The Cinderella Bride (2 page)

Exhaling, he strode toward her, stopping only when the gap between them had closed to a few inches. “Last time I checked,” he said, slowly pulling the envelope from her grip, “they didn't give out bonuses for
stoicism.” He tossed the package on his desk. “So sit down, Miss O'Rourke, and have some coffee.”

Emma didn't sit down. She stood frozen in place, listening to the sound of metal clanking against metal coming from the kitchen area. Though she hated to admit it, part of her was glad Gideon was forcing coffee on her. A strange combination of hot and cold, unlike anything she'd ever experienced, gripped her body. Her fingers and toes were number than numb, but her torso, at least the part where Gideon's body had collided with hers, couldn't be warmer.

She hadn't meant to stop short on the stairs, but she'd been caught off guard. From Gideon's scruffy appearance, she'd expected some jumbled sailor's quarters filled with maps and equipment, not a haven of intimate elegance. With its cherry wood and wine-colored upholstery, the cabin was nicer than her own apartment. For a moment she'd been afraid to leave the steps lest she track water on the gleaming wood floor.

Fur brushed her leg, startling her into movement. Squatting, she came face-to-face with a large black cat. He looked at her with yellow eyes that rivaled Gideon's for intensity, and let out a hoarse meow.

“Well, hello there, you.” She leaned down and scratched under the cat's chin. A sound resembling a small engine filled the cabin.

“You'll never get rid of him now.” Gideon appeared bearing two steaming mugs. He thrust one in her direction. “Here, warm up while you talk. Do you want milk?”

The coffee did smell wonderful. Emma took the mug,
pausing a moment to press it against her breastbone. The warmth spreading through her torso wasn't like the heat that had shot through her a few minutes before, but it was comforting nonetheless.

Meanwhile, her furry friend, annoyed that she'd removed her fingers from his fur, meowed and butted his head against her leg.

“Told you that you'd never get rid of him,” Gideon said.

“I don't mind. He's very friendly.”

“Easy to be friendly when you assume the whole world exists to do your bidding. Kind of like someone else we know,” he added with a smirk. “Do you want milk?”

“No, black is fine.”

Gideon gave her a look as he passed toward the galley.

“I thought sailors were superstitious,” she called after him. “Aren't black cats supposed to bad luck?”

“Black cats, maybe,” he called back, “but Hinckley doesn't believe he's a cat. More like an old man with fur.” Gideon reappeared with a small bowl, which he set on the floor next to the steps. Hinckley raced over and began lapping with abandon, sending splatters of milk across the floor. That's when Emma noticed the space where his left hind leg should have been.

“An old man who's already had some bad luck,” she observed.

“You mean the leg. A dog mauled him. By the time we crossed paths, the limb was too damaged to save, so the vet amputated.”

“Doesn't seem to hold him back.”

“Fortunately, the loss occurred when he was a kitten. It's harder when you're old enough to know what you've lost.”

He added the last line in a lower voice, directed more to his coffee than to her. Emma almost thought they were talking about something other than the cat.

Silence filled the cabin as they sipped their coffee. Hinckley, having finished his milk, jumped up next to her and began to bath, using her thigh as a backstop. Smiling, she ran her fingertips through his fur. The cat responded by restarting his internal engine and laying his head on her lap.

“You like that, do you, sweetie?” Emma purred back.

The sound of Gideon clearing his throat brought the moment to an end. “You said you needed five minutes.”

“Right.” For a second there, she'd felt as at home as the cat, and acted that way. How embarrassing.

She looked around for the envelope, spotting it on Gideon's desk. Retrieving it would mean disturbing the cat. “Your grandmother enclosed a note with the financials, explaining everything.”

“Why don't you give me the short version.”

There wasn't exactly a long version. The note Mrs. Kent had enclosed was handwritten, and contained, at most, four lines. “She asks that you come to the office this afternoon. For a tea party.”

His laugh was rich and throaty. “You're kidding,
right? Mariah made you stand in the rain to tell me that?”

No, Mrs. Kent had asked her to hand-deliver the request.
He
had made her stand in the rain. “She wanted to be certain you received her invitation.”

“You mean she wanted to make sure I didn't ignore it.”

Was that a possibility? Given his earlier stubbornness, perhaps it was. Mrs. Kent's insistence that Emma stick around was making more and more sense. “She's simply happy you're back in Boston.”

“She'd be the only one.”

There it was again, the murmured tone that Emma wondered if she was supposed to hear.

“And what time is this little summit with crumpets?” he asked.

“Three o'clock.”

“And not a moment before, right?” he said, smiling.

He knew.
Emma couldn't help smiling back. Mrs. Kent made a lot of demands and requests, but she had one cardinal rule that trumped everything else: never interrupt her during
All My Loves.
Even her two sons, Jonathan and Andrew, knew the rule. Apparently, so did her grandson.

“Some things never change.” For the first time since her arrival, she saw affection light up his eyes. “She still jotting off angry letters to the writers, too?”

“I've typed up five or six.”

“She's easing up.” Smile still in place, he raised his mug.

He took a long drink. Emma had never paid attention
to the way a man drank before, but found herself unable to help watching Gideon. With the tension gone from his jaw, his mouth had a sensual quality to it. Soft and strong at the same time. And deliberate, she thought, noting the way his top lip slowly curled over the rim.

“So—” her own mouth had grown dry and she took a quick drink “—can I tell your grandmother you'll be there?”

Gideon finished his coffee, then set the mug on a nearby table. “I think it's been more than five minutes,” he said, standing. “I have a deck to finish.”

“What about tea?”

“You're welcome to stay and finish your coffee. Hinckley, I'm sure, would enjoy the company.”

“What about—”

“Next time, I suggest you dress for the weather.”

“Mr. Kent, please.” He had one foot on the stair. Emma stood and caught his arm before he could take another step. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he turned around. Or maybe it was hers, as she reacted to the proximity of his stare. Was it her imagination or had his eyes changed shades, growing darker and more blue? “What should I tell your grandmother?”

That same stare traveled from her face to the hand on his arm. Slowly, he pulled away.

“Tell Mariah,” he said, with a look that was enigmatic at best, “that she'll have to wait and see.”

I
T TOOK LESS THAN A
minute for Emma to follow Gideon topside. He felt her before he heard the click of her heels. Funny that, for someone he barely knew, she was quite predictable.

He was tossing fenders over the side to prevent the boat from smashing against the dock. When she passed him, he looked up. Their eyes locked, and he caught the full brunt of her perplexed annoyance. Clearly, she didn't appreciate his parting response. She had expected a concrete answer, and now no doubt thought he was being difficult for no reason.

She didn't realize that where Mariah was concerned, difficult was the name of the game. Especially when she wanted something. And she definitely wanted something. Case in point, sending the intriguing Miss O'Rourke instead of a courier service. Admiration stirred Gideon's blood as he watched the secretary's hips sway in cadence with her long legs. A courier service he could dismiss, but Miss O'Rourke… She was decidedly undismissable. A little too girl-next-door than he normally preferred, but impossible to ignore, nonetheless. He thought of her body pressed against his, and smiled, the memory
chasing away the cold. Definitely impossible to ignore. And dollars to doughnuts, when she dried out, she'd be even more so. He stole another glance, and felt a new rush of heat. He could use a diversion on this visit. Unfortunately, Miss O'Rourke seemed like the kind of sweet young thing who expected long-term, and he didn't do long-term. If such a thing even existed. What number wife was Uncle Andrew on these days? Two? Three?

Then there were Gideon's parents, the poster children for false fronts. If Shakespeare were still alive, they'd inspire one heck of a farce.

No sir, long-term definitely didn't exist.

Why on earth was he thinking about relationships, anyway? Must be Boston, he decided, dropping another fender. Being back churned up thoughts he normally kept buried.

Fifteen minutes later, satisfied that the boat was secure, he returned to the cabin. Mariah's package lay on the desk where he'd left it. Three years of financials. What was his grandmother thinking?

“Does she think I'm going to see the numbers and suddenly return to the fold?” he asked Hinckley.

Well, the joke was on her. He followed the market. Kent Hotels might have stagnated a little over the last couple years, but they were basically healthy. The company didn't need him. Besides, it wasn't as if he belonged there, anyway.

So why'd you come back?

He'd asked himself that question all the way from Saint Martin, and the answer always came back to one
thing: for Mariah. Had the request come from anyone else, he would have told them, in no uncertain terms, to leave him alone. But the request hadn't come from anyone else. And Mariah was the one Kent tie Gideon couldn't sever. Mariah, who had touched his cheek and told him his secret didn't matter. A lie, of course, but one that, at the time, was exactly what his distraught nineteen-year-old mind had needed to hear.

Hinckley yawned and rolled over. Gideon ran a hand across the cat's exposed belly, and the cabin filled with purring. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the envelope. The stupid thing was mocking him. If he had any common sense at all, he'd ditch the package overboard, turn the boat around and sail back to Casco Bay before Mariah could rope him into whatever she had planned.

Instead, he opened the flap. Rows upon rows of figures greeted his eyes. Along with a single piece of Mariah's personal stationery. “Time to come home, Gideon,” read the familiar script. “Tea is at three sharp. Don't be late.”

Time to come home.
Gideon tossed the package aside with a sigh. “Home” for him was an illusion that had died years ago. Around the same time he'd stopped believing in long-term and true love ever after.

 

Achoo!

Emma shoved her clipboard in front of her face, hoping to muffle the sneeze. From the look on Mariah Kent's face, it didn't work. The silver-haired woman
peered regally over her half-glasses. “You're not getting sick, are you, Emma?”

“No, ma'am.” Just cold. This morning's adventure on the waterfront hadn't quite left her bones yet. Fortunately, she'd been able to snag a spare uniform from the employee laundry. The dress was a size too small and rode up her legs every time she walked, but at least it was dry. That was more than she could say for her hair. Her still-damp ponytail hung down her back like the tail of a wet Irish setter.

Mrs. Kent didn't look sold on her answer. “Make sure you order yourself a cup of tea just in case,” she said. “We don't want your sniffles turning into anything worse. Is your throat sore, too?”

“No, ma'am.” Emma didn't have sniffles, either, but she knew better than to argue. Instead, she gathered her notes and rose to leave. It was almost two o'clock. “Will that be all?”

Mrs. Kent was already on her way to the chaise lounge in the corner of her suite. “I believe so. No, wait!” The older woman smiled. “Tell the kitchen to include extra meringue petit fours. Gideon will like those.”

If he shows up,
thought Emma as she dutifully jotted down the request. His vague response had rubbed at her the whole way back from the waterfront.
Tell Mariah she'll have to wait and see.
Emma had stood out in the rain for that?

Mrs. Kent had taken his response in stride, chuckling about her grandson's stubbornness. “He always did hate being told what to do,” she'd replied. “He'll be here,
though. He's a good boy, and I can always count on him to do the right thing. Eventually.”

The sound of voices brought Emma back to reality. She looked to the armoire and saw a beautiful blonde woman sobbing on the television.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Mrs. Kent muttered. “Are you still pining over that ex-husband? Make up your mind already.”

Emma smiled as she headed to the door. The change from regal businesswoman to obsessed soap fan never ceased to amuse her. It was a side of the Kent matriarch most people didn't see, the softer, grandmotherly side, and it made it easier to endure some of the more outrageous demands of her job. Like this morning's debacle.

With Mrs. Kent sequestered for the next hour, she had time to catch up on the work she'd missed this morning. Gideon had joked about her diligence, but Emma prided herself on being responsible. After all, someone had to be.

She placed a call to the chef confirming today's tea service, including the extra petit fours, then boiled a pot of water with the miniature coffeemaker she kept stashed behind her desk. Despite Mrs. Kent's insistence that she order coffee or tea from guest services, she felt more comfortable providing her own.

Fifteen minutes later she was inhaling the soothing aroma of orange pekoe. Mrs. Kent was right; tea did chase away the cold. Closing her eyes, Emma took a deep breath, then another, letting the warmth spread from her lungs to her body. Little by little the chill
finally fled. She kicked off her pumps and flexed her nearly thawed toes. How on earth did people like Gideon stand being out in the elements for hours on end? In nothing but a ratty sweater, no less.

Maybe that explained the gruffness, she thought, taking a sip. His insides were frozen.

No, check that. She thought of their collision on the stairs. He was anything but frozen. One brief contact had been enough to melt
her
insides. The memory made her shiver.

“Told you you'd catch a chill,” a voice whispered in her ear.

“What the—” Emma started and dropped her cup. Tea sloshed everywhere. “Didn't your mother ever tell you not to sneak up on people?” she snapped.

The skin on the back of her hand stung where the tea had splashed. Shaking her fingers, she looked up into Gideon's blue eyes.

“On the contrary,” he replied. “She preferred I make as little noise as possible.” He nodded toward Emma's hand. “Did you burn yourself?”

“Nothing life threatening,” she replied, regretting her outburst. “I'll be fine.”

He made a sound resembling a strangled cough, and handed her a wad of tissues. “Here, dry yourself off.”

“Thank—” The words died in her throat as his fingertips grazed the back of her hand, causing a flutter in the pit of her stomach. Startled again, she jerked away, letting the tissues float downward.

“Miss O'Rourke?”

“Yes?” His eyes had turned the most mesmerizing
shade of sapphire. She couldn't stop staring at them. Not even when he nodded toward her desk.

“Your tea is pooling.”

Emma blinked.

Her tea! Shaking off the trance, she saw a brown puddle spreading across her desk. Having ruined the correspondence she'd spent the last hour typing, it was making tracks toward the stack of manila files next to her phone.

“Oh no!” She grabbed another handful of tissues and threw them on the spill, hoping to stem the flow. The file contained original drawings for a renovation project at the Manhattan flagship hotel.

“Allow me.” Gideon lifted the file so she could blot underneath. “Looks like your paperwork caught the brunt of the spill.”

“Lucky me,” she muttered, snatching more tissues. His chuckle would have annoyed her if she wasn't already battling embarrassment. She could feel Gideon watching her, the scrutiny flustering her so much that she nearly knocked over her remaining tea.

“You know,” he said, moving the cup out of her reach, “you were pretty lost in thought back there. Mind if I ask what had you so faraway?”

“Nothing important.” Just him.

“Must have been somewhat important, because I knocked twice and you didn't hear me.”

Emma's cheeks burned. She concentrated on throwing away lumps of wet tissues, hoping he wouldn't notice. “Your grandmother is waiting for you.”

“I still have ten minutes. You know how she is about
the daily cliff-hanger. Tell me, is anyone else attending this meeting?”

“Only you and Mrs. Kent as far as I know.”

“Oh.”

His voice had dropped a notch, sounding almost…disappointed? Emma abandoned her futile attempt to save the correspondence, and looked up. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“Not really.” His answer had a note of forced nonchalance, then he changed the topic. “What's the damage?”

Substantial. The morning's mail was ruined, as was tomorrow's agenda notes and a half-dozen employee memos. Just thinking about how much time she would need to reprint them made Emma sigh aloud. “Fortunately, you saved the most important paperwork.”

“You mean this?”

Opening the file, he started thumbing through the contents, his expression growing thoughtful. “We're renovating the Landmark?”

“So I've been told. Your uncle Andrew dropped off the designs this morning.”

“Interesting. What do you think?”

“I only pass along the information,” she replied. “I don't evaluate it.”

“Is that diplomatic speak for ‘I don't like it'?” He leaned forward, his eyes lit with what could only be described as mischief. “Come on, Miss O'Rourke, we both know you looked at the designs, if only to make sure the file was complete. What's your opinion?”

“I told you, I don't have one.”

She reached for the folder, but he lifted it away.

“Everyone has an opinion,” he said. “Give me yours.”

The truth? Gideon had guessed right; she hated the design. But she would never say so. The designer, Josh Silbermann, was considered the leader in contemporary design, and according to Andrew Kent, they were lucky to snag him. Since Andrew sat on more architectural and museum committees than she could count, she had to assume he knew what he was doing, and that she, in her inexperience, simply missed the point. “Your uncle is very excited about the plans.”

Gideon looked unimpressed. “I'm sure he is. Andrew loves this sort of stuff. But you're avoiding my question. What is your opinion?”

“My opinion doesn't matter. I'm not the one making the decision.”

He leaned forward. “Humor me.”

“Why?”

“Because you're so determined to dodge the question, and that piques my curiosity. For example, what do you think of…” He fished through the file and pulled out a sketch, a stark study of gunmetal and black with splashes of ice blue. “What about this one?

She shook her head.
Figures.
He'd picked the ugliest sketch in the pile.

“Come on, Miss O'Rourke,” Gideon urged, waving the sketch and grinning, “give it up.”

Clearly, he wasn't going to stop until she said something. “Fine. It's cold.”

“Cold?”

“The room. All that black and blue is far too harsh. I would prefer something warmer.”
Like the blue of your eyes,
she caught herself thinking. “Plus the furniture looks uncomfortable.”

“Really? Even these stainless steel padded benches?”

She caught the sarcasm. “I'm not sure even your cat would sleep on those.”

“When I left, Hinckley was sleeping in the sink, so I wouldn't use him as a benchmark.”

“I'm sure I'm simply missing the point.”

“She says, desperately trying to regain her diplomacy,” he replied with a chuckle. “Tell me, if you don't like this design, what
do
you like?”

Emma shrugged. Her experience in hotel rooms, particularly five-star hotel rooms, was limited to the Fairlane. “A comfortable bed.”

“That's all? A good bed?”

“Okay, a
very
comfortable bed. What can I say? I'm practical. After all, that's where I'd be spending the bulk of my time, right?”

He arched a brow. “You don't say.”

“Sleeping,” she stated hastily. Heat flooded every inch of her, and the mischievous glint in his eye didn't help. “If I'm staying in a hotel room, it's because I need a place to sleep.”