The Cinderella Bride

by Barbara Wallace

  “Is that diplomatic speak for ‘I don’t like it’?” He leaned forward, his eyes lit with what could only be described as mischief. “Come on, Miss O’Rourke, we both know you looked at the designs, if only to make sure the file was complete. What’s your opinion?”

  “I told you, I don’t have one.”

  She reached for the folder, but he lifted it away.

  “Everyone has an opinion,” he said. “Give me yours.”

  The truth? Gideon had guessed right; she hated the design. But she would never say so. The designer, Josh Silbermann, was considered the leader in contemporary design, and according to Andrew Kent, they were lucky to snag him. Since Andrew sat on more architectural and museum committees than she could count, she had to assume he knew what he was doing, and that she, in her inexperience, simply missed the point. “Your uncle is very excited about the plans.”

  Gideon looked unimpressed. “I’m sure he is. Andrew loves this sort of stuff. But you’re avoiding my question. What is your opinion?”

  “My opinion doesn’t matter. I’m not the one making the decision.”

  He leaned forward. “Humor me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re so determined to dodge the question, and that piques my curiosity. For example, what do you think of…” He fished through the file and pulled out a sketch, a stark study of gunmetal and black with splashes of ice blue. “What about this one?

  She shook her head. Figures. He’d picked the ugliest sketch in the pile.

  “Come on, Miss O’Rourke,” Gideon urged, waving the sketch and grinning, “give it up.”

  Clearly, he wasn’t going to stop until she said something. “Fine. It’s cold.”

  “Cold?”

  “The room. All that black and blue is far too harsh. I would prefer something warmer.” Like the blue of your eyes, she caught herself thinking. “Plus the furniture looks uncomfortable.”

  “Really? Even these stainless steel padded benches?”

  She caught the sarcasm. “I’m not sure even your cat would sleep on those.”

  “When I left, Hinckley was sleeping in the sink, so I wouldn’t use him as a benchmark.”

  “I’m sure I’m simply missing the point.”

  “She says, desperately trying to regain her diplomacy,” he replied with a chuckle. “Tell me, if you don’t like this design, what do you like?”

  Emma shrugged. Her experience in hotel rooms, particularly five-star hotel rooms, was limited to the Fairlane. “A comfortable bed.”

  “That’s all? A good bed?”

  “Okay, a very comfortable bed. What can I say? I’m practical. After all, that’s where I’d be spending the bulk of my time, right?”

  He arched a brow. “You don’t say.”

  “Sleeping,” she stated hastily. Heat flooded every inch of her, and the mischievous glint in his eye didn’t help. “If I’m staying in a hotel room, it’s because I need a place to sleep.”

  “Of course.” The glint persisted. Emma fought another rush of heat.

  “But,” Gideon continued, “if all you want is a bed, you can go to the local motel. You go to a hotel like the Landmark because you want atmosphere.”

  “The best for the best,” she replied, parroting hotel management’s catch phrase.

  “More than that. You have to exceed their expectations.” With the file still in his grip, he perched on the corner of her desk, close enough that Emma noticed his windburned knuckles. Outdoorsman’s hands. Raw and weathered from work. The hands of a man who wasn’t afraid to use them.

  “…fantasies.”

  She jerked her attention back to Gideon’s questioning stare.

  “I was saying that for some people, a hotel room is their way of living out their fantasies,” he said.

  “Which leads me back to my original question. What do you want in a hotel room?” He leaned a little closer.

  “Surely you have one or two fantasies of your own, Miss O’Rourke.”

  Beneath her ribs, Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She could swear his eyes had grown two shades darker, as if he knew the path her mind had started to travel. It didn’t help matters that his ear hovered close to her lips, as if he expected her to confess some little secret.

  He’s talking about hotel marketing, she reminded herself.

  Yet the air between them had grown still. Disturbingly so. She hadn’t realized before how Gideon’s foot dangled perilously close to her calf. They hadn’t made contact, but she could still feel him through her stockings.

  She turned to her left, hoping to break the spell. “I doubt I could suggest anything marketing hasn’t thought of already.”

  “Stop dodging the question.”

  “I’m not dodging.” Not much, anyway. She grabbed the first stack of papers available and pretended to sort them. “I’m pretty basic when it comes to fantasies.”

  To her dismay, that earned her a melodic chuckle. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re too serious, Miss O’Rourke?”

  Better serious than foolish. “Maybe I’m just easy to satisfy.”

  “Oh, I hope not. That would be a shame.”

  Why? Emma glanced over her shoulder at him. He was studying her again, with that probing look that made her skin come alive. “Three o’clock,” she said, saved by the chiming of her desk clock. “Your grandmother’s free now.”

  “Time then for my command appearance.” He rose and put the sketches back in the file. “This has been a very interesting conversation, Miss O’Rourke. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  “Sure,” she answered. Whenever you’re killing time.

  She tried to ignore the way her stomach somersaulted at the suggestion.

  Mariah Kent might weigh ninety pounds dripping wet, but it was ninety pounds of reinforced steel. When Gideon entered her suite, he found her seated regally at her desk, the same desk from which she’d run Kent Hotels for close to thirty-five years. How many afternoons had he spent sitting next to that desk, watching her work, listening to her advice?

  Treat every guest as if they’re special, Gideon. Don’t meet their expectations, exceed them.

  Yes, Grandmother.

  That was a lifetime ago, he thought with a sigh. Back when he’d been a different person and believed Kent Hotels was his destiny.

  “This is how you dress to see your grandmother?” Mariah asked, surveying his appearance with disdain. He’d come straight from the boat, and other than exchanging jeans for nylon pants, he still wore his sailing gear. “I distinctly remember telling you when you were growing up to always wear a tie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.” She raised her cheek for a kiss, then patted his, the sparkle in her pale blue eyes betraying her affection. “You could have at least shaved. Is this how you dress for business in Saint Martin?”

  “What can I say? Your summons was rather short notice.”

  “Not that short. Emma’s been back for at least two hours.”

  “Yes, about that…” He sat in the chair across from Mariah’s desk. “Was the personal summons really necessary?”

  “I was afraid you might lose your way, after being gone for so long.”

  “Lose my way or change my mind?”

  “With you, both are possibilities.” Mariah smoothed the front of her designer suit, a silver that matched her hair. “Fortunately, I knew Emma would see to it you found your way.”

  As if on cue, his grandmother’s assistant appeared, holding open the door for a waiter pushing an overladen tea service. Back in her office, she’d been blocked by her desk, but now he could appreciate how nicely the straight blue dress hugged her silhouette. Too bad she wore the matching blazer. He’d much prefer seeing her arms. Instead, he settled for studying the smooth curve of her calves. The desk had masked them, too.

  “Are you ready for them to serve, Mrs. Kent?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Did you order yourself a cup of tea like I suggeste
d? You looked a little peaked.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I have a cup on my desk.” Emma’s eyes darted briefly in Gideon’s direction, sparking the overwhelming urge to wink. If he did, he bet that pale skin would turn a very interesting shade of pink.

  “Nice girl,” Mariah said after Emma disappeared, leaving the floor butler to serve. “Takes her job seriously.”

  A little too seriously, thought Gideon. Then again, if their conversation had revealed anything, it was that Miss O’Rourke took a lot of things in life seriously. That didn’t feel right, either, her practicality. What kind of woman didn’t nurture a few romantic fantasies? The Caribbean was full of women her age champing at the bit for luxury and indulgence, and none of them, he wagered, would stand out in the rain because her job required it. If anyone should want pampering, it should be someone like Emma. But she didn’t. She only wanted a comfortable bed.

  He frowned. That wasn’t right. Emma’s lack of expectations were more suited to someone like him, someone with reason to be weary and cynical. Not a fresh-faced girl with freckles dotting her nose.

  “Sugar?”

  His grandmother’s voice jerked him back to the present. From the other side of her desk, she eyed him with curiosity. “Do you still take three sugars?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “Good. Too much sugar is bad for you, anyway,” she said. “I’m glad you gave it up.”

  “I’ve given up a lot of things over the past ten years,” he replied.

  “Does that include your family?”

  What family? “I’ve stayed in touch.”

  “E-mails,” Mariah said with a frown. “Christmas cards. Phone calls on birthdays. That’s not keeping in touch.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “No, you’ve been avoiding us, and it’s high time you stopped.” She set her teacup on its saucer with a resounding clink. “You need to come home.”

  As if coming home was even possible. Forcing a lightness in his voice, Gideon replied, “Aren’t I already here?”

  “I mean for good.” Mariah looked him square in the eye, her gaze reflecting every ounce of her mettle.

  “You’re the eldest Kent grandchild. It’s time you embraced your birthright.”

  Once upon a time those words would have meant everything to him. Now they simply lodged in his chest like an undigested meal. “Except for one thing,” he replied.

  Gideon leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur as he said what she seemed so intent on forgetting. “I’m not the eldest Kent grandchild.”

  Mariah didn’t blink. She’d been expecting the comment, after all. “Your last name is Kent. And I need your help. Those are the only two things that matter.”

  Surely you have one or two fantasies of your own.

  Try as she might, Emma couldn’t dislodge Gideon’s comment from her head. Two hours after their conversation, his words continued to repeat themselves in cadence with the pages spitting out of the printer. Fantasies, fantasies, fantasies.

  Just a comfortable bed.

  What was so wrong with her answer? “Excuse me for being practical,” she snapped at the printer. Dwelling on things out of her reach was a waste of time. She’d already spent too much of her life dealing with her mother’s fantasy fallout. Emma didn’t need disappointment of her own.

  Which reminded her, she should call her mom and see if she found any leads at the unemployment office.

  The printer made a loud clicking sound, drawing Emma’s attention. Coming back to the present, she saw a red light blinking on the front panel.

  “Don’t tell me, I’m out of ink,” she muttered. Great. At this rate she’d be forty before she got her desk cleared off.

  That’s what you get for thinking about fantasies.

  Just then the door to Mrs. Kent’s suite flew open. Gideon stared at her, his expression a study in tension. “Come on,” he said, shutting the door. “I need a drink.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BEFORE EMMA KNEW what was happening, he caught her elbow and pulled her toward the office door. “Do you know if the King Room serves a decent whiskey?”

  “I, uh…” She was still trying to figure out why she was being dragged along.

  “Never mind. They serve alcohol. We’ll be fine.”

  “We?”

  Gideon gave her a look. “You don’t think I plan to drink alone, do you?”

  So, what—he planned to drink with her? Nice of him to ask first. “I’m working.”

  “It’s after five, Miss O’Rourke. Workday’s over.”

  “For you, maybe, but I’ve got a pile of correspondence on my desk that your grandmother expects to go out in today’s mail.” Correspondence he’d helped delay.

  “And the world must do what Mariah Kent expects, right?”

  Emma started to say something about entitlement running in the family, but noted the tension in his jaw and thought better. Something had happened while Gideon was sequestered with grandmother. He was paler, and his eyes, sharp and probing a couple hours earlier, had dulled. In fact, his whole demeanor had a weariness that hadn’t existed before.

  The transformation jarred her, to say the least. Watching him impatiently pressing the elevator button, she had the overwhelming urge to reach out and squeeze his hand.

  Which was why, when the elevator doors opened, she stepped in.

  Designed to resemble a gentlemen’s club, the King Room was the Fairlane’s jewel, a private hideaway where guests could relax in oak-paneled splendor. When she walked through the frosted-glass doors, Emma could have sworn every head in the room turned her way. She could feel the unwelcoming gazes. This was a haven for guests, not hotel employees. Self-consciousness in over-drive, she tugged on her dress, hoping the dim lighting concealed its snugness.

  Gideon, on the other hand, crossed the room with the nonchalance of a man who belonged, despite the fact that his sweater and jeans violated the bar’s dress code. Emma couldn’t help but marvel at his ease. No one rushed forward to politely offer one of the hotel’s spare jackets, either, she noticed. Perhaps his last name bought him acceptance, but somehow she suspected the circumstances would be the same anywhere, family-owned establishment or not.

  No sooner had they taken their seats than a waitress with a black ponytail and a perfectly fitting uniform approached. She flashed Emma a skeptical look before turning her attention and smile on Gideon. “Good evening. Will you be having cocktails or dinner?”

  “Bruichladdich, straight up,” Gideon clipped.

  Although the name meant nothing to Emma, it must have registered with the waitress, for her eyes lit up with an intrigued gleam. “Certainly, sir.” Her voice grew a notch smokier, as well. “It might take a moment, however. Our manager will have to retrieve a bottle from our reserve.”

  Gideon shrugged. “Fine. Miss O’Rourke, join me?”

  “I’ll have tea,” she replied. “With milk.”

  The waitress nodded without looking in her direction. Emma wondered if the woman had heard her.

  “Tea, Miss O’Rourke?” Gideon shot her a disappointed look. “You’re missing out on a seriously good whiskey.”

  No doubt, judging from the way he’d impressed the waitress. “I’m sure that’s true, but I’m also still on the clock.”

  “Ah, yes, Mariah’s correspondence. Tell me,” he asked, once the waitress had departed, “do you always do everything Mariah asks?”

  That was a silly question. “Of course I do. It’s my job.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to jump when she says jump.”

  Then he didn’t know what working for his grandmother entailed. “What am I supposed to, slack off?”

  “Would you even be able to?”

  “If you’re asking do I take my job seriously, the answer’s yes.”

  “Really? I never would have guessed.”

  His sarcastic tone rankled Emma. No matter how poorly his reunion with his grandmother had gone, he did
n’t have to take out his frustration by mocking her.

  “What can I say?” she snapped. “Not everyone is lucky enough to be born a Kent.”

  She regretted the comment the second she’d said it. Not only was it beyond impertinent, it caused a shadow to break over Gideon’s features, turning them dark and increasing their marked weariness. “Oh yeah.” His voice was low and dull. “It’s a real stroke of luck.”

  He lapsed into silence after that, his long fingers drawing patterns on the inlaid table. Emma stared at his wind-burned knuckles, wishing she’d bitten her tongue.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no right.” When he didn’t answer, she pushed herself away from the table. “Maybe I should just go and let—”

  “Don’t.” Gideon reached out and caught her wrist. Barely a grip, but enough to stop her in her tracks.

  “I thought maybe you’d like to be alone with your thoughts,” she told him.

  “If I wanted to be alone, I wouldn’t have dragged you down here.”

  “But—”

  “Sit down, Miss O’Rourke.

  Slowly, she met his eyes. The blue had turned smoky, almost indigo in color. A new silence surrounded their table, heavier and more self-conscious than the one before. She looked down to where Gideon’s fingers still encircled her wrist.

  “Here you go.” The waitress’s voice broke the spell. She shot Emma an enigmatic look before placing a crystal tumbler in front of Gideon. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Kent.”

  Emma noticed that in addition to learning Gideon’s identity, the waitress had undone two more buttons on her uniform. And was leaning forward more than usual. “If you need anything else, my name is Maddie. I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you.”

  I’ll bet. Emma tried not to roll her eyes. Talk about laying it on thick. Was Gideon impressed? “Do you have any artificial sweetener?” she asked.

  Clearly annoyed at having to pull her attention away from him, the waitress shot her a glance. “We keep everything on the table,” she replied in a sickeningly sweet voice. Emma knew that; she was just curious to see what Maddie would do.