“You don’t think it might attract attention?”
“I thought attracting attention to us was your mission in life.”
He snapped open the newly discovered case. “Touché.”
“I, on the other hand.” She gave in to temptation and looped the heavy choker around her neck. “Am trying to be classy and circumspect about our engagement.”
Alex set the case down on the edge of the bed, motioning for her to turn around. “Let me.”
Emma stood and faced away from him so that he could work with the clasp.
He brushed her hair out of the way and took the two ends from her fingertips.
“Thanks,” she whispered, allowing herself a few seconds to enjoy the brush of his hands and the fan of his breath.
He smoothed the necklace and touched her shoulders, half turning her so she was facing a big oval mirror above a mahogany vanity table. “Take a look.”
Emma’s hand went to her throat where the necklace sparkled with the brilliance of two dozen flawless gems. She took a few steps closer, watching the diamonds reflect the light and the heavy gold glisten with her movements.
“Stunning,” she breathed out loud.
“Stunning,” Alex agreed, his voice a low rumble.
She glanced up and met his eyes in the mirror.
The smoky gray had turned to dark slate. His gaze dropped to the necklace, and in slow motion he brushed away a few stray strands of her hair.
Then he leaned down.
She knew she should stop him. She had to stop him. But her body was already anticipating the taste of his lips, his smooth warm lips against the delicate curve of her neck. Desire sizzled within her, and she held still, waiting, wanting.
His lips touched her skin, nudging the necklace out of the way, drawing her in with a gentle kiss. Her hands grasped the vanity top, steadying herself as her need for him took the strength out of her knees.
He broke contact, but then kissed her again. This time the tip of his tongue drew a circle above her collarbone. He blew on the moist spot, and her entire body contracted in response. Then he moved to the other side of her neck with a full, enveloping, overwhelming kiss.
Higher, then higher still. He kissed her jawline, her cheek, then his hands tunneled into her hair, bringing her head around as he zeroed in on her mouth.
When his lips met hers, passion and longing welled up from every corner of her being. She released the vanity, grasping his arm instead, clinging to the strength of his bicep and turning fully into his embrace.
While one hand guided her chin, his free arm snaked around her waist, pulling her firmly into the cradle of his thighs. His muscles were hot and hard as steel, transmitting the unmistakable signals of male desire.
His mouth opened wide, and she answered greedily. His tongue plundered her inviting depths, sending pulsating messages of need through her veins. She subconsciously arched her spine, moving closer, pressing her pelvis, her breasts, her thighs tight against his body.
The world outside disappeared, and her only thought was Alex. His incredible scent, his unbridled power, and the salty, tangy, heady taste of his skin fueled her hunger and hijacked any semblance of reason.
“Emma.” Her name vibrated on his lips.
His hand slid to her bottom, grinding her high and tight against him, leaving her no illusions about the state of his arousal. The knowledge shot through her, ricocheting out from the apex of her thighs, streaking electricity to her toes and fingertips.
She cupped his face, smoothing her palms over his rough, masculine skin. She dug her fingers into his hair, kissing him harder, kissing him deeper. There was a primal magic to this passion, something she’d never, ever felt before.
In some dim recess of her mind, she knew they’d have to stop. But not now, not yet.
His breathing grew ragged. With both hands, he lifted her from the floor, slipping her skirt up her thighs, wrapping her legs around his waist so that the fabric of his suit abraded the thin silk of her panties. His thumbs slipped beneath the delicate elastic, and her muscles clenched around the touch.
Alex swore under his breath.
Emma couldn’t disagree.
“We have to stop,” he groaned.
She nodded, not sure she was capable of forming words.
His thumbs circled higher, forcing a moan from her lips.
“Don’t do that,” he growled.
“Then stop-” She moaned again.
His hands retreated. He drew his head back to gaze into her eyes. “I want you,” he confessed bluntly, then waited for her reaction.
She took a breath. Then another. Then another, desperately gathering her bearings. “That can’t be good.”
“On the contrary,” he said as he slowly lowered her to the floor. “I have a feeling it could be very, very good.”
She moved away, out of range, shaking her head. “Don’t you say that.”
“Not saying it won’t change a thing.”
Maybe not, but it was all she had. She couldn’t take this. She’d never felt so wickedly free, as if some unbridled hedonist had taken over her body. She would have said anything, promised anything, done anything.
“We can’t ever do it again,” she murmured.
“That’s one solution,” he agreed. But then his voice dipped low, and he leaned slightly forward. “Or else we do, do it again. But we never, ever stop.”
The room temperature seemed to spike as they stared at each other. For a moment, Emma actually hesitated over the choice.
Abrupt noises came from the other side of the bedroom door.
“Mr. Garrison,” Mrs. Nash cried from the hallway.
Her rapid footsteps were followed by more measured ones and a litany of rapid-fire French.
“Philippe,” said Emma as Alex reflexively sprang toward the door.
It burst open, and Mrs. Nash marched inside.
“Will you please be so kind as to inform this odious man that the Garrison wedding feast dates back to William the Conqueror, and that we are not serving Garrison guests microscopic portions of bottom-feeding crustaceans smothered in outlandish butter sauces while I’m alive and breathing.” She took a breath.
“A slab of beef and a dollop of dough?” Philippe demanded, coming abreast of Mrs. Nash. “You have the nerve to call that food?”
“I call that the Queen’s supper,” Mrs. Nash snapped in return.
“You Brits don’t know how to do anything but boil.”
“I’ll boil you, you-”
“Excuse me?” Alex interrupted, glancing back and forth between the two.
Philippe seemed to recover his composure. “Forgive me, Mr. Garrison. Mademoiselle.” He clicked his heels together and fixed his attention on Alex. “I am Philippe Gagnon. Sous Chef, trained at the Sorbonne and apprenticed under John-Pierre Laconte. I have cooked for princes and presidents. And I am at your service.”
Alex turned to blink at Emma.
“I hired a caterer,” she confessed into the silence.
He paused, his expression carefully neutral. “You hired a caterer?”
“Is that a bad thing?” Before the question was out, she knew it sounded ridiculous. Mrs. Nash was about to call up the Royal Navy. And Philippe’s complexion was turning an unnatural shade of purple.
Alex didn’t answer, but his eyes widened.
Mrs. Nash sniffed. “You are the bride, of course.”
Emma might be the bride, but it was easy to see she’d stepped on some very important toes. She hadn’t wanted to hire a caterer. It had been an act of self-preservation.
Though she had to admit, Philippe was wonderful. He’d cleared her lobby and emptied her mezzanine of unwanted wedding planners and reporters. Since then, he’d been nothing but professional and helpful. She didn’t want to fire him.
But Mrs. Nash, who was obviously the uncontested mistress of her domain had very concrete plans for Alex’s wedding. Emma sure didn’t want to alienate her, either.