Bed of Roses tbq-2

by Nora Roberts

“Does the car abuser look as good as the other two?”

  “They all look good,” Jack murmured.

  “Sorry I missed her.”

  “Before I have to punch Mal for thinking lascivious thoughts about my sisters—biological and honorary,” Del said, “let’s play cards.”

  “Be right there.” As the others wandered to the table, Jack pulled out his phone to check his e-mails.

  IT was nearly midnight when Emma got home. Once they’d started talking plans and ideas for Mac’s wedding, time whizzed.

  She all but bounced into the house, energized by the evening, and just a little giddy on champagne.

  Mac’s wedding.

  She could already see how utterly perfect the bride would be in her gorgeous gown, a waterfall of flowers in her arms. And she, Parker, and Laurel, triple maids of honor. Russet for her, autumn gold for Parker, pumpkin for Laurel. And oh, the flowers she’d do with that rich palette of fall.

  It would be a challenge, Emma thought as she started upstairs. Parker had been right to point that out so they could begin to plan how it could and would be done. Running a wedding was one thing. Running it and being part of it was another.

  They’d need extra help, more subs, but they’d not only do it, they’d knock it out of the park.

  Cruising on the mood, she began her nightly ritual. When her bed was turned down, she nodded, smoothed the sheets. There, she’d shown a very mature restraint. An evening with friends—business and pleasure—and no neglecting of her nighttime routine.

  It proved she was a sensible adult.

  Crossing the fingers of both hands, she dashed from her bedroom to her office to bring up her e-mail.

  “There, I knew it.”

  She clicked open Jack’s latest message.

  Now you’re playing dirty. Thanks.

  I like surprises. I especially like unwrapping them, so I look forward to helping you out of your coat. I like to take my time with surprises, build anticipation. So I’m going to unwrap you very slowly. Inch by inch.

  “Oh,” she said, “my.”

  And when I have, I’m going to want to take a good, long look. Before I touch. Inch by inch.

  When, Emma?

  “How about right now?”

  She closed her eyes and imagined Jack slipping her out of the slick black coat she didn’t even own. In a room shimmering with candlelight. Music playing, low and hot—so you felt the bass beat in the blood.

  His eyes, dangerous as hellsmoke, gliding over her until heat drenched her skin. Then his hands, strong, sure, slow, following that path of heat, easing the velvet on her elbows down until . . .

  “That’s just silly.” She straightened in her chair.

  Silly, maybe, she thought, but she’d managed to stir herself up. Or he had.

  Time to respond in kind.

  I like to play, and I don’t mind getting dirty.

  Surprises are fun, and being the surprise can be even better. When I am, sometimes I like being unwrapped slowly. Fingertips patiently untying the bow, then hands carefully, very carefully, folding back that wrapping to get to what’s waiting inside.

  And other times I want those fingers, those hands, to just rip through the barriers. Fast and greedy, and maybe a little rough.

  Soon, Jack.

  Not if any longer, she thought.

  Just when.

  With her three topiaries finished and tink deep into processing another delivery, Emma took a quick look at her notes and sketches.

  “Six hand-tied bouquets including the bride’s tossing bouquet for Friday’s event. Six pedestal arrangements, eighteen centerpieces, white rose ball, garlands, and swags for the pergola.” She muttered her way down the list. “I’ll need you at least three hours tomorrow. Four would be better.”

  “I’ve got a date tonight, and I’m looking to get lucky.” Fingers busy, Tink snapped her gum. “I could be here around noon.”

  “If you can stick till four, that ought to do it. Another four on Thursday. Five if you want it. I’ve got Tiffany coming in Thursday, and Beach can give me all day Friday. I can use whatever time you can give me Friday morning. We can start dressing for Friday’s event at three. Saturday’s another twofer. We need to start by eight for the first. That’s A.M., Tink.”

  Tink rolled her eyes, and kept stripping thorns.

  “We break down the first at three thirty, and need the second fully dressed by five thirty. Sunday, we have a big one, a single starting at four. So we’ll need to start at ten or ten thirty.”

  “I’ll try to squeeze what there is of my life in there,” Tink said dolefully.

  “You’ll manage. I’ll take what you’ve processed back to the cooler and get the stock we need for the arrangements.” As she picked up the first container and turned, Jack walked in.

  “Oh . . . Hi.”

  “Hi back. How’s it going, Tink?”

  “Emma drives the slaves.”

  “Yes, she is abused constantly,” Emma said. “You can there-there her while I haul these back to the cooler.”

  God, she thought, he looked so good in his fieldwork clothes, the boots, the faded jeans, the shirt rolled up to the elbows.

  She wished she could take just one quick bite.

  “Why don’t I give you a hand?” He hefted another tub and started back to the cooler.

  “We’re a little crazy this week,” Emma told him. “A midweek off site, and four events over the weekend. Sunday’s wedding is a monster—in a good way.” She set her tub down, gestured where Jack should place his. “Now I need to—”

  He spun her around, boosted her up to her toes in one fast move. Her arms locked around his neck in a combination of instinct and answer even as his mouth laid claim to hers.

  The wild, rich perfume of flowers saturated the air just as need and pleasure saturated her body. Greed and urgency swam through her blood.

  Not just one bite, she thought, and not quick. She wanted gulp after gulp.

  “Does that door lock from the inside?”

  She tunneled her fingers through his hair to bring his mouth back to hers. “What door?”

  “Emma, you’re killing me. Let me just—”

  “Oh, that door. No. Wait. Damn it. Just one more.” She caught his face in her hands this time, let herself simply sink into the kiss, the perfume, the greed. Then eased back.

  “We can’t. Tink. And . . .” Regretfully, she blew out a breath as she glanced around. “There really isn’t room in here.”

  “When is she leaving? I’ll come back.”

  “I don’t know, exactly, but . . . Wait.”

  Now he took her face, met her eyes. “Why?”

  “I . . . I can’t think of a good reason, but that may be because I lost many thousands of brain cells during that kiss. I can’t remember if I have any evening appointments. My mind’s wiped clean.”

  “I’m coming back at seven. I’ll bring food. Unless you call me and say otherwise. Seven, here.”

  “Okay. All right. I’ll check my book when I regain the power of cogent thought. But—”

  “Seven,” he repeated and kissed her again. “If we need to talk, we’ll talk.”

  “It may have to be in short, declarative sentences and words of one or two syllables.”

  “We can do that.” His grin shot fresh heat straight to her belly. “Do you need anything out of here?”

  “Yes, but I can’t remember what. Give me a second.” She pushed her hands through her hair, closed her eyes. “All right, yeah. Those, those. Then you’ve really got to go away. I can’t work if I’m thinking about you, this. Sex. Any of it.”

  “Tell me about it. Seven,” he repeated, and helped her carry out the flowers.

  “I’ll, uh, get back to you on that,” she told him when he set the flowers in her work area. “When I’m not so . . . busy.”

  “Great.” The warm gray eyes lingered on her just a moment longer. “See you, Tink.”

  “You bet.” Tink
clipped another few stems while Jack left, then slid them into their holding tub. “So, when did you and Jack start doing it?”

  “Doing what? Oh. Tink.” Shaking her head, Emma turned to her shelves to select the proper container for the fireplace arrangement she had planned. “We’re not.”

  “If you tell me he didn’t plant a big yummy one on you back there, I’m going to call you a liar.”

  “I don’t understand why you . . .” Stupid, Emma told herself, then reached for her flower foam. “How do you know?”

  “Because your eyes were still glazed when you came back, and he looked like a guy who’d only gotten a few nibbles when he’s ready for a great big bite.”

  “Bite. Ha-ha.”

  “Why aren’t you doing it? He’s prime.”

  “I’m—we’re . . . You know, sex doesn’t fluster me. I mean talking about sex, because if actually having sex doesn’t fluster you at least a little, you’re missing something. But this flusters me.”

  As she continued to work, Tink nodded sagely. “Moving from friends to friends with benefits has the advantage of knowing who the hell you’re getting naked with.”

  “There’s that. But it could be awkward, right? After.”

  “Only if one of you’s an asshole about it.” She gave her gum another cheerful snap. “So, my advice—don’t be an asshole.”

  “On some odd level that’s actually wise.” Emma set the foam to soak. “I need to check something in my appointment book.”

  “Okay. I’d schedule that nookie in for tonight,” Tink called after her. “You’ll be the happy flower lady tomorrow.”

  And there’s another point, Emma thought.

  She saw by her book she’d left the evening open. She’d marked the date with a large X after five o’clock, her way of warning herself not to get talked into going out. Too much work lined up for a date.

  But this wasn’t actually a date, she decided. He’d come by, bring food, and then . . . they’d see. She didn’t have to change or think about what she should wear or . . .

  Who was she kidding? Of course she’d worry about what to wear. There was no way whatever was going to happen with Jack was going to happen while she was wearing her work clothes and her nails were green from stems and foliage.

  Plus, she’d need fresh flowers and candles in the bedroom. And she’d be more relaxed if she could take a nice bubble bath. Choosing an outfit was a vital element in an evening like this, not just what went on top, but what was under it.

  She closed the book.

  When she thought it all through, a not-actual date required more work than an actual one.

  She hurried back to her flowers. She had to finish her workday, give the client her best. Then she needed plenty of time before seven to make everything perfect, without making it obvious she’d gone to any trouble at all.

  Chapter Nine

  She settled on a dress in a breezy print. Casual, Emma determined, simple and almost sweet with the little cropped sweater she paired with it.

  And what she wore under it was lethal.

  Pleased with the results, she did a final turn in the mirror before giving the bedroom a close inspection. Candles for soft, romantic light, lilies and roses for romantic scents. The CD player set on low with a quiet, romantic mix ready to play.

  Pillows plumped, shades drawn.

  It was, she decided, a female den of seduction. She was damn proud of it.

  Now all she needed was the man.

  She walked downstairs to make sure everything was ready on that front. Wine, glasses, candles, flowers. Music again, still low but more upbeat than the mix waiting upstairs. She turned it on, adjusted the volume, then circled around lighting the candles.

  They’d have some wine, she thought, and talk. Then a meal and more conversation. They’d never had problems with conversation. Even though they knew where the evening was headed—maybe because they knew—they’d be able to talk, relax, just enjoy each other’s company before they—

  She spun around when the door opened, giddy nerves dancing. And Laurel walked in.

  “Hey, Em, can I get you to put together a couple of . . .” Laurel stopped, lifted her eyebrows as she looked around the room. “You’ve got a date. You have a sex date.”

  “What? What’s wrong with you? Where do you come up with—”

  “How long have I known you? This side of forever? You put out new candles. You have foreplay music on.”

  “I put out new candles all the time, and I happen to like this mix.”

  “Let me see your underwear.”

  Emma choked out a laugh. “No. You want me to make up a couple what?”

  “That can wait. I have twenty bucks that says you have on the sexing underwear.” Laurel strode over, started to tug at the bodice of Emma’s dress—and got her hand slapped away.

  “Cut it out.”

  “You took a bath in the tonight’s-the-night bubbles.” Laurel sniffed. “I can smell it.”

  “So what? I often have dates. Sometimes I have sex dates. I’m a grown woman. I can’t help it if you haven’t had sex in six months.”

  “Five months, two weeks, three days. But who’s counting?” Laurel stopped again, sucked in an exaggerated breath as she pointed at Emma. “You have a sex date with Jack.”

  “Stop it. Will you stop it? You’re freaking me out.”

  “When is he getting here? What’s the plan?”

  “Soon, and I’m still working on the plan. But it doesn’t include you being here. At all. Go away now.”

  Ignoring the order, Laurel folded her arms. “Is it the white ‘I’m a good girl but I can be bad’ underwear or the black ‘I’m only wearing this so you can rip it off me, big boy’ underwear? I need to know.”

  Emma cast her eyes to the heavens. “It’s the red with the black roses.”

  “We may need to call the paramedics. If you’re functional tomorrow, can you make me up three mini arrangements? Just mixed spring types? I have a consult and little springy flowers would set the mood for what I think the client wants.”

  “Sure. Go home.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.”

  “You’re stopping at Mac’s to tell her before you go home and tell Parker.”

  Laurel paused at the door, flicked back the hair that fell over her cheek. “Duh. And I’m going to ask Mrs. G if she’ll make frittatas for breakfast so we can fuel up while you give us all the details.”

  “I have a full day tomorrow.”

  “Me, too. Seven A.M., food and sex recap. Good luck tonight.”

  Resigned, Emma let out a sigh and decided she wouldn’t wait for Jack to have a glass of wine. The trouble with friends, she thought as she went to the kitchen, was they knew you too well. Sex date, foreplay music, sexing underwear. No secrets among . . .

  She stopped with the bottle in hand. Jack was a friend. Jack knew her very well. Wouldn’t he . . . ? What if he . . . ?

  “Oh, shit!”

  She poured a very large glass of wine. Before she could take the first sip, she heard the knock on her door.

  “Too late,” she murmured. “Too late to change a thing. Time to see what happens, and deal with it.”

  She set the wine down, went to the door.

  He’d changed, too, she noted. Khakis instead of jeans, a crisp shirt instead of a chambray. He carried a large take-out bag from her favorite Chinese restaurant, and a bottle of her preferred cabernet.

  Sweet, Emma thought. And certainly another advantage of being friends.

  “When you said you’d bring food you meant it.” She took the bag from him. “Thanks.”

  “You like a little—and that’s usually very little—of everything. So I got a variety.” He cupped the back of her neck, leaned in to kiss her. “Hi again.”

  “Hi back again. I just poured myself a glass of wine. Why don’t I make it two?”

  “I’d say yes. How’d the work go?” he asked when he followed her to the kitchen. “You we
re pretty much buried in it when I was here earlier.”

  “We got it done. The next few days are wall-to-wall, but we’ll get that done, too.” She poured a second glass, offered it. “How about your summer kitchen?”

  “It’s going to rock. I don’t know how much use the clients will get out of it, but it’s going to look great. I’ll need to talk to you about the work here. Your second cooler. I dropped some preliminary sketches at Parker’s when I was by before, for the changes there, and Mac’s plans are finished. After spending a little time in your cooler today, it’s easy to see why you need another one. I like your dress.”

  “Thanks.” Watching him, she sipped her wine. “I guess we’ve got other things to talk about, too.”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “I keep thinking it’s a lot, but I realized it really comes down to two things, and they both grow out of one root. We’re friends. We are friends, aren’t we, Jack?”

  “We’re friends, Emma.”

  “So the first thing is I think friends should tell each other the truth. Be honest. If we realize, after tonight, that it’s just not what we expected—or if either of us feel like, well, that was nice, but I’m finished—we should be able to say so. No hard feelings.”

  Reasonable, straightforward, and without sticky edges or invisible strings. Perfect. “I can go with that.”

  “The second is staying friends.” Worry wove through the words as she watched him. “That’s the most important thing. Whatever happens, however it works out, we need to promise each other we’ll be friends. Not just for you and me, but for everyone we’re connected to. We can say it’s just sex, Jack, but sex isn’t a just. Or it shouldn’t be. We like each other. We care about each other. I don’t want anything to change that.”

  He brushed a hand down her hair. “Blood oath or pinky swear?” he asked and made her laugh. “I can promise you that, Emma. Because you’re right. Friends.” He eased over to kiss her cheeks, one, then the other, before rubbing his lips lightly over hers.

  “Friends.” She repeated the gesture so they stood, lips a breath apart, eyes locked. “Jack? How did we ever keep from doing this all these years?”

  “Hell if I know.” He touched his lips to hers again, then took her hand. “We were at the beach,” he said as he led her to the stairs.