The Cinderella Bride (3 page)

“Of course.” The glint persisted. Emma fought another rush of heat.

“But,” Gideon continued, “if all you want is a bed, you can go to the local motel. You go to a hotel like the Landmark because you want atmosphere.”

“The best for the best,” she replied, parroting hotel management's catch phrase.

“More than that. You have to exceed their expectations.” With the file still in his grip, he perched on the corner of her desk, close enough that Emma noticed his windburned knuckles. Outdoorsman's hands. Raw and weathered from work. The hands of a man who wasn't afraid to use them.

“…fantasies.”

She jerked her attention back to Gideon's questioning stare.

“I was saying that for some people, a hotel room is their way of living out their fantasies,” he said.

“Which leads me back to my original question. What do you want in a hotel room?” He leaned a little closer.

“Surely you have one or two fantasies of your own, Miss O'Rourke.”

Beneath her ribs, Emma's heart skipped a beat. She could swear his eyes had grown two shades darker, as if he knew the path her mind had started to travel. It didn't help matters that his ear hovered close to her lips, as if he expected her to confess some little secret.

He's talking about hotel marketing,
she reminded herself.

Yet the air between them had grown still. Disturbingly so. She hadn't realized before how Gideon's foot dangled perilously close to her calf. They hadn't made contact, but she could still feel him through her stockings.

She turned to her left, hoping to break the spell. “I doubt I could suggest anything marketing hasn't thought of already.”

“Stop dodging the question.”

“I'm not dodging.” Not much, anyway. She grabbed the first stack of papers available and pretended to sort them. “I'm pretty basic when it comes to fantasies.”

To her dismay, that earned her a melodic chuckle. “Anyone ever tell you that you're too serious, Miss O'Rourke?”

Better serious than foolish. “Maybe I'm just easy to satisfy.”

“Oh, I hope not. That would be a shame.”

Why?
Emma glanced over her shoulder at him. He was studying her again, with that probing look that made her skin come alive. “Three o'clock,” she said, saved by the chiming of her desk clock. “Your grandmother's free now.”

“Time then for my command appearance.” He rose and put the sketches back in the file. “This has been a very interesting conversation, Miss O'Rourke. We'll have to do it again sometime.”

“Sure,” she answered.
Whenever you're killing time.

She tried to ignore the way her stomach somersaulted at the suggestion.

 

Mariah Kent might weigh ninety pounds dripping wet, but it was ninety pounds of reinforced steel. When Gideon entered her suite, he found her seated regally at her desk, the same desk from which she'd run Kent Hotels for close to thirty-five years. How many afternoons had he spent sitting next to that desk, watching her work, listening to her advice?

Treat every guest as if they're special, Gideon. Don't meet their expectations, exceed them.

Yes, Grandmother.

That was a lifetime ago, he thought with a sigh. Back when he'd been a different person and believed Kent Hotels was his destiny.

“This is how you dress to see your grandmother?” Mariah asked, surveying his appearance with disdain. He'd come straight from the boat, and other than exchanging jeans for nylon pants, he still wore his sailing gear. “I distinctly remember telling you when you were growing up to always wear a tie.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you're not.” She raised her cheek for a kiss, then patted his, the sparkle in her pale blue eyes betraying her affection. “You could have at least shaved. Is this how you dress for business in Saint Martin?”

“What can I say? Your summons was rather short notice.”

“Not that short. Emma's been back for at least two hours.”

“Yes, about that…” He sat in the chair across from Mariah's desk. “Was the personal summons really necessary?”

“I was afraid you might lose your way, after being gone for so long.”

“Lose my way or change my mind?”

“With you, both are possibilities.” Mariah smoothed the front of her designer suit, a silver that matched her hair. “Fortunately, I knew Emma would see to it you found your way.”

As if on cue, his grandmother's assistant appeared, holding open the door for a waiter pushing an overladen tea service. Back in her office, she'd been blocked by her desk, but now he could appreciate how nicely the straight blue dress hugged her silhouette. Too bad she wore the matching blazer. He'd much prefer seeing her arms. Instead, he settled for studying the smooth curve of her calves. The desk had masked them, too.

“Are you ready for them to serve, Mrs. Kent?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you. Did you order yourself a cup of tea like I suggested? You looked a little peaked.”

“Yes, ma'am. I have a cup on my desk.” Emma's eyes darted briefly in Gideon's direction, sparking the overwhelming urge to wink. If he did, he bet that pale skin would turn a very interesting shade of pink.

“Nice girl,” Mariah said after Emma disappeared, leaving the floor butler to serve. “Takes her job seriously.”

A little too seriously,
thought Gideon. Then again, if their conversation had revealed anything, it was that Miss O'Rourke took a lot of things in life seriously. That didn't feel right, either, her practicality. What kind of woman didn't nurture a few romantic fantasies? The Caribbean was full of women her age champing at the bit for luxury and indulgence, and none of them, he wagered, would stand out in the rain because her job required it. If anyone should want pampering, it should be someone like Emma. But she didn't. She only wanted a comfortable bed.

He frowned. That wasn't right. Emma's lack of
expectations were more suited to someone like him, someone with reason to be weary and cynical. Not a fresh-faced girl with freckles dotting her nose.

“Sugar?”

His grandmother's voice jerked him back to the present. From the other side of her desk, she eyed him with curiosity. “Do you still take three sugars?”

“No,” he replied.

“Good. Too much sugar is bad for you, anyway,” she said. “I'm glad you gave it up.”

“I've given up a lot of things over the past ten years,” he replied.

“Does that include your family?”

What family?
“I've stayed in touch.”

“E-mails,” Mariah said with a frown. “Christmas cards. Phone calls on birthdays. That's not keeping in touch.”

“I've been busy.”

“No, you've been avoiding us, and it's high time you stopped.” She set her teacup on its saucer with a resounding clink. “You need to come home.”

As if coming home was even possible.
Forcing a lightness in his voice, Gideon replied, “Aren't I already here?”

“I mean for good.” Mariah looked him square in the eye, her gaze reflecting every ounce of her mettle.

“You're the eldest Kent grandchild. It's time you embraced your birthright.”

Once upon a time those words would have meant everything to him. Now they simply lodged in his chest
like an undigested meal. “Except for one thing,” he replied.

Gideon leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur as he said what she seemed so intent on forgetting. “I'm not the eldest Kent grandchild.”

Mariah didn't blink. She'd been expecting the comment, after all. “Your last name is Kent. And I need your help. Those are the only two things that matter.”

 

Surely you have one or two fantasies of your own.

Try as she might, Emma couldn't dislodge Gideon's comment from her head. Two hours after their conversation, his words continued to repeat themselves in cadence with the pages spitting out of the printer.
Fantasies, fantasies, fantasies.

Just a comfortable bed.

What was so wrong with her answer? “Excuse me for being practical,” she snapped at the printer. Dwelling on things out of her reach was a waste of time. She'd already spent too much of her life dealing with her mother's fantasy fallout. Emma didn't need disappointment of her own.

Which reminded her, she should call her mom and see if she found any leads at the unemployment office.

The printer made a loud clicking sound, drawing Emma's attention. Coming back to the present, she saw a red light blinking on the front panel.

“Don't tell me, I'm out of ink,” she muttered.
Great.
At this rate she'd be forty before she got her desk cleared off.

That's what you get for thinking about fantasies.

Just then the door to Mrs. Kent's suite flew open. Gideon stared at her, his expression a study in tension. “Come on,” he said, shutting the door. “I need a drink.”

B
EFORE
E
MMA KNEW
what was happening, he caught her elbow and pulled her toward the office door. “Do you know if the King Room serves a decent whiskey?”

“I, uh…” She was still trying to figure out why she was being dragged along.

“Never mind. They serve alcohol. We'll be fine.”

“We?”

Gideon gave her a look. “You don't think I plan to drink alone, do you?”

So, what—he planned to drink with her? Nice of him to ask first. “I'm working.”

“It's after five, Miss O'Rourke. Workday's over.”

“For you, maybe, but I've got a pile of correspondence on my desk that your grandmother expects to go out in today's mail.” Correspondence he'd helped delay.

“And the world must do what Mariah Kent expects, right?”

Emma started to say something about entitlement running in the family, but noted the tension in his jaw and thought better. Something had happened while Gideon was sequestered with grandmother. He was
paler, and his eyes, sharp and probing a couple hours earlier, had dulled. In fact, his whole demeanor had a weariness that hadn't existed before.

The transformation jarred her, to say the least. Watching him impatiently pressing the elevator button, she had the overwhelming urge to reach out and squeeze his hand.

Which was why, when the elevator doors opened, she stepped in.

 

Designed to resemble a gentlemen's club, the King Room was the Fairlane's jewel, a private hideaway where guests could relax in oak-paneled splendor. When she walked through the frosted-glass doors, Emma could have sworn every head in the room turned her way. She could feel the unwelcoming gazes. This was a haven for guests, not hotel employees. Self-consciousness in over-drive, she tugged on her dress, hoping the dim lighting concealed its snugness.

Gideon, on the other hand, crossed the room with the nonchalance of a man who belonged, despite the fact that his sweater and jeans violated the bar's dress code. Emma couldn't help but marvel at his ease. No one rushed forward to politely offer one of the hotel's spare jackets, either, she noticed. Perhaps his last name bought him acceptance, but somehow she suspected the circumstances would be the same anywhere, family-owned establishment or not.

No sooner had they taken their seats than a waitress with a black ponytail and a perfectly fitting uniform approached. She flashed Emma a skeptical look before
turning her attention and smile on Gideon. “Good evening. Will you be having cocktails or dinner?”

“Bruichladdich, straight up,” Gideon clipped.

Although the name meant nothing to Emma, it must have registered with the waitress, for her eyes lit up with an intrigued gleam. “Certainly, sir.” Her voice grew a notch smokier, as well. “It might take a moment, however. Our manager will have to retrieve a bottle from our reserve.”

Gideon shrugged. “Fine. Miss O'Rourke, join me?”

“I'll have tea,” she replied. “With milk.”

The waitress nodded without looking in her direction. Emma wondered if the woman had heard her.

“Tea, Miss O'Rourke?” Gideon shot her a disappointed look. “You're missing out on a seriously good whiskey.”

No doubt, judging from the way he'd impressed the waitress. “I'm sure that's true, but I'm also still on the clock.”

“Ah, yes, Mariah's correspondence. Tell me,” he asked, once the waitress had departed, “do you always do everything Mariah asks?”

That was a silly question. “Of course I do. It's my job.”

“That doesn't mean you have to jump when she says jump.”

Then he didn't know what working for his grandmother entailed. “What am I supposed to, slack off?”

“Would you even be able to?”

“If you're asking do I take my job seriously, the answer's yes.”

“Really? I never would have guessed.”

His sarcastic tone rankled Emma. No matter how poorly his reunion with his grandmother had gone, he didn't have to take out his frustration by mocking her.

“What can I say?” she snapped. “Not everyone is lucky enough to be born a Kent.”

She regretted the comment the second she'd said it. Not only was it beyond impertinent, it caused a shadow to break over Gideon's features, turning them dark and increasing their marked weariness. “Oh yeah.” His voice was low and dull. “It's a real stroke of luck.”

He lapsed into silence after that, his long fingers drawing patterns on the inlaid table. Emma stared at his wind-burned knuckles, wishing she'd bitten her tongue.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I had no right.” When he didn't answer, she pushed herself away from the table. “Maybe I should just go and let—”

“Don't.” Gideon reached out and caught her wrist. Barely a grip, but enough to stop her in her tracks.

“I thought maybe you'd like to be alone with your thoughts,” she told him.

“If I wanted to be alone, I wouldn't have dragged you down here.”

“But—”

“Sit down, Miss O'Rourke.

Slowly, she met his eyes. The blue had turned smoky, almost indigo in color. A new silence surrounded their table, heavier and more self-conscious than the one
before. She looked down to where Gideon's fingers still encircled her wrist.

“Here you go.” The waitress's voice broke the spell. She shot Emma an enigmatic look before placing a crystal tumbler in front of Gideon. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Kent.”

Emma noticed that in addition to learning Gideon's identity, the waitress had undone two more buttons on her uniform. And was leaning forward more than usual. “If you need anything else, my name is Maddie. I'll be more than happy to accommodate you.”

I'll bet.
Emma tried not to roll her eyes. Talk about laying it on thick. Was Gideon impressed? “Do you have any artificial sweetener?” she asked.

Clearly annoyed at having to pull her attention away from him, the waitress shot her a glance. “We keep everything on the table,” she replied in a sickeningly sweet voice. Emma knew that; she was just curious to see what Maddie would do.

The waitress didn't disappoint. “Here, let me get it for you,” she said, leaning over far more than necessary to reach across the table. As she did, she angled her body so that Gideon got a good view of her perfectly formed cleavage.

“Thanks,” Emma replied, her bravado shrinking. She'd caught a glimpse herself when Maddie had bent over. If there were a real competition, Emma wouldn't stand a chance, and they both knew it.

She waited until Maddie walked—or rather, strutted—to her next table, then pushed the container back into place. “I guess word of your arrival has trickled
down the grapevine. Hope you weren't trying to remain incognito.”

“Hmm.” Gideon was busy studying the contents of his tumbler. He hadn't spoken since asking Emma to stay. She rubbed her wrist, surprised how her skin still tingled. Her reaction to his touch unnerved her, but not nearly as much as his silence did. His withdrawal made her insides ache.

“Mr. Kent?” He looked up from the amber liquid.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Her question earned her a very strange smile. “Trying to compete with our waitress, Miss O'Rourke?”

“Hardly. You just look…” she shrugged “…out of sorts.”

“And you, diligent employee that you are, want to help.”

“A simple ‘I'm fine' would suffice.”

“I hate that word.” He smiled again. This time a sparkle appeared with it, one that swept away any annoyance. “How long have you worked for Mariah, Miss O'Rourke?”

Emma added milk to her tea. “A little over a year.”

“Most of her assistants don't last that long.”

“So I've heard.”

“Must be all that diligence.”

“I like your grandmother.”

“Even when you're standing in the rain?”

Emma laughed. “Even then. As you said, she has a way of making people do what she wants.”

“Don't I know it.” Just like that, the sparkle dimmed
from his eyes. Lifting his glass, he drained the whiskey in one long sip.

“Tell me something, Miss O'Rourke,” he continued, studying his empty glass as he spoke. “Did you really dislike the Silbermann designs?”

“I didn't say I disliked them, per se.”

“Miss O'Rourke…”

“I think your uncle Andrew is far more qualified to offer an opinion than I am.”

“Besides, all you're interested in is a comfortable bed.”

“Exactly.”

Gideon nodded, and went back to studying his tumbler. Emma sipped her tea and tried not to squirm. Why did she feel like she'd given a wrong answer?

Surely you have one or two fantasies….

“Maybe we should put that theory to the test,” she heard a voice say.

She lifted her eyes in time to see Gideon's mouth curve into a devastating smile. Awareness washed through her, pooling in one deep, very inappropriate spot. “W-what?”

Those eyes were bluer than blue as he leaned forward. The pool got a little deeper. “How would you like to go to Manhattan?”

Emma almost spat out her tea. “You mean, New York City?”

“Unless they move the buildings someplace else, yes, New York City.”

“Oh, sure,” she replied, realizing the question was
rhetorical. Had to be rhetorical. “Right after I get back from Paris.”

“I'm serious.”

He was? She studied his expression. He was. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you asking me to go to New York?” There had to be a catch. The request was too spectacular, too out of the blue. People didn't just hand out trips to the Big Apple.

“Because I have to go, and I could use an assistant,” he replied with a shrug.

And there it was. He needed a secretary. Emma should have realized that. Why else would he ask her?

“Does your grandmother know you're poaching her employees?” she asked.

“No, but I don't think she'll mind. The trip was her idea.”

Emma sat back. “Really?”

“Unfortunately, yes. She wants me to meet with Ross Chamberlain.”

Emma recognized the name from various memos and correspondence. He was Kent Hotels' largest nonfamily shareholder. “Why you—?” Her hand flew to her lips as she realized how insulting the question must sound. “Sorry. I only meant why isn't she sending one of the other Mr. Kents?” Why summon Gideon back to Boston, then send him to New York? That seemed a trifle eccentric, even for Mariah Kent.

“That, Miss O'Rourke, is the sixty-four thousand
dollar question. Let's just say Mariah expects me to go.”

And the world always did what she expected. Suddenly his earlier mood made sense.

But still, why take Emma along? Kent Hotels had a host of secretaries at his disposal. Both here and in New York.

“I don't want one of the secretaries in New York,” he replied when she asked. “I want you.”

She tried not to feel flattered by his answer. “What about your grandmother?”

“Believe me, Mariah will survive.” He grinned. “I mean, it's not like I'm taking away
All My Loves.
”

“Now that would be a real loss,” Emma replied with a laugh.

“Then it's agreed. We'll leave tomorrow afternoon.”

Emma's chuckle faded. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I suppose not. I just didn't realize you wanted to go so soon.”

“The sooner I run this little ‘errand,' the sooner I can get back to my own life. Can you arrange for the jet?”

“Certainly.” Her head was swimming. She was flying to Manhattan. Tomorrow. That sort of thing didn't happen. Not in her world. A thrill tripped down her spine. “I'll go make the arrangements right now.”

With that, she pushed herself away from the table. “Good night, Mr. Kent. Thank you for the tea.”

“You're welcome. Don't work too hard. Oh, and Miss
O'Rourke?” She was almost clear of the table when he called out to her.

“Yes, Mr. Kent?”

“We'll be staying at the Landmark.” The corner of his mouth slowly quirked in a teasing smile that curled Emma's toes. “I'm looking forward to hearing how you like the bed.”

 

“Manhattan?” Leaning against the counter, Janet O'Rourke tapped her cigarette against the ashtray she held in her freshly manicured hand. “Don't they have secretaries in New York? Why'd he ask you?”

Emma shrugged. “He said he didn't want a secretary from New York. He's going on a business trip for his grandmother. Maybe he feels more comfortable taking someone from her office. And since I'm the only one he knows…” She shrugged again. Since Gideon issued his invitation, she'd asked herself the same question multiple times, and that was the best answer she could come up with.

“Or maybe—” her mother's eyes widened “—he's interested in more than business.”

“You've been watching too many movies, Mom.”

Leave it to her mother to raise that theory. Janet O'Rourke saw romance everywhere. That was one of her biggest problems.

“You never know. Is he good-looking?”

“Attractive,” Emma admitted. And yes, she did know. She knew because of all the times she spent alone, fending for herself because Janet found true love—again—
only to have to nurse her through a broken heart days later.

Emma's shoulders suddenly felt heavy. “How'd job hunting go?” she asked, changing the subject. “Any good leads?”

“Nothing that piqued my interest.”

Not a surprise. Most work failed to interest her mother. “Well, maybe tomorrow.”

“Actually…”

Emma stiffened. Whenever her mother started a sentence with the word
actually,
what followed wasn't good.