An Enchanted Spring: Mists of Fate - Book Two (2 page)

Her clients’ social lives had replaced her own years ago. She put every ounce of herself into being a great publicist. She could smooth over any situation her clients found themselves in. Her years of dedication (okay, not taking a vacation or a full weekend in the entire seven years she’d been at Price Publicity) gave her contacts all over the city—reporters, journalists, magazine editors, restaurant owners—but her biggest successes came from social media. Her coworkers always turned to her for the best ways to spin something in 140 characters or less, inventive hashtags to offset negative press, and clever Facebook statuses that made light of serious situations. And she also possessed a good ear for warning bells, which helped her notice the bad vibes before a disaster struck.

However, as she sat on her little terrace, looking out over the crowded street below, she wished she were anywhere else, for the first time since she had arrived in the city years ago. It was a never-ending barrage of busy lives, all colliding in a few square miles. And her job never let her go—“regular business hours” was code only for one’s physical presence within the Price building, because the clientele at Price Publicity tended to make rather serious mistakes at all hours of the night.

She took another swig of wine as her phone rang.

“’Lo?” she answered, peering into the wineglass.

“Emma—we have a crisis.”

Emma took another swallow of her wine before answering her boss. Her tongue felt a little fuzzy. “Josh, I’m not working tonight.”

“Are you drunk?” he asked. Emma could almost see his brow furrow, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom the prim and proper Emma Perkins getting drunk. By herself.

On a Wednesday night.

“Nooo,” Emma snorted.

“Oh my God. You
are
drunk.”

“Why are you calling me, Josh?”

“Because you need to be in the office tomorrow morning at seven. I was checking my email—”

“You really do work too much,” Emma interrupted.

“So says the pot to the kettle,” Josh snickered. “Listen, a hi-pri came into our inboxes almost an hour ago. We’ve all been waiting for your response.”

Emma’s fuzzy brain tried to snap to attention at the mention of a high-priority email, but it just wasn’t working right. “From who?” The only client who would warrant a high-priority email was the one in the incriminating photos.

She took another large sip to block out the memory.

Josh’s voice was serious. “Mr. Price.”

Emma stood up quickly, choking on her wine. Putting a hand over her eyes to stop the spinning, she managed, “Mr. Price, as in, Mr. Price, the CEO?”

“That’s the one.”

She swallowed hard. Mr. Price gave everyone a BlackBerry so he wouldn’t have to call them—in his opinion, every employee at his firm was on call for him all day, every day, through email. He reserved the phone for his clients.

Josh continued, “Emma, stop drinking and get yourself together. Mr. Price wants to see us in his office at seven tomorrow morning. There’s a potential new client—he’s so wealthy he eats money for breakfast. And he’s demanded you and only you, and he’s refusing to deal with anyone else…even Mr. Price.”

“Oh, God,” Emma groaned.

“Exactly.”

Mr. Price loathed when clients refused to deal with him directly. Especially the exceptionally wealthy ones. And if they requested someone outside the top tier of management, Price wanted detailed, in-person reports three times per week for the length of the contract. If she didn’t deliver results in the form of a contract extension, there would be hell to pay.

Who was she kidding? Her life was already a living hell; it wasn’t like it could get much worse.

“Okay, respond to that email for me? I’ll be there. Tell him I’m with a client right now or something.”

“Done,” Josh replied, the
tap-tap-tap
of a keyboard audible over the line. “I’ll meet you outside the office at six thirty.”

“Okay,” Emma said with a sigh, ruefully pouring the contents of her wineglass into the plastic potted palm on the terrace. “I hope I’m not hung over tomorrow.”

“Tonight, take two aspirin and drink an entire glass of water before you go to bed,” Josh instructed. “I need you alert, Perkins. In the morning, you’re going to drink a small glass of orange juice. No coffee.”

“What?!”

“Trust me, Emma. Keep it simple, right?”

Emma smiled a little. That was her mantra for her clients—keep it simple. Simple press releases, simple statements, simple truths—or lies, as the case warranted.

If only real life worked like that.

“Good night, Josh. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Six thirty, Emma.”

Emma hung up, morose. Work always came first; everyone always needed something from her. But that was how her world worked—she gave, everyone took, and she was paid for it. Emma squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she didn’t need anything else from anyone. She had herself, and that was enough. It had been that way for years before Ben, and she was committed to being that way for years to come. She had her job, her health, and her true passion.

When Emma was small, maybe seven or eight, her father had given her a giant toy castle. It was enormous, one of the spectacular dollhouses they sold in department stores, and it sparked her imagination like no other toy. Her mother gave her a tiny princess doll, and an entire garrison of knights to protect it. Emma usually made the princess rescue the knights, which made her mother laugh. The tinkling sound was full of joy; she always said how proud she was that her daughter was willing to save herself from any evil princes.

It was Emma’s clearest memory from her childhood, aside from the day her teacher led her into the principal’s office, where a police officer told her that her parents had been killed in a car accident.

When the time came for her to move into her grandparents’ house, she left the castle and the toys behind.

But in college, something propelled her to take a medieval studies class, and in it, she found peace and a rediscovered love of knights in shining armor, which led to a major in Medieval Thought and Antiquities. It was her passion, and even though her job was demanding, she made time every month to write an article or two for various obscure publications. Articles that she told no one about, and even wrote under a pseudonym. It was her last shred of that girlhood dream, and she didn’t want reality to ever intrude.

She blinked back the prick of tears. Her reality was anything but valiant knights. No, hers only included the evil prince. She was grateful her mother wasn’t alive to see what a failure she’d become.

Emma shook herself from the direction of her thoughts, refusing to start a pity party that would no doubt have her reaching for another bottle of wine. She couldn’t go down that path, not when she had an important meeting in the morning about some hotshot client. She looked up at the sky, wishing she could see the stars, but in the city, all she ever saw was the kind of star who demanded more and more of her.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Josh, reminding her to take the aspirin. Emma headed inside the empty apartment, trying to ignore the loneliness that threatened to overwhelm her.

• • •

“Ms. Perkins.” Paul Price clasped his hands tightly in front of his protruding belly. Although she tried to avoid looking directly at it, Emma always found herself staring at his shirt, her eyes locked on the bottom button as it strained against the hole. She wondered, if it
did
pop off, whether she’d have to dodge left or right.

Mr. Price cleared his throat, and Emma’s eyes snapped up to his.
Caught
.
She mentally chastised herself and resolved to pay better attention.

“You’re certain there’s no prior connection to this client?” Mr. Price asked.

Emma slid a glance to the clock that hung on the wall behind Josh, who was also forced to sit through this meeting. It was barely past eight a.m. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out before asking for coffee.

She carefully folded her hands in front of her and rested them on the polished mahogany conference table in the center of his cavernous office. “Mr. Price, I promise, I have never heard of Aidan MacWilliam. I don’t understand why he called you on your personal phone, nor why he’s refusing to work with any other publicist but me.”

Emma had to admit, she herself was curious as to why Mr. MacWilliam sought her services. On paper, she was just like all the other midlevel publicists at the company. While she did have a growing list of well-known clients, she knew she wasn’t yet at the level where the elite people of the world would seek her out. And, glancing at the file in front of her again, Aidan MacWilliam seemed to fit into that category.

“Perhaps he knows your work,” Mr. Price concluded, interrupting her thoughts.

Emma doubted it, but didn’t say it aloud. Publicly, her name wasn’t attached to anyone—clients rarely told each other about a great publicity manager, for fear the attention would be taken from them and placed onto the newer, bigger client. Plus, according to Mr. Price, this client was from Ireland. Price Publicity, LLC’s entire client base was mostly American, with some Asian companies.

Mr. Price heaved a great sigh, as though he had finally thought his last thought on the subject, but ruined the effect when he added, “MacWilliam wants you. He stated very clearly that his situation is a private one, and that he wouldn’t discuss it with anyone but you. So.” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “You’ll accept him as your new client, but I want daily updates as to what he wants, how you’re going to provide it to him, and how we can use this to promote the company in the public eye.” He dismissed them both with a wave of his hand, and Emma quickly followed Josh out of the intimidating office.

In the kitchen area, as she stirred the sugar into her cup of coffee, Emma leveled a stare at Josh. “So you’re telling me that this guy—MacWilliam—calls up the biggest publicity name in New York City
on his home phone
and simply demands that he wants
me
as his PR manager?” She tilted her head skeptically.

Josh casually leaned against the counter, sipping his own cup. “You heard Price. MacWilliam is a wealthy, reclusive man.” He picked up the folder and pulled out the dossier. “He wants what he wants, when he wants it—not unlike the majority of our clients. Hmm. No online presence, no paper trails, no reputation smears, not even an angry ex.” He looked at her soberly. “After what happened with Kincaid, this should be a walk in the park. Maybe it’s just what you need to get your mojo back.”

Emma blinked back the sudden prick of tears, humiliation swamping her; Josh was the only one who knew of her situation, as she’d put the paperwork in months ago to be removed from the Kincaid account. “I’m sorry. My personal life shouldn’t affect my professional one.”

Josh smiled sympathetically. “I know you’re suffering. A broken heart is—”

Emma threw her hand up. “Whoa. Let’s get one thing straight. I am not brokenhearted over losing that cheating, lying jackass. Absolutely not. I’m upset that I didn’t see it coming. But I am
not
upset that I am free from a loveless
waste
of a relationship.”

Josh blinked. “Okay then.”

“Now. Back to MacWilliam. You agree that this doesn’t add up, right?”

“There are plenty of eccentric folks out there,” Josh replied, clearly relieved that her outburst was over. “And he specifically requested that you be the one to assist him. And, as you know, the wealthiest clients get what they want. We deliver it.”

“So you want me to meet with him tonight, take him to dinner, see what this is all about?”

Josh shook his head. “No. Well, maybe. First, you’ll meet with him here, this afternoon. I want him to be well aware that we have a face to his name. Safety first.”

Josh was a good guy, and he was always ensuring his team’s security. No one could have meetings outside the office without documenting them first—and in such a large city, Emma was grateful for it.

Josh continued to pore over the paper in front of him. “Oh. Here’s something. Looks like he plans to check out the auction that we’re handling.”

Christie’s was having a special auction that the publicity firm had been hired to promote. A collection of pristine, rare, and expensive medieval artifacts had been placed for auction by an anonymous source, and it promised to be one of the most glamorous events of the year in New York City. Tickets just for the chance to view the artifacts were priced in the thousands. Emma was dying to see pictures, but all items and descriptions were under lock and key. No one was allowed a sneak peek until twenty-four hours prior to the event. And even then, you had to present a cashier’s check in excess of ten thousand dollars at the auction house for access to the artifacts.

She wouldn’t be seeing those anytime soon.

“Emma!”

“Sorry,” she replied automatically, once again caught lost in her thoughts.

Josh sighed. “You need to shake this funk. Maybe MacWilliam is the client to do that.”

“Well,” Emma capitulated with a small smile, taking the folder labeled
Aidan MacWilliam
from his outstretched hand. “I don’t have any Irish clients.”

“You do now.”

• • •

Emma straightened her skirt and smoothed her hair. Mr. MacWilliam was waiting for her in Mr. Price’s office.

“Dibs,” Heinous Heidi murmured as Emma passed by her cube.

Emma paused despite her better judgment. “Excuse me?”

Heidi smirked. “After Mr. MacWilliam meets you and realizes his mistake, I call dibs on his account. Price already signed off.”

Two interns popped their heads up from their cubes.

“Holy hell, Emma. Did you see him? I know we get lookers in here all the time…but
whoa.
”

“He is so unbelievably hot!” the other chimed in breathlessly.

“Down, girls,” Emma replied with a slight smile. Her expression became frosty as she turned back to Heidi. “Looks like you’ll have to fight for him.”

Heidi gracefully crossed her endless legs and sat back slightly, giving Emma a perfect view straight into perfect cleavage. She gave Emma a Cheshire Cat smile and almost purred when she replied, “Oh, Emma. I don’t fight for men. They fight for me. I’m sure you can relate…oh. That’s right. You’ve never had anyone fight for you. In fact, if memory serves, you don’t have anyone anymore.” She snickered.