Even though part of her dreaded the answer, Emma had to ask. “How did she die?”
“Horseback riding accident. Poor thing. Alex was only ten and a regular protégé for that cynical old bastard.”
Emma shivered, struggling to find her voice. “Am I getting into bed with the devil?”
Mrs. Nash cocked her head, silent for a moment as she assessed Emma. “I’d say you’d already been to bed with the devil.”
Emma was speechless. Did Mrs. Nash mean it literally? How could she possibly know?
Mrs. Nash gave an out-of-character chuckle as she went to work on the back buttons of the dress. “That’s the trouble with the devil, young lady. He’s irresistibly charming. Even to an old woman like me.”
But Alex couldn’t hurt Mrs. Nash. Where he could definitely hurt Emma. If she wasn’t careful. If she didn’t resist his charms on every possible level.
There was a sharp rap on the bedroom door.
“The invitations have arrived, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” Mrs. Nash called. Then to Emma, “Philippe and Alex will be waiting downstairs.”
Alex knew he had a problem as soon as he saw the expression on Emma’s face.
“Six hundred and twenty-two?”
“You can add some more names if you’d like,” said Mrs. Nash, her attention on one of the invitation samples. “We are not sending out scrollwork, script and purple fleur-de-lis under the Garrison family name.” She gave Philippe a sharp look over the top of her glasses.
Emma waved the list at Alex. “Who are they? Your ex-lovers?”
The remark was uncalled for, and Alex clenched his jaw. “Hardly any of them.”
Emma sniffed.
“The fleur-de-lis is a beautiful and honorable symbol,” said Philippe. “It’s an iris. For the goddess.”
“I don’t know six hundred people,” said Emma. “I sure don’t know three hundred.”
Mrs. Nash squinted at the sample. “Good Lord, that butterfly hurts my eyes.”
“You were thinking black and white?” asked Philippe.
“Silver,” said Mrs. Nash.
“Blah,” Philippe retorted.
“Maybe a little royal blue. Something dignified. Not this tacky, froufrou Technicolor explosion.”
Alex couldn’t care less what his invitations looked like. “Why are you making this into a thing?” he asked Emma.
She dropped her hand and the list into her lap. “I’m making six hundred and twenty-two things out of this.”
“The garden is huge.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” He honestly wanted to know. What difference did it make if they got married in front of fifty guests or six hundred?
“Beef Wellington,” Philippe suddenly sang out.
Emma turned to stare, while Mrs. Nash stilled.
“A compromise,” said Philippe. “I will give up the fleur-delis if you agree to the boeuf en croûte, instead of your Yorkshire puddings.”
“The Duke of Wellington’s dish?” asked Mrs. Nash.
“Which he stole from Napoleon.”
“After defeating him in the war.”
Alex jumped in before the two could get going again. “Let’s just say yes.”
“And I have a compromise for you,” said Emma.
Alex raised his brow.
“Your six hundred and twenty-two guests for a drive-through wedding in Vegas.”
“Three hundred of them are yours,” said Mrs. Nash, flipping her way through the invitation samples.
“What?” Emma’s astonishment was clear.
“I spoke with your sister, and with your secretary.”
Alex didn’t even try to disguise his smug expression. “Three hundred of them are yours.”
“Shoot me now,” said Emma.
“Ahhh, mademoiselle,” said Philippe, rising to put an arm around Emma. “It is no matter. You will be beautiful. The dinner will be magnificent. And people will forgive us for the insipid invitations.”
“The flowers?” Alex quickly put in, before Mrs. Nash could make a remark that did justice to her expression.
Standing on the wide, concrete veranda, Emma watched a team of gardeners working on the expanse of lawn that stretched out to the cliffs at the edge of the Garrisons’ property.
The tent would be set up on the north lawn. The arbor and guest chairs for the ceremony were slated for the rose garden. And a band would play in the gazebo. If the weather looked promising, a lighted dance floor would be constructed near the bottom of the veranda stairs.
The print shop would work overtime on the invitations tonight, and come next Saturday, she’d marry Alex. The guests likely had plans for that day. Heck, Emma already had plans for Saturday. But she’d cancel them and so would they. A garden wedding at the Garrison estate was too hot a ticket to miss.
Alex was counting on that.
And, as Mrs. Nash had said, being a billionaire, he usually got his way.
“Everything okay?” his voice rumbled behind her.
She coughed out a laugh. “What could possibly be wrong?”
He came up beside her. “Thought you might like to know they’ve agreed on the centerpieces.”
“Yeah?”
“White roses and purple heather. Okay by you?”
The timbre of the lawn-mower motor changed, and she shrugged in response to Alex’s question. “I really don’t have an opinion on the centerpieces.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“It’s your party.”
She pulled her gaze away from the two men in the rose garden to look up at him. “You feel at all funny about this?”
“Funny how?”
“Like a fraud?”
His eyes squinted down for a moment. “A little. I didn’t expect to….”
“It’s not like we’re breaking the law,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“We’re throwing a great party, solidifying a business relationship, and giving the tabloids something good to write about for the next two weeks. I don’t see the harm.”
Emma didn’t either, at least not from the logical perspective he’d outlined. But there was a problem at a visceral level.
“I guess I should ask you who pays for it,” she said.
“Pays for what?”
“The party. The wedding. The six hundred guests. Are we splitting it down the middle?”
“I’ll get this one,” he said, crossing his arms to lean them on the rail, shifting his attention to the distant horizon. The ocean was growing restless, frothing up green and white as the tide rolled in. “You can catch the next one.”
“The next wedding?”
“The next dinner.”
“I doubt it’ll be for six hundred.”
Alex just shrugged.
“We need to talk about that,” she said, matching his posture, leaning on the top rail and gazing out at the rhythmic waves.
“About dinner?”
“About how we’re going to work this. Where are we going to live.”
“Here. I thought we’d decided.”
“You decided.”
There was a smirk in his voice. “And your point?”
She elbowed him. “My point is, I get a vote, too.”
“I’ll pull a Philippe.”
“How so?”
“A compromise. We stay here on weekends. Weekdays, we hang out in the city at one of the penthouses.”
Emma had to admit that sounded reasonable.
“You do know we have to stay together?” he asked. “At least at first.”
“I know. That solution sounds fine.”
“Given any thought to the honeymoon?”
“Not even a moment.” In fact, she’d been avoiding thinking about the honeymoon. This wasn’t exactly any girl’s dream scenario.
“What about Kayven Island?”
She twisted her head to look at him. “A McKinle
y resort?”
“Sure.”
“I thought you’d fight tooth and nail for the home court advantage.”
“Will we be making any business deals on our honeymoon?”
“Wasn’t on my agenda.”
“Then you can have the home court advantage.”
“It’s not our best resort.” Paris was bigger, and Whistler was most recently renovated.
Alex shrugged again. “I’d like to check out the island.”
“A couple of days only—I’ll book it. And I’m taking my laptop and PalmPilot.”
“You afraid we’ll get bored if we’re alone together?”
A salt breeze gusted in off the ocean, and an image of Friday night when they were alone together bloomed in her mind. “Alex.”
His expression said he was reading her mind.
“About Friday night…”
He waited.
“We can’t do that again.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Alex.”
“I’m just saying we could if we wanted to.”
“Well, we don’t want to.”
“You sure?”
“Yes! I’m sure. It was crazy and stupid.”
“I thought it was exciting and satisfying.”
She knew it was those things, too. But that didn’t change the fact that it couldn’t happen again.
“Just out of curiosity,” said Alex. “What is your objection to it happening again?”
“This is a business deal.”
“It’s also a marriage.”
She shook her head. What they were doing bore no resemblance whatsoever to a marriage. He was looking out for his interests, and she was looking out for hers. It was as simple as that.
“If we mix things up,” she said. “If we get confused. One of us—and by one of us, I mean me—is going to get hurt.”
Her hair lifted in the breeze, and he reached out to brush it back from her cheek. “I won’t hurt you, Emma.”
Despite the lightness of his touch, she knew it was a lie.
“Yes you will,” she said. “Let’s face it. You’re not marrying me because, of all the women in New York, I’m the one you want to spend time with.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Heck, even when you narrowed the pool down to McKinley women in New York City, I came last.”
“You did not.”
“Alex. Don’t rewrite history.”
“I’m not—”
“At least do me the courtesy of being honest. You want my hotels. Well, you’ve got them. And that means you’ve got me for a while, too.” She was falling for Alex. There was no point in denying it any longer. But the idea that Alex might also be falling for her was laughable. He could have any woman in New York City, probably any woman in the country. And he liked them glamorous, sophisticated and fashionable.
He was being kind right now, because deep down inside he really was a decent guy. And he seemed to like her. Sometimes, he seemed to like her a whole lot.
But she wouldn’t delude herself. She wouldn’t set herself up for heartache. They both knew he wasn’t about to fall for plain old Emma McKinley just because he happened to be marrying her. Her chest burned as she forced herself to voice the bald truth. “But don’t pretend it’s anything other than a business deal.”
He was silent for a full minute, his eyes dark as a storm-tossed sea, and just as unreadable.
“Fine,” he finally said, a sharp edge to his voice. “I’ll pay for the party. You live at my house. And we’ll both bring our laptops on the honeymoon.”
Then he turned from the rail and marched down the stairs.
Emma was glad. She’d said what needed to be said, and cleared the air between them. It was the only way to move forward.
Really.
Alex knew he had to back off. He was pushing Emma too hard and too fast. But he had a burning need to figure out what was going on between them. Truth was, at this moment, he had a feeling he’d pick Emma over anybody anytime anywhere. And that scared him.
From the moment they’d made love, he knew things had gone way past a business deal. They had something going on, and he needed to figure out what it was. To do that, he needed to talk to Emma. But she didn’t want to talk to him. She especially didn’t want to talk to him about them.
Them.
What a concept.
Alex stopped at the edge of the rose garden and gave his head a quick shake. His brain couldn’t wrap itself around the idea of a them. He liked her. Sure. And he respected her, and she definitely turned him on. But what did that mean?
Did it mean he should give their marriage a chance? Or did it mean he was getting too caught up in the whole wedding charade?
He turned toward the balcony where she gazed out at the ocean, her hair lifting in the breeze. His heart gave a little hitch at the sight of her, and he knew one thing for sure. He wouldn’t be getting any perspective at all while Emma was around.
Backing off was probably a good idea, for his sanity if nothing else. Besides, they’d ridden the publicity wave about as far as they could. From a business perspective, there was nothing left to do but get married.
And then they’d be together on the honeymoon, and maybe things would start to make sense. And, if it didn’t, they’d have plenty of time to talk things out. After all, Emma had made it pretty plain they wouldn’t be doing anything else.
Once Philippe and Mrs. Nash joined forces, the wedding plans shifted to high gear, barely leaving Emma time to take a breath. She stopped asking questions along about Wednesday, seeking sanctuary in her business problems instead. It was less stressful to worry about the proposed tourist tax regime in France than the music to which she’d say “I do.”
Yesterday, Mrs. Nash had couriered a set of cardboard index cards, telling her where to go and what to do over the two days of festivities. Tonight the rehearsal dinner kicked things off. She and Katie were to dress at Alex’s mansion in Oyster Bay. Then a limo would pick up the wedding party at seven. Alex’s cousin Nathaniel would host a dinner for fifty at the Cavendish Club.
Afterward, the women would stay over at the mansion. Where, tomorrow morning, a veritable army of hairdressers, manicurists and makeup artists were due to arrive.
For the moment, Emma’s stomach did a little flip-flop as her car rounded a curve and the mansion came into view. What the neatly typed index cards didn’t cover was her reaction to Alex.
Katie popped forward in the passenger seat. “This is where you’re going to live?”
“Only on weekends,” said Emma, her voice firm with conviction. “And only for a few months.”
Over the past week, she’d refocused her priorities. Her mind was on business now. Alex was simply a means to an end.
She wouldn’t picture them together—not in his breakfast nook over a cup of coffee, not on his deck sharing a bottle of wine, and definitely not in his bedroom, in a tangle of sheets, his hot, naked body pressed up against hers.
“Can I come visit?” Katie asked, twisting her head as they passed the front rose garden.
Emma sucked in a bracing breath. “Sure,” she said with determined cheer. Then Katie’s phraseology penetrated. She’d said I not we. “What about David?”
Beneath her gauzy, mauve blouse, Katie shrugged her shoulders. Her lips pursed every so slightly. “He’s been working a lot of hours lately.”
David’s job interfering with his personal life?
“He works for you,” Emma pointed out.
Katie tossed her head and let out a chopped laugh. “Never mind. It’s nothing. Sometimes he hangs out with the guys at the club.”
Emma pulled to a stop in the round driveway, turning to peer at her sister. “Is everything okay?”
Katie stared straight back. “Everything is great.” She gestured to the wide staircase and the towering stone pillars. “Everything is fantastic! The Cavendish Club tonight, and the wedding of the year tomorrow. Now get your luggage and let’s move in.”
&n
bsp; Emma nodded sharply in agreement. She could do this. She was ready for this.
Her cell phone buzzed, as two of Alex’s staff members trotted down the stairs. She flipped it open and saw the Paris area code. Business before marriage. As it should be.
Nine
Alex stood at the bottom of the mansion’s main staircase and listened to the hustle and bustle of the preparations. Mrs. Nash was taking a strip off a delivery man. Philippe was fussing over the temperature of the butter cream icing. And Katie was running around in a robe, worried about rose petals in the bathwater.
Only Emma seemed calm, serene really as she went along the hallway past Hamilton’s portrait.
They were getting married tomorrow—in less than twenty-four hours—and she was talking to somebody in Paris, making sure the McKinley Inns convention display had arrived on time. She laughed at something the caller said, and her smile lit up the room.
He tried to remember the last time his house had felt like this. Maybe when he was a boy. Maybe when his mother was still alive.
His father had hated parties, but his mother had planned them anyway, sometimes for upward of a hundred. Alex could remember their arguments, and the way his father’s jaw had tensed when the first guests arrived.
His gaze strayed to the landing at the top of the main staircase. As a young boy, he’d crept out of his room and peeked through the railing, watching finely coiffed women and snappily dressed men stroll through the foyer, drinks in hand, voices animated.
His mother had been happy on those nights. And the house had felt warm and alive. Like it felt now—with a woman present.
A certain glow worked its way up from the pit of his belly when he thought about Emma staying for a while. She looked up from her call and smiled at him before saying something in French into the phone.
Emma spoke French. And she seemed pretty much unflappable in the face of chaos.
Maybe they’d entertain some more. No harm in making the most of their time together. And fine parties with key contacts would do nothing but help their businesses thrive.
His own cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket, and he retrieved it, flipping it open.
“Garrison here,” he said.
“It’s your best man.”
The Billionaire's Bidding Page 11