“Emma?” her grandfather asked, “Are you okay?”
She was yanked from her gloomy thoughts. “Yes, yes, fine. I just…”
She looked at her grandfather, whose eyes almost pleaded with her to go. Finally she said, “Sure, okay, but only coffee, and only this one time.”
Marcel beamed, “I’m so happy. Peter is a good man. You will like him a lot, I promise.”
Which is exactly the problem.
chapter 7
Peter called later to confirm the time and place of their meeting. Emma was surprised at the formality of his gesture, because he could have sent her a text. Her grandfather had certainly given him her cell number—and probably her email and home address, too. He chose instead to call her. Charming.
“I was thinking, you’ve had such a long day, and you’ll undoubtedly want to make sure Marcel has eaten before we meet. Why don’t we grab a casual dinner instead?”
In spite of telling herself as soon as he asked that she couldn’t possibly accept, Emma was surprised to hear herself agree without a murmur of protest. So much for refusing to have coffee with him.
Coffee had turned into dinner.
Funny how that happened.
Emma called Gretchen, the neighbor, and asked her to check in on her grandfather while she’d be gone. Then she made him dinner and promised to be home before his bedtime, though Marcel insisted she should stay out as long as she wanted.
Though she could have easily walked to the restaurant, Peter insisted on picking her up and arrived promptly at seven p.m.
Emma managed to squeeze in a shower between making dinner and closing the store, and she finally felt more herself. She wore an off-the-shoulder white summer dress she bought in France as shopping therapy after she dumped #BadBoyRob. It was a new French designer, Vanessa Bruno, and it was way more than she’d ever spent on a dress. But the feel of it was incredible and it clung to her curves in a very flattering way.
When she stepped out of the shop, Peter was leaned against his car, smiling, his eyes on her. Those eyes, they drank her in as if he wanted to gather her up that very instant and carry her off.
“Hello, Emma.” His voice was low and sent a shiver up her spine. “You look lovely.”
Emma tried to suppress a blush, but she could feel her cheeks heat up. She’d been complimented before, of course, but when Peter said it, it felt like it mattered.
Peter was dressed in a pair of well-tailored pants emphasizing his perfect backside (which, of course, was the first thing she noticed during their initial encounter). He was wearing a crisp white shirt, no tie, and the shirt was open at the collar so she could glimpse a small vee of his chest, firm and well-toned. Much like the rest of him, Emma imagined.
Dinner was already a big mistake.
Peter opened the door for her and handed her in before leaning closer and taking a deep, savoring breath while she fastened her seat belt.
Then he closed the car door gently and walked over to the driver’s side, he slipped behind the wheel and turned to her.
“Ready?” he asked, and though she knew his question was probably perfectly innocent, she didn’t feel ready at all.
chapter 8
They made small talk in the car, mostly Peter asking her about her job…or the job she did before she joined her grandfather to run Willa’s Books.
Emma looked out the window. “I’m so tired of celebrities. Many of them are terrific, but most act like spoiled toddlers.”
As they pulled up to the East Hampton Grill, Peter asked, “You were dating a celebrity, too?” His tone had a hint of implied meaning in it. She assumed it was judgment, and Emma wasn’t sure how to answer the question.
Had he researched her, or had her grandfather told him? Either way, she felt a bit annoyed. She didn’t know him well enough to share those kinds of details with him.
“I love this place,” she said, unhooking her seat belt and ignoring his question.
Peter hopped out and came around to open her door. “Sorry if the question was too familiar,” he whispered next to her ear, and her stomach turned into a butterfly sanctuary. There was something so formal and wildly charming about this man, so subtle she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He was both old world and modern, and the combination was intoxicating.
Emma shrugged as he handed her out. “It’s fine.” She made a small, dismissive gesture with her hand, “it was simply bad judgment on my part.”
“Why?”
Emma looked up at him. “First off, dating a client is always bad business, and second, nothing good ever comes from dating a celebrity.”
She smiled, and he raised an eyebrow.
Then he said, “Ah,” and ushered her inside after handing his keys to the valet.
Emma was glad Peter dropped the subject, or seemed to. She didn’t want to discuss Rob Westerfield, or their breakup, especially not with this man who was so far removed from #BadBoyRob. They weren’t even on the same planet.
“Sir, it’s good to see you,” the maître d’ said as they entered.
Peter smiled, “Good to see you, too, Rupert. Do you have our table?” Peter nodded toward a corner far removed from the other diners.
“Of course, Sir.” The man selected two menus and walked them to a secluded part of the restaurant.
After Emma sat down, she said, “You like your privacy.”
“I do. It’s very important to me,” he said, his voice tight.
A faint, distant alarm went off in Emma’s head. Celebrities loved their privacy, and most were freakishly obsessed with it. But, no. She pushed the thought aside. Peter was not a celebrity. She would know, since she could spot a celebrity from a mile away. Well, most of them, anyway. There were a handful of celebs who hadn’t let fame go to their heads.
“What do you do for a living?” She was surprised she didn’t already know, given how her grandfather gushed about this man.
Peter nudged his chair forward. “Attorney, formerly corporate law. Now I focus on mostly underdog cases—people who can’t get representation because of cost or whatever. The law firm is Smithson/Gregory. I love working there.”
There was a fondness in his voice, clearly for the work, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief. Great, so no celebrity, she thought. Merely a man who prefers privacy. Much better.
The conversation continued while they ate, Emma telling Peter about her childhood and how her grandfather raised her. Peter talking about his family, one brother who would marry later that year, and his parents, all of whom lived in Belgium.
Once the server removed their dinner plates, Peter leaned forward and asked, “What’s your deep, dark secret, Emma Avery?”
“Excuse me?” she stalled, and he smiled. Damn, she loved that smile. Her heart wobbled. Slow down. Entering dangerous territory. Dinner with a nice, single, clearly successful attorney. So much for her commitment to stay away from men.
“I’m sorry, I only…” Peter took a deep breath and glanced away, then returned to studying her face. “I thought of you a great deal this afternoon, and the thoughts distracted me.”
He sounded like he was accusing her of being a distraction, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Emma licked her lips while her cheeks heated. “I-I am not looking for anything right now, Peter.” She tried to say it convincingly, but her voice squeaked with nerves.
He reached out his hand and placed it over hers.
“Neither am I,” he said, his voice low and sensual. She felt a spasm of longing, her panties dampening. After nothing more than a touch, a simple hand on hers, she was ready to take him to bed.
“I merely want to know.” He removed his hand slowly, and she could feel disappointment prick her heart.
“I don’t like endings,” she said. “That’s my deep, dark secret.”
Peter blinked, “But everything ends at some point.”
Emma nodded and looked out the window. “I know, but I try to avoid it as best I can. I had too many endings too early in my life. I try to avoid them now.”
“You leave first, then. Is that what you are saying?” Peter’s voice was still low and resonating inside her. Yes, she left first. It’s what she did with Rob (though he deserved it) and what she’d done in almost every other relationship as well.
Leave first. It hurts less.
“I do,” she said softly. Now she felt bare, having exposed this very personal secret to a man who was still more or less a stranger.
The waiter came up to ask if they wanted dessert, and Peter looked at her with a glint in his eye. “We’d like dessert to go. What would you recommend?” he asked the waiter. Then, turning to Emma, he said, “I have an idea. Will you indulge me?”
His look was impossible to refuse. “Okay,” she said hesitantly.
It was then that she noticed a shimmer around him. The one she saw before a person’s past life story emerged. She glanced down, gritting her teeth, and shoved it aside with her mind. She didn’t need to know. She didn’t want to know. Especially if it was something terrible or sad or troubling. She wanted to get to know him, not whomever he was in a previous incarnation.
chapter 9
Peter escorted her to his car carrying a box of chocolate cake, which he placed on the back seat.
“Thank you for indulging me,” he whispered into her ear as she got in.
She trembled. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Peter, cake, and nightfall. Definitely not good. But she didn’t lift a finger to stop it. Peter slid into the driver’s seat, put the car in drive, and sped away.
“Where are we going?”
He looked at her with a mysterious twinkle in his eye. “You’ll see.”
“Do you always get your way?” she asked, slanting a look at him.
He smiled without looking at her. “Most of the time, yes.” He drove to a secluded section of the beach, where she could see long stretches of sand extending behind big, impressive homes. This was a more exclusive part of the Hamptons, very private.
“Should we be here?” Emma asked as she watched him kick off his shoes, and then did the same.
He reached into the back, grabbing the cake and a blanket. “Yes. It’s part of my property.”
His property? How the hell much did corporate lawyers make, anyway?
The moon was full and threw a glittering shimmer across the water, lighting their path as Emma followed Peter onto the beach and across to a small fire pit. The evening had cooled down considerably, and she shivered, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the night air or being so near this man.
Peter spread the blanket out in front of the neat pit, which was encased in cement and held a teepee of fresh logs. Peter picked up a box of matches from on top of the small cement ledge and lit the fire expertly.
“I always keep the pit filled with fresh wood,” he said, as if to reassure her this wasn’t a preplanned on-the-beach seduction. The fire quickly settled into steady flames, and Emma sat on the blanket, enjoying its warmth. She could hear the waves crashing, and with no one else around, it was almost as though they were the only two people in the world.
Peter opened the box and handed her one of the plastic forks.
“Thank you,” she said softly and dug her fork in for a small bite.
“No,” Peter said, “bigger.” He reached his fork into the moist cake, pulled out a bigger piece, and held it out to her. When she reached out to guide his fork, their hands touched, and she took the piece in her mouth.
Peter held her with his gaze, and the rich, sugary sweetness mixed with the fire, the ocean, and this man, was almost overwhelming.
“It’s irritating how attractive I find you,” he said in almost a whisper, and for a moment Emma wasn’t sure what to make of his statement.
“I like being in control. It’s what I’m used to. It’s what I’m comfortable with. Around you I am not in control of anything…”
Once again the mysterious air swirling around him made him seem almost otherworldly.
“Peter, maybe I should go,” was all she could manage to say, and then, to her surprise, Peter reached up and touched her lip.
“You have frosting,” he said, his voice trailing off. He wiped it away with his finger. When he held it up to her lips, she licked it off. A core of heat, hotter than the fire she sat next to, spun out of control inside her. When Peter took her hand and set down her fork, her heart slammed around in her chest.
He leaned forward, now so close she could hear his breath, and then, oh, God, he was kissing her. He licked her lips, and then his tongue darted into her mouth. His kiss was warm and passionate…and oddly familiar.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes hot on her, his breath coming hard, and he looked at her in a way no man had ever looked at her before.
Emma’s breath was shaking out of her, and though she knew she should stop this now, pull away—hell, run away—she couldn’t.
When he kissed her again, he eased her back onto the blanket. She let him.
chapter 10
Peter ran his fingers through her hair, and, while he kissed her, his tongue savoring the textures and flavors of her mouth, an unfamiliar feeling took root. He lifted his head and looked down at her.
“Emmeline, you are beautiful,” he whispered, and he heard his voice shaking with emotion and desire, and felt his need for her pressed against her leg. He was hard and ready, and he wanted nothing more than to take her, right there on the blanket, in the middle of this deserted beach, under a sky full of stars spread across it in an endless, creamy sweep.
Emma touched his face, her fingers softly tracing his jawline and then touching his lips before she pushed herself up to kiss him again.
Peter leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, then explored her face and her neck with the same light, brushing movement. When he kissed her ear, he heard a soft moan escape her, and for a moment he thought he would burst out of his briefs.
He hadn’t experienced such powerful desire since…Wait. Had he ever experienced this level of longing coupled with almost overwhelming lust before?
He’d spent his entire adult life dedicated to his work and his life in the US, and the duty he owed his family. Yes, there was that. The thought of his duty jolted him back to reality, and he fisted his hands to stop himself from unbuttoning her blouse.
Reality. Yes, his reality.
Peter drew himself up and leaned on an elbow, gazing down at a confused-looking Emma. She looked perfect…sweet, soft, and edible. He wanted to devour every inch of her, plunge into her until he felt her release. But it was only fair to explain to her, before it was too late, the limits of his life.
He twirled her hair around a finger and tugged on it gently. “I am sorry. I have to pause for a moment.”
Emma mustered a wobbly smile for him.
Of course. Too soon. Too fast. Too everything. Kissing him made her entire being throb with wanting him so much that she couldn’t form actual, coherent thoughts. Instead, she had been reduced to the primal state of one need, with one man.
Too soon.
The thought ran through her head, almost mocking her. Emma pushed herself away slightly, a small but meaningful distance.
The moment passed over them. Like a bird, it took flight and departed, almost soundlessly, into the night sky.
Peter shifted closer to her, wanting to span the small but significant distance. “I’m sorry, it’s…” he fumbled for words. “I need to tell you something. Something important.”
Oh, God, he’s married. No, wait. Her grandfather would have known and told her. Very little got past Marcel. Was Peter already seeing someone else? Or maybe he had a fatal condition rendering him
impotent? No, she could feel the evidence to the contrary still pressing against her thigh.
“I can see those wheels turning,” he said softly. “I’m not dying, and I’m not married.” Then he said, “Not yet anyway.”
Emma felt her heart give a resounding thud. Not yet. Meaning he would be, soon enough. She inched away farther, and he pulled her back to him.
“Wait, let me explain.”
Emma pushed his arm off and sat up, “Are you engaged?”
When Peter shook his head and tried to take her hand, she shrugged it off. This was not going well, but he owed her an explanation because…because she mattered.
He combed his fingers through his hair. “I’m getting engaged in the fall to someone I have never met. Wait, that’s not entirely true. My parents tell me we played in the mud together when we were toddlers.” He took a deep breath, “But I have no particular memory of it. It’s an arranged marriage,” he added matter-of-factly, as though he was discussing the weather.
Emma gave herself a hard shake. Had he kissed her right into the eighteenth century? Who the hell had an arranged marriage unless you were, you know, twelve, and living in Afghanistan or in North Korea? But an arranged marriage in Europe? In the twenty-first century? She’d never heard of such a thing.
Sensing her confusion, he continued, “It’s a family thing. Both my brother and I were committed at birth. As I said, he is getting married in the fall, and I am supposed to be married in the spring.”
Emma was still dumbfounded, “You’ve never met her? Will you have a courtship? I mean, can you at least get to know each other and decide if you suit?”
“No.” Peter’s voice was firm and final, “That, sadly, is not how this works. You end up together even if you hate each other. But, you know, she’ll have her life, and I’ll have mine. I doubt she will want to leave her family and come live with me. Or perhaps she will. I don’t know. Maybe if we have children.”
A Royal Affair Series: Book 1, 2, and 3: A paranormal, time travel, royal romance Page 3