The Billionaire's Bidding (12 page)

“I bet he appreciates that. Somebody keeping him grounded, I mean.”

“He hates it. So did his father. But his mother wouldn't let the man fire me.”

Emma attempted to shift the conversation to the positive. “She obviously valued your help.”

Mrs. Nash straightened. “No. She did it to spite him.”

Emma honestly didn't know what to say to that.

“She was a misguided young woman, and he was a bitter old man.”

“But, why—” Emma quickly cut off her inappropriate question.

“The money,” said Mrs. Nash. “She wanted it. He had it.” Then Mrs. Nash shook her head. “She just didn't count on…the rest.”

Emma tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She reminded herself that she had her own life, her own money, her own business. Alex wouldn't have any real power over her.

Mrs. Nash's voice turned brisk again. “I suspect she thought she'd outlive him.”

Even though part of her dreaded the answer, Emma had to ask. “How did she die?”

“Horseback riding accident. Poor thing. Alex was only ten and a regular protégé for that cynical old bastard.”

Emma shivered, struggling to find her voice. “Am I getting into bed with the devil?”

Mrs. Nash cocked her head, silent for a moment as she assessed Emma. “I'd say you'd already been to bed with the devil.”

Emma was speechless. Did Mrs. Nash mean it literally? How could she possibly know?

Mrs. Nash gave an out-of-character chuckle as she went to work on the back buttons of the dress. “That's the trouble with the devil, young lady. He's irresistibly charming. Even to an old woman like me.”

But Alex couldn't hurt Mrs. Nash. Where he could definitely hurt Emma. If she wasn't careful. If she didn't resist his charms on every possible level.

There was a sharp rap on the bedroom door.

“The invitations have arrived, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Sarah,” Mrs. Nash called. Then to Emma, “Philippe and Alex will be waiting downstairs.”

 

Alex knew he had a problem as soon as he saw the expression on Emma's face.

“Six hundred and twenty-two?”

“You can add some more names if you'd like,” said Mrs. Nash, her attention on one of the invitation samples. “We are
not
sending out scrollwork, script and purple fleur-de-lis under the Garrison family name.” She gave Philippe a sharp look over the top of her glasses.

Emma waved the list at Alex. “Who are they? Your ex-lovers?”

The remark was uncalled for, and Alex clenched his jaw. “Hardly any of them.”

Emma sniffed.

“The fleur-de-lis is a beautiful and honorable symbol,” said Philippe. “It's an iris. For the goddess.”

“I don't know six hundred people,” said Emma. “I sure don't know three hundred.”

Mrs. Nash squinted at the sample. “Good Lord, that butterfly hurts my eyes.”

“You were thinking black and white?” asked Philippe.

“Silver,” said Mrs. Nash.

“Blah,” Philippe retorted.

“Maybe a little royal blue. Something dignified. Not this tacky, froufrou Technicolor explosion.”

Alex couldn't care less what his invitations looked like. “Why are you making this into a thing?” he asked Emma.

She dropped her hand and the list into her lap. “I'm making six hundred and twenty-two things out of this.”

“The garden is huge.”

“That's not the point.”

“What is the point?” He honestly wanted to know. What difference did it make if they got married in front of fifty guests or six hundred?

“Beef Wellington,” Philippe suddenly sang out.

Emma turned to stare, while Mrs. Nash stilled.

“A compromise,” said Philippe. “I will give up the fleur-delis if you agree to the
boeuf en croûte,
instead of your Yorkshire puddings.”

“The Duke of Wellington's dish?” asked Mrs. Nash.

“Which he stole from Napoleon.”

“After defeating him in the war.”

Alex jumped in before the two could get going again. “Let's just say yes.”

“And
I
have a compromise for you,” said Emma.

Alex raised his brow.

“Your six hundred and twenty-two guests for a drive-through wedding in Vegas.”

“Three hundred of them are yours,” said Mrs. Nash, flipping her way through the invitation samples.

“What?” Emma's astonishment was clear.

“I spoke with your sister, and with your secretary.”

Alex didn't even try to disguise his smug expression. “Three hundred of them are yours.”

“Shoot me now,” said Emma.

“Ahhh, mademoiselle,” said Philippe, rising to put an arm around Emma. “It is no matter. You will be beautiful. The dinner will be magnificent. And people will forgive us for the insipid invitations.”

“The flowers?” Alex quickly put in, before Mrs. Nash could make a remark that did justice to her expression.

 

Standing on the wide, concrete veranda, Emma watched a team of gardeners working on the expanse of lawn that stretched out to the cliffs at the edge of the Garrisons' property.

The tent would be set up on the north lawn. The arbor and guest chairs for the ceremony were slated for the rose garden. And a band would play in the gazebo. If the weather looked promising, a lighted dance floor would be constructed near the bottom of the veranda stairs.

The print shop would work overtime on the invitations tonight, and come next Saturday, she'd marry Alex. The guests likely had plans for that day. Heck, Emma already had plans for Saturday. But she'd cancel them and so would they. A garden wedding at the Garrison estate was too hot a ticket to miss.

Alex was counting on that.

And, as Mrs. Nash had said, being a billionaire, he usually got his way.

“Everything okay?” his voice rumbled behind her.

She coughed out a laugh. “What could possibly be wrong?”

He came up beside her. “Thought you might like to know they've agreed on the centerpieces.”

“Yeah?”

“White roses and purple heather. Okay by you?”

The timbre of the lawn-mower motor changed, and she shrugged in response to Alex's question. “I really don't have an opinion on the centerpieces.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“It's your party.”

She pulled her gaze away from the two men in the rose garden to look up at him. “You feel at all funny about this?”

“Funny how?”

“Like a fraud?”

His eyes squinted down for a moment. “A little. I didn't expect to….”

“It's not like we're breaking the law,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“We're throwing a great party, solidifying a business relationship, and giving the tabloids something good to write about for the next two weeks. I don't see the harm.”

Emma didn't either, at least not from the logical perspective he'd outlined. But there was a problem at a visceral level.

“I guess I should ask you who pays for it,” she said.

“Pays for what?”

“The party. The wedding. The six hundred guests. Are we splitting it down the middle?”

“I'll get this one,” he said, crossing his arms to lean them on the rail, shifting his attention to the distant horizon. The ocean was growing restless, frothing up green and white as the tide rolled in. “You can catch the next one.”

“The next wedding?”

“The next dinner.”

“I doubt it'll be for six hundred.”

Alex just shrugged.

“We need to talk about that,” she said, matching his posture, leaning on the top rail and gazing out at the rhythmic waves.

“About dinner?”

“About how we're going to work this. Where are we going to live.”

“Here. I thought we'd decided.”

“
You
decided.”

There was a smirk in his voice. “And your point?”

She elbowed him. “My point is, I get a vote, too.”

“I'll pull a Philippe.”

“How so?”

“A compromise. We stay here on weekends. Weekdays, we hang out in the city at one of the penthouses.”

Emma had to admit that sounded reasonable.

“You do know we have to stay together?” he asked. “At least at first.”

“I know. That solution sounds fine.”

“Given any thought to the honeymoon?”

“Not even a moment.” In fact, she'd been avoiding thinking about the honeymoon. This wasn't exactly any girl's dream scenario.

“What about Kayven Island?”

She twisted her head to look at him. “A McKinley resort?”

“Sure.”

“I thought you'd fight tooth and nail for the
home court advantage.
”

“Will we be making any business deals on our honeymoon?”

“Wasn't on my agenda.”

“Then you can have the home court advantage.”

“It's not our best resort.” Paris was bigger, and Whistler was most recently renovated.

Alex shrugged again. “I'd like to check out the island.”

“A couple of days only—I'll book it. And I'm taking my laptop and PalmPilot.”

“You afraid we'll get bored if we're alone together?”

A salt breeze gusted in off the ocean, and an image of Friday night when they were alone together bloomed in her mind. “Alex.”

His expression said he was reading her mind.

“About Friday night…”

He waited.

“We can't do that again.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Alex.”

“I'm just saying we could if we wanted to.”

“Well, we don't want to.”

“You sure?”

“Yes! I'm sure. It was crazy and stupid.”

“I thought it was exciting and satisfying.”

She knew it was those things, too. But that didn't change the fact that it couldn't happen again.

“Just out of curiosity,” said Alex. “What is your objection to it happening again?”

“This is a business deal.”

“It's also a marriage.”

She shook her head. What they were doing bore no resemblance whatsoever to a marriage. He was looking out for his interests, and she was looking out for hers. It was as simple as that.

“If we mix things up,” she said. “If we get confused. One of us—and by one of us, I mean me—is going to get hurt.”

Her hair lifted in the breeze, and he reached out to brush it back from her cheek. “I won't hurt you, Emma.”

Despite the lightness of his touch, she knew it was a lie.

“Yes you will,” she said. “Let's face it. You're not marrying me because, of all the women in New York, I'm the one you want to spend time with.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Heck, even when you narrowed the pool down to
McKinley
women in
New York City,
I came last.”

“You did not.”

“Alex. Don't rewrite history.”

“I'm not—”

“At least do me the courtesy of being honest. You want my hotels. Well, you've got them. And that means you've got me for a while, too.” She was falling for Alex. There was no point in denying it any longer. But the idea that Alex might also be falling for her was laughable. He could have any woman in New York City, probably any woman in the country. And he liked them glamorous, sophisticated and fashionable.

He was being kind right now, because deep down inside he really was a decent guy. And he seemed to like her. Sometimes, he seemed to like her a whole lot.

But she wouldn't delude herself. She wouldn't set herself up for heartache. They both knew he wasn't about to fall for plain old Emma McKinley just because he happened to be marrying her. Her chest burned as she forced herself to voice the bald truth. “But don't pretend it's anything other than a business deal.”

He was silent for a full minute, his eyes dark as a storm-tossed sea, and just as unreadable.

“Fine,” he finally said, a sharp edge to his voice. “I'll pay for the party. You live at my house. And we'll both bring our laptops on the honeymoon.”