Royal Engagement

by Chance Carter

  Don’t worry, I packed my own band-aids...

  Frowning, she reread the message several times, before deleting her last sentence. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she was brooding. She sent it before she could change her mind, then added:

  Can we talk when I return?

  Emma tossed her phone on the bed and went to her closet. She wanted to look sexy for

  Arran and hoped for a special night, especially since their last one had been cut so short. She slipped a red dress off the hanger, a modest but sexy wrap-around that revealed just the right amount of cleavage and thigh. She smiled to herself, fantasizing how long it would take for her dress to be crumpled up on the floor once Arran had her alone in a hotel room.

  Her phone chirped and she felt her heart skip a beat, certain it was Luke. She walked slowly to the bed, trying to discern whether it was nerves, or need, that made her weak in the knees, neither option pleasing her. She sat on the edge of the mattress, reaching for her cell.

  The text was from Arran. She frowned ever so slightly, ashamed of her obvious disappointment. She quickly brushed it away, afraid to acknowledge what that meant.

  Darling, the car will be downstairs at 6:30. I have already arranged for check-in. I know I said I would be there to greet you but I won’t be joining you until 8:00. I have work to finish up. Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ve ordered food to be brought up to you.

  Emma shrugged and tossed the phone down again, frustrated that he wasn’t meeting her there. She knew he was a busy man but it wasn’t the first time his work had kiboshed their plans. And it probably won’t be the last, she thought.

  She shook off her frustration, quickly pushing down her concerns. What did it matter if he was a little later than he promised? They would have plenty of time together on the trip, she reflected hopefully, desperately trying to convince herself.

  Chapter 37

  “You’ve spent the whole week miserable, fretting over that pretty gal, and you’re just going to let her leave without so much as a word from you? Forgive me Luke, but if I agreed with you, honey, we’d both be wrong.”

  Luke frowned at Jane impatiently, then looked at her husband for back up. He had shown up at their door an hour earlier, seeking moral support, a safe place to bitch and unload his frustration. Unfortunately, the fifteen-year-old scotch Paul had poured him was being more supportive than Jane.

  “Why should I call her when she’s running off with a man she knows I despise, to do God knows what, for who knows how long? She’s being impetuous. I’m right about this. You see that, don’t you Paul?”

  Paul shrugged passively and sipped his scotch, knowing better than to disagree with his wife. Jane snorted derisively and shook her head.

  “Boy, do you wanna be right, or do you wanna be happy?”

  “I want both,” Luke smirked, avoiding a cuff to the head. She was a southern firecracker, and even more so when she was passionate about something.

  “Well I wanted big boobs without having to pay for em!” she chirped, expressing her point with a playful squeeze to her breasts.

  “You didn’t pay for them, Paul did,” Luke goaded, drawing a chuckle from his buddy, “and stop trying to distract me.” Jane glanced at both of them and sneered, feigning exasperation.

  “That’s not the point,” she grinned, “and you know it.”

  “It’s just that she keeps making the same stupid, fucking mistakes over and over. First with her husband and now this guy. I mean, what the hell does she see in him?”

  “Is that what you’re really upset about, Luke? That she’s making a mistake?” Jane asked evenly, easing herself onto the sofa beside him. He looked at her skeptically, wondering where she was leading him. She raised her brows insolently, indicating he was right to speculate.

  “This woman, your friend, who has just been through a difficult divorce, who had been ignored and mistreated for years by a husband who was supposed to care for her, has the audacity to be captivated by someone who is attentive to her? Spoiling her? A man who finds her irresistible and is not afraid to show it? Is that the stupidity you’re referring to?”

  Luke opened his mouth to speak then closed it again quickly. He glanced at Paul, but receiving no support, looked back to Jane and shrugged.

  “Maybe she is being impetuous, but she doesn’t have all the facts, does she?” Jane cooed, placing her hand on his.

  “What do you mean?” he whispered, knowing exactly what she meant. He suddenly felt vulnerable, exposed.

  “Honey, you have loved that woman for half your life. You know it, and we know it. The only person who doesn’t know it is Emma,” she smiled, batting her lashes at him, daring him to challenge her.

  “Of course I love her, she’s my friend. My best friend!” he justified, shielding himself from the truth. What if they were wrong? If he was wrong? What if he admitted he was in love with Mimi and then got cold feet? Hadn’t there been a few times that he thought he might be in love and then it just disappeared? His feelings went cold? If that happened with Mimi, he would ruin everything. He would lose her.

  “No, it’s more than that,” Jane insisted.

  He looked at her defiantly but she just smiled sweetly at him, refusing to retract her statement. Paul just pouted his lips and softly nodded, wordlessly encouraging him to come to the right conclusion.

  “What makes you think that?” he asked, dropping his gaze, his jaw clenched.

  “Oh honey, it’s so obvious. Look at the state you’re in. I consider us friends and I love you, but I would never lose my shit if I thought you were running off with the wrong gal because at the end of the day, your dumb-ass decisions don’t affect me,” she said, sharing her observation gently. “Now if it was Paul? Well, I suppose I would be fired up! Mad with passion! Irrational, even. I might even mistake jealousy for concern...”

  “I am concerned...” he insisted, “Arran is not right for her!”

  Jane raised her brows subtly, “because?” Luke shifted nervously, wishing she would have just let him vent.

  “Because he’s just not. You don’t know him, the guy might be a narcissist. He comes across so charming and charismatic but deep down he only cares about himself. He doesn’t want Mimi.”

  “And?”

  Luke looked at her incredulously, “What do you mean, and...? Isn’t that enough?”

  “Luke, why does it matter? It’s her life,” Jane pressed, her voice poignantly thick. Luke shook his head, and inhaled deeply, then swallowed the last of his scotch, ignoring the burning assault in his throat.

  “It matters.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m fucking in love with her! I don’t want her to be with anyone else. I want to be the man who spoils her, takes care of her, makes her laugh! I want to cheer her up when she’s down, be her confidant, her person. I want to be the one who fucks her well and then spoons in behind her while we both fall asleep!” he insisted passionately, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them, words he thought he would never voice out loud. He stared at his friends, desperately trying to sort through his feelings, his breathing labored, rigid, as though he were scared to death.

  But he wasn’t. He felt exhilarated.

  Jane nodded, smiling at him warmly, but said nothing. They looked easily at one another for a moment, letting his confession land. Finally, he smirked at her, embarrassed and grateful all at once. Paul leaned forward and poured a splash or two of scotch into his empty glass, then added more to his own. He may not have been a wordsmith, but Paul always knew exactly the right thing to say. Luke tipped his glass to his buddy and took another swallow.

  Jane reached out for his free hand and stared him straight in the eyes, challenging him. “So, what are you going to do about it, Honey?”

  Chapter 38

  As promised, Arran had pre-ordered the room service, and they sent it up to her twenty minutes after her arrival. Although it was not a meal she would have c
hosen, she ate it anyway, appreciating the gesture. She’d been jonesing for a cheeseburger and wished she could have just called room service herself. She even thought about returning the Beef Bourguignon Arran had selected but she didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

  But now it was after nine, and Arran had still not arrived. Emma paced restlessly around the room, trying not to be cross. She didn’t want to be charged up and irritated when he walked through the door, but it was getting more difficult to ignore her annoyance with every passing minute.

  Exhausted, she sat on the bed and yawned, mindful not to wrinkle her dress. Running around all week had finally caught up with her, and she considered taking a quick nap. She was about to surrender to her fatigue when she heard a commotion in the hallway. The lock on the door chirped and Arran walked in, towing the porter behind him. The young man was carrying Arran’s overnight bag and nothing more. She stood up, her irritation quickly replaced with relief, pleased she was no longer alone.

  But Arran didn’t acknowledge her. He was on the phone, talking some sort of strategy with someone who seemed to be annoying him. He gestured to the porter to set his bag down, fished a bill out of his pocket, placed it in the lad’s hand, then waved him out. All in one fluid, dismissive motion. The porter nodded at Emma pleasantly and she smiled back, appreciating the inclusion. With the phone to his ear, Arran shooed him out again, ushering him to the door, then closed it firmly behind him.

  Emma could overhear Arran’s discussion and didn’t get the sense it was winding down soon. She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look her way, too absorbed in his conversation. She sat down in one of the wingback chairs, crossing her legs in front of her. She’d saved the room service wine, wanting to wait for him, but her patience was thinning. She poured herself a glass, leaving his empty, and raised it to her mouth. He looked her way and held up a finger, either gesturing her to stop or signaling he would only be a minute longer. She hoped it was the latter, she wasn’t in the mood to take orders. She willfully took a sip, displaying her displeasure. He frowned, quickly shifting his gaze away.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he growled into the phone, “set the meeting for Saturday. They should be making concessions for me. No, just do it...and make sure you send the contract as soon as they forward it. I’ll read it while I’m on route. I want to make sure it’s exactly as we agreed. I don’t want to be blindsided at the meeting. I’ll touch base as soon as I arrive.”

  Arran hung up without offering a goodbye and walked toward Emma, tossing the phone on the bed as he passed. He smiled at her grimly, then picked up the wine bottle and squinted at the label, as though assessing the quality.

  “I wanted to make a toast,” he scolded, filling his glass. She shrugged indifferently.

  “Sorry,” she said impassively, not really meaning it. He regarded her curiously, taking a deep swallow.

  “Are you okay?” he grinned, softening his tone. She sighed heavily, hinting at a smile. “Don’t be cross, Emma. I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day. I would’ve been here sooner if I had any choice.”

  He bent down and kissed her softly on the mouth, warming her instantly. She swallowed her anger, refusing to put further stress on the evening.

  “That’s better,” he approved, caressing her cheek with his fingertips. “Did you eat?”

  “Yes,” Emma nodded, watching him take the chair beside her.

  “Good, good,” he offered indifferently, “you look lovely, by the way.”

  Her expression softened, the compliment melting her. She held her hand out to him across the little round table, gesturing her forgiveness. He accepted her offering and raised her hand to his mouth, kissing her fingertips romantically. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, allowing themselves to unwind and get reacquainted.

  “Where’s your luggage?” she finally asked, remembering that he only had one bag brought up.

  “My assistant is taking care of it. I’m sure it will be in the car tomorrow when my driver picks us up. Do you mind if I take a shower?” he asked, polishing off the last of his wine.

  Emma shook her head, wondering if she should offer to wash his back. She was just about to suggest it when he stood up and turned away, seemingly distracted by his thoughts. He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it on the bed before heading into the bathroom. She let him go without a word, hoping a hot shower would erase the stress from his day, so they could start over with a clean slate.

  While he was gone, she undressed completely and slipped on his shirt, enjoying the silk against her flesh, still warm from his body heat. She fastened the bottom four buttons, just high enough to reveal a provocative amount of skin. She hoped her hard nipples, pressing deliciously against the fabric, would seduce a strong reaction from him.

  As soon as she heard the shower shut off, she sat on the end of the bed and waited for him. He walked out of the bathroom dressed only in his boxers, pulling a towel through his wet hair, chuckling as soon as he noticed her. She immediately stood up to greet him, flashing him a delicious amount of cleavage.

  “Hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d get ready for bed while I was waiting for you. Found this old shirt lying around. It’s a little snug,” she purred, sauntering over to him.

  “Pleasantly so,” he agreed, holding his arms open for her. She slipped into them, raising her mouth to him, her hands gingerly sliding down his backside to caress his ass. He moaned his approval and pulled her closer, teasing her with his growing erection. She slid her mouth off his, leaving a trail of moist kisses down his neck, then gently nibbled his earlobe. Her arousal blossomed quickly, instantly dampening the swollen fold between her legs. She had been yearning for him all night and couldn’t wait for him to take her.

  She kissed him again, pulling him tighter against her trembling body. He eased his head back, tucking his fingers under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. He was grinning at her sheepishly, as though he had something else on his mind.

  “Emma, I appreciate the seduction, I really do, but I’m exhausted. It’s been such a long day, and we have an early morning,” he objected, his pleasant little kisses posing as commas between his words.

  “Yeah,” she smirked, leaning in for a deeper kiss, refusing to be curbed again, “so what?”

  He squeezed her chin gently and chuckled, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “I might not have the energy, darling, but do you know what would make me very happy?”

  “What?” she whispered playfully, certain he would find the motivation to fuck her once she worked him up.

  “I’d really like a bob...” he suggested seductively, stroking the top of her head.

  “What’s that?” she purred, unfamiliar with the term. She hoped it was a British euphemism for a good fucking.

  “I believe you yanks call it a blow-job,” he clucked, offering her another quick kiss.

  Vexed, Emma pulled her head back and glared at him, heat rising to her cheeks. Was he serious?

  “Just a quick one, then we can get some sleep. We’ll have the whole trip for long, drawn-out love-making, won’t we. We can even fuck on the plane, if you like.”

  Emma dropped her arms and stepped back, hurt and confused. The night was not unfolding the way she’d hoped, not even close. She had imagined Arran bursting into the room and sweeping her off her feet, carrying her to the bed, consumed with lust for her, then fucking her with a passion equal to the night of the party. Nowhere in her imagination did he make her feel cheap. She was speechless, until he opened his mouth again.

  “It’s not too much to ask is it, considering?” he insisted thoughtlessly, alluding that she might owe him something. Emma pulled his shirt tighter around herself, holding the expensive material tightly in her fists, baffled by the suggestion.

  “Arran, I’m confused,” she stammered. “What happened to my passionate lover from the party? You made me feel so desirable that night. You took my breath away! Now...you seem so indifferent. Don’t you want me?�
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  He looked at the floor, modestly wrapping his towel around his waist, considering her words. When he finally met her eyes they were cold, challenging.

  “Well now, I thought it was a secret who our lovers were,” he sneered, “what made you think it was me?”

  She felt her breath catch in her throat, suddenly not sure about anything. She hesitated, her mouth agape, playing the night back in her mind. His wry laughter chilled her to the bone, as though he knew something she didn’t.

  “The hickey,” she confessed, wishing she wasn’t half naked. Never in her life had she felt more vulnerable, not even with Andrew. She looked at the dress she’d thrown haphazardly over the chair when she hadn’t a care in the world. It seemed to be mocking her.

  “Hickey,” he mused, more as a statement than a question.

  “Yes, in the heat of...when we were...I know gave you a hickey. Then, when we reunited later, I saw the mark on your neck,” she explained, feeling less and less confident.

  “And you assumed it was me,” he ridiculed, raising a brow derisively, an amused expression on his face. She nodded but said nothing.

  “Oh Emma,” he mocked, “I guess we were both wrong.”

  She stared at him flatly, shrinking from his contempt.

  “I always thought you and Luke were lovers but you’ve obviously never shagged him, otherwise you would’ve known it was him.”

  Emma stared at him in disbelief, dumbfounded, her head spinning with doubt. How could that be? Luke would never...

  Arran shook his head and laughed like it was the most amusing thing in the world. She felt nauseous, as though she’d just swallowed a potent cocktail of confusion, anger, and shame, the joke on her. She didn’t find it the least bit amusing and resented his reaction.

  “Not to worry, sweet girl, it’s water under the bridge. It didn’t bother me a bit,” he snickered, trying to pacify her, but failing miserably.