The Billionaire's Bidding (13 page)

Then he turned from the rail and marched down the stairs.

Emma was glad. She'd said what needed to be said, and cleared the air between them. It was the only way to move forward.

Really.

 

Alex knew he had to back off. He was pushing Emma too hard and too fast. But he had a burning need to figure out what was going on between them. Truth was, at this moment, he had a feeling he'd pick Emma over anybody anytime anywhere. And that scared him.

From the moment they'd made love, he knew things had gone way past a business deal. They had something going on, and he needed to figure out what it was. To do that, he needed to talk to Emma. But she didn't want to talk to him. She especially didn't want to talk to him about them.

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.

A
lex 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.”

Alex shook his head as he paced back down the hallway.

In the foyer, he picked the phone out of Emma's hand.

“Hey!”

“You, in the tub, now,” he ordered, snapping it shut.

“Alex,”
she protested, grabbing for the phone.

“Save it. I've got four hundred pounds of tenderloin to rescue.” He swung open the big oak door.

“Hey, cousin,” sang Nathaniel.

“Point me to the cube van.”

Nathaniel ignored him and elbowed his way in. “This must be Emma,” he cooed, taking Katie by both hands.

“I'm Katie,” she corrected, tugging her hands away and closing the neckline of her robe.

“Ahhh,”
said Nathaniel, hitting Alex with a sidelong look.

“What ahhh?” asked Katie, eyes narrowing.

“I'm Emma,” said Emma, stepping forward to hold out her hand. “Alex has told me nothing but good things about you.”

Nathaniel took Emma's hand with great fanfare and bestowed a kiss on her knuckles. “You're more beautiful than I imagined. And a most charming liar.”

“What ahhh?” Katie repeated.

Nathaniel gave her a sharp look. “Wait your turn.”

“
Excuse
me?” she said.

Nathaniel ignored her, clinging to Emma's hand.

“Would you do something for me?” Emma asked him sweetly.

“For you, anything.”

“Make Alex give me back my phone.”

Alex grasped her shoulders, turning her toward the staircase. “Bath.”

Then he turned to his cousin. “And
you,
keep your hands off my bride.”

“She's stunning,” said Nathaniel with an exaggerated sigh, then he deigned to gaze down at Katie.

Katie stared back with a clenched jaw.

“Ahhh means I've heard about you, too,” he said.

She was about to ask what he'd heard. Alex could see it in her eyes. But, to her credit, and to what had to be Nathaniel's disappointment, she didn't take the bait. She kept completely silent.

Head held high, she turned to link arms with Emma, and the women headed up the stairs.

“You're losing your touch, cousin,” said Alex.

Nathaniel straightened his tie. “We already know she has terrible taste in men.”

Alex slapped him on the back. “You cling to that thought. And help me get the damn tenderloin into the house.”

 

After the wedding rehearsal and the dinner at Cavendish, Alex leaned on the railing of his veranda. It was after midnight, and the mansion was mostly dark. But the yard lights were on, and a few clouds teased a faraway moon.

“Not too late to back out,” said Nathaniel, approaching with a crystal tumbler of single malt in each hand.

“I'm not backing out,” said Alex. Worst case scenario, he'd make millions of dollars. Best case…He accepted the drink from Nathaniel and took a long swallow.

Best case, Emma decided to give them a real chance.

He'd given it a lot of thought over the past week, and there was something going on between them. It went past business, even past friendship, and he intended to use the honeymoon to figure out exactly what it was.

“The sister's prettier,” said Nathaniel.

Alex straightened and shot his cousin a warning glare. “Excuse me?”

Nathaniel chuckled low.

“Emma happens to be gorgeous.”

“Do you happen to be falling for your bride?”

“I'm simply pointing out the obvious.”

“That she's gorgeous?”

“She is.” Anyone could see that.

“And Katie's a pale second?”

Alex took another swig.

Had he once called Katie the pretty one? Because Katie couldn't hold a candle to Emma. Emma was one of those rare women who got prettier as you got to know her. She had a stunning smile, eyes that glowed when she was happy and sparkled when she laughed. She had an inner radiance that nobody could fake.

“Katie's a pale second,” he agreed.

Nathaniel sobered, and his jaw went tight. “You do remember she has an ulterior motive, right?”

“Katie?”

“Emma.”

“I'm fully aware of all Emma's motives.” She was doing exactly what she'd promised. The woman didn't have a scheming bone in her body.

“Al—”

“Back off, Nate.”

“I'm just saying.”

“Well stop saying it. My wife is not plotting against us.”

“Everybody's plotting against us.”

“You're paranoid.”

“She's marrying you for your money.”

“Because I forced her to.”

“Just keep your guard up.”

“Just mind your own damn business.”

Nathaniel shook his head. Then his mouth curved into a knowing smile.

“What?” Alex asked.

“It's ironic,” said Nathaniel.

Alex waited.

“That you fell for her.”

“I did not.” Alex snapped his jaw shut.

Okay. No point in disagreeing. He had fallen for Emma. But it hadn't clouded his judgment. For the first time in his life, his judgment was clear.

He was marrying Emma in the morning, and it was absolutely the right thing to do.

 

Emma told herself over and over that this wasn't a real wedding. But somehow it didn't ease the pain of her father's absence. Marriage of convenience or not, he should have been here to hold her hand, to escort her down the aisle, to tell her everything was going to be all right when, deep down in her soul, Emma feared it would never be all right again.

The weather had cooperated. So, under the glare of a brilliant blue sky, the gazebo band struck up the traditional version of the “Wedding March.” Mrs. Nash's choice, no doubt.

That was Katie's cue to start down the long strip of royal blue carpet that bisected seven hundred white folding chairs filled with smiling friends, relatives and business associates. Lilac ribbons streamed from the floral pew ends, fluttering in the breeze while Emma kept her attention fixed on Katie's purple dress.

Proving Alex lived in a whole other world, Mrs. Nash had hired a team of seamstresses to design and sew Katie's dress in less than a week. The same nineteen-twenties style as Emma's, it was shorter and simpler, and perfectly suited to Katie's slender shape.

They'd both opted for upswept hairstyles. To match the color of her dress, Katie's had a light sprinkling of irises at the back, while Emma had had a pinned French twist and the antique diamond tiara to match her cream-colored vintage gown. A veil seemed excessive, so she'd left her head bare.

Katie passed the midpoint of the long aisle, Emma's cue to start walking. She took a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face. She couldn't bring herself to meet anyone's eyes, and she sure didn't want to look at Alex, so she fixed her gaze on the rose-covered arbor.

Everything else faded to her soft vision, and she told herself her father would be proud. At least, she hoped he would be proud. She'd give anything to have him here to tell her one way or the other.

By the time she made it to the front, her eyes were misty with memories and regrets. Striking in his tux, Alex took her hands in his and stared at her quizzically while the preacher welcomed the congregation.

His eyes narrowed in a question, and she shook her head and forced a smile. She was fine. She would get this over with, and her life would get back to normal. Well, almost normal.

He gave her a smile in return and a reassuring little squeeze. Then the preacher addressed the two of them, talking at length on the solemnity of marriage and their obligations to each other as lifelong partners.

Emma grew more uncomfortable by the second. Was Alex listening to this? Had he known it was coming? Could they not cut to the “I dos” and get out?

Finally, the preacher started on the vows. Emma almost breathed a sigh of relief. But then her gaze caught Alex's, and his deep voice seemed to penetrate her very skin. She felt a tingle envelope her as he promised to love her and honor her.

It wasn't real. She'd repeated that to herself over and over again. But when she whispered her own vows, something shifted inside her. And when he slipped the antique wedding band on her finger, she felt the weight of a dozen generations on her shoulders. For better or worse, she was now a Garrison bride.

The preacher pronounced them husband and wife, the crowd erupted in a spontaneous cheer, and Alex leaned down to kiss her.

“For the record,” he whispered as his palms cupped her face and lips grew close. “I
did
marry the pretty one.”