ocean.
“No point in lying to God along with everyone else.”
It was a small consolation, but Emma was taking whatever she could get. “I said no to the proposal at first.”
Mrs. Nash fussed with the ribbons at her shoulder. “But you said yes eventually.”
“I did.”
“And Alex got his own way again.”
“Does he get his own way often?”
“He’s a billionaire. He gets his own way pretty much whenever he wants to.”
“But not with you?” Emma guessed.
Mrs. Nash gave her a sharp-eyed look. “Never with me.”
“I bet he appreciates that. Somebody keeping him grounded, I mean.”
“He hates it. So did his father. But his mother wouldn’t let the man fire me.”
Emma attempted to shift the conversation to the positive. “She obviously valued your help.”
Mrs. Nash straightened. “No. She did it to spite him.”
Emma honestly didn’t know what to say to that.
“She was a misguided young woman, and he was a bitter old man.”
“But, why—” Emma quickly cut off her inappropriate question.
“The money,” said Mrs. Nash. “She wanted it. He had it.” Then Mrs. Nash shook her head. “She just didn’t count on…the rest.”
Emma tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She reminded herself that she had her own life, her own money, her own business. Alex wouldn’t have any real power over her.
Mrs. Nash’s voice turned brisk again. “I suspect she thought she’d outlive him.”
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