Them.
What a concept.
Alex stopped at the edge of the rose garden and gave his head a quick shake. His brain couldn’t wrap itself around the idea of a them. He liked her. Sure. And he respected her, and she definitely turned him on. But what did that mean?
Did it mean he should give their marriage a chance? Or did it mean he was getting too caught up in the whole wedding charade?
He turned toward the balcony where she gazed out at the ocean, her hair lifting in the breeze. His heart gave a little hitch at the sight of her, and he knew one thing for sure. He wouldn’t be getting any perspective at all while Emma was around.
Backing off was probably a good idea, for his sanity if nothing else. Besides, they’d ridden the publicity wave about as far as they could. From a business perspective, there was nothing left to do but get married.
And then they’d be together on the honeymoon, and maybe things would start to make sense. And, if it didn’t, they’d have plenty of time to talk things out. After all, Emma had made it pretty plain they wouldn’t be doing anything else.
Once Philippe and Mrs. Nash joined forces, the wedding plans shifted to high gear, barely leaving Emma time to take a breath. She stopped asking questions along about Wednesday, seeking sanctuary in her business problems instead. It was less stressful to worry about the proposed tourist tax regime in France than the music to which she’d say “I do.”
Yesterday, Mrs. Nash had couriered a set of cardboard index cards, telling her where to go and what to do over the two days of festivities. Tonight the rehearsal dinner kicked things off. She and Katie were to dress at Alex’s mansion in Oyster Bay. Then a limo would pick up the wedding party at seven. Alex’s cousin Nathaniel would host a dinner for fifty at the Cavendish Club.
Afterward, the women would stay over at the mansion. Where, tomorrow morning, a veritable army of hairdressers, manicurists and makeup artists were due to arrive.
For the moment, Emma’s stomach did a little flip-flop as her car rounded a curve and the mansion came into view. What the neatly typed index cards didn’t cover was her reaction to Alex.
Katie popped forward in the passenger seat. “This is where you’re going to live?”
“Only on weekends,” said Emma, her voice firm with conviction. “And only for a few months.”
Over the past week, she’d refocused her priorities. Her mind was on business now. Alex was simply a means to an end.
She wouldn’t picture them together-not in his breakfast nook over a cup of coffee, not on his deck sharing a bottle of wine, and definitely not in his bedroom, in a tangle of sheets, his hot, naked body pressed up against hers.
“Can I come visit?” Katie asked, twisting her head as they passed the front rose garden.
Emma sucked in a bracing breath. “Sure,” she said with determined cheer. Then Katie’s phraseology penetrated. She’d said I not we. “What about David?”
Beneath her gauzy, mauve blouse, Katie shrugged her shoulders. Her lips pursed every so slightly. “He’s been working a lot of hours lately.”
David’s job interfering with his personal life?
“He works for you,” Emma pointed out.
Katie tossed her head and let out a chopped laugh. “Never mind. It’s nothing. Sometimes he hangs out with the guys at the club.”
Emma pulled to a stop in the round driveway, turning to peer at her sister. “Is everything okay?”
Katie stared straight back. “Everything is great.” She gestured to the wide staircase and the towering stone pillars. “Everything is fantastic! The Cavendish Club tonight, and the wedding of the year tomorrow. Now get your luggage and let’s move in.”
Emma nodded sharply in agreement. She could do this. She was ready for this.
Her cell phone buzzed, as two of Alex’s staff members trotted down the stairs. She flipped it open and saw the Paris area code. Business before marriage. As it should be.
Nine
Alex stood at the bottom of the mansion’s main staircase and listened to the hustle and bustle of the preparations. Mrs. Nash was taking a strip off a delivery man. Philippe was fussing over the temperature of the butter cream icing. And Katie was running around in a robe, worried about rose petals in the bathwater.
Only Emma seemed calm, serene really as she went along the hallway past Hamilton’s portrait.
They were getting married tomorrow-in less than twenty-four hours-and she was talking to somebody in Paris, making sure the McKinley Inns convention display had arrived on time. She laughed at something the caller said, and her smile lit up the room.
He tried to remember the last time his house had felt like this. Maybe when he was a boy. Maybe when his mother was still alive.
His father had hated parties, but his mother had planned them anyway, sometimes for upward of a hundred. Alex could remember their arguments, and the way his father’s jaw had tensed when the first guests arrived.
His gaze strayed to the landing at the top of the main staircase. As a young boy, he’d crept out of his room and peeked through the railing, watching finely coiffed women and snappily dressed men stroll through the foyer, drinks in hand, voices animated.
His mother had been happy on those nights. And the house had felt warm and alive. Like it felt now-with a woman present.
A certain glow worked its way up from the pit of his belly when he thought about Emma staying for a while. She looked up from her call and smiled at him before saying something in French into the phone.
Emma spoke French. And she seemed pretty much unflappable in the face of chaos.
Maybe they’d entertain some more. No harm in making the most of their time together. And fine parties with key contacts would do nothing but help their businesses thrive.
His own cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket, and he retrieved it, flipping it open.
“Garrison here,” he said.
“It’s your best man.”
“Hey, Nathaniel. Where are you?”
“Just touching down in your backyard.”
“You better not be blowing my tent over.”
Nathaniel chuckled. “Relax. We’re on the other side of the garage. You know you’ve got news crews circling, right?”
“They can circle all they want. We’re going to the Cavendish Club tonight.”
“Exactly. Still, I’m glad I’m not trying to get in your driveway.”
“Did you happen to see a white cube van back there?”
“It’s stuck behind a couple of semis and about a dozen limos.”
“Good God. That’s Philippe’s tenderloin. I gotta get somebody out there to direct traffic.”
“See you in a minute,” said Nathaniel, signing off.
“Mrs. Nash,” Alex called.
Emma plugged one ear and moved into an alcove.
Alex strode down the hallway and nearly ran into Katie.
“Can you please help me get her into the bath?” Katie pleaded.
“She’s on the phone. Have you seen Mrs. Nash?” He continued toward the kitchen.
Katie scurried behind him. “I know she’s on the phone. That’s the problem.”
“Well, I can’t get her off. I have to rescue-”
The kitchen was a maelstrom of activity. That was the only way to describe it. A dozen cooks vied for space on the counter-tops. Two more were working over the stove. A cleanup crew was elbows deep in the sinks. And Mrs. Nash’s voice rose clearly above the din as she spoke to a young man with a perpetually bobbing head.
“One hundred tables,” she said. “The order was for white cloths with the royal blue skirting. And I don’t want a single wrinkle. If you can’t guarantee-”
“Never mind,” Alex muttered to himself, doing an about-face.
“Alex,” said Katie. “The hairdresser will be here in less than an hour.”