The Cinderella Bride (5 page)

“I do?”

“Didn't I say I expected you to give your opinion?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you might as well start now. What is it about these designs, exactly, that makes you think they're cold?”

Oh Lord, they were back to that, were they? “A tad moot, don't you think? Your grandmother already approved the project.”

“Humor me.” He took the file from her hands and leafed through until he found a sketch of the suggested lobby refurb. “What don't you like about this one, for example?”

Emma stared at the drawing, trying her best to focus on design and not the thigh pressing against hers, or the seductive hint of limes and spice emanating from his skin. Talk about futile. Worse, she knew next to nothing about interior design. How on earth was she going to make an intelligent comment?

“Well?”

He wouldn't give up until she said something. For whatever reason, he seemed hell-bent on getting her commentary.

“The color,” she said finally. “I don't like the color.”

“You don't like blue?”

Actually, no. She hated blue, navy especially. More so now that the color dominated her wardrobe. She didn't tell him, though. “It's the wrong shade,” she said instead.

“This blue is too harsh, too icy. It should be more…”

She looked up into Gideon's eyes, causing the rest of her sentence to die on her tongue. Maybe she didn't hate all blue….

“More what?” he asked.

“Brilliant.”

Realizing what she'd just breathed, she jerked her gaze to her lap. “Not a very helpful suggestion, was it?”

“On the contrary, I understand perfectly.”

“You do?” She couldn't help herself; she looked back up.

“Sure,” Gideon replied. “Color evokes emotion. When speaking viscerally, you can't always name a shade.”

“And here I thought I was simply verbally inept.”

“I seriously doubt you're ever inept, Miss O'Rourke.”

The compliment sparked more satisfaction than it should. “Oh, you'd be surprised, Mr. Kent,” she replied, deflecting the sensation. “I can be plenty inept when I put my mind to it.”

“Further proving your efficiency. True ineptitude doesn't require effort. By the way,” he added softly in her ear, his conspiratorial tone setting off a new batch of shivers, “we're in the air.”

“What?” She looked out the window. Sure enough, Boston, along with the rest of New England, was rapidly receding from view. She'd been so distracted by Gideon, she hadn't noticed their liftoff.

Which had been the point, she realized. “How did you…?”

Gideon shrugged. “Lucky guess. Plus you had that seat belt of yours locked in a death grip.” Emma blushed. “You don't like flying?”

“Actually, I don't know if I like flying or not. This is my first time. In fact…” if she was going to confess, she might as well admit everything “…I've never been farther than Providence.”

“Huh.”

Something about the way Gideon said that one syllable unnerved her. Especially since he fell silent for the minute or so that followed. Was he regretting dragging her along? Worrying she might not know how to act in front of Ross Chamberlain? Normally she'd find such concerns insulting, but he looked so regal and elegant in comparison to her that suddenly she was worried about her ability to perform, as well.

She fiddled with the buckle on her seat belt, lifting the metal latch up and down. “See?” she said, breaking the awkward silence. “I told you I had areas of deficiency.”

“Inexperience is hardly a deficiency. In fact—” he shrugged “—maybe it's a benefit. Really,” he added when Emma scoffed. “You see things with a fresh perspective.”

“Like cold interior design,” she remarked self-deprecatingly.

“Don't forget comfortable beds.”

The smile accompanying his reply shorted out her internal electrical switch. Her nerve endings flared. Covering the reaction, she peered into her briefcase. Thank goodness for business talk. “I printed out last year's correspondence with Mr. Chamberlain, along with some of the most recent news articles from the trades. I thought you might want them for background. Would you like to review them?”

“Later.” Gideon was actually fishing through his own attaché. “Much as Mariah thinks otherwise, I do have a business of my own to run.”

“Fishing charters.”

He chuckled. “You've been listening to Mariah too much. Castaway Charters is a little more extensive than a fishing business. We do sailing vacations, island getaways, worldwide tours. Mariah makes it sound like I'm standing on the beach flagging down tourists.”

“I'm surprised.”

“What, that I'm not flagging down tourists?”

“That you didn't go into the hotel business. I would have assumed, what with growing up in the industry…”

A shadow crossed his face. “Yeah, well you know what they say about assuming.”

She did, indeed, and she should have known better than to fall into the trap. Assumptions were as bad as fantasies. No good came out of either.

They spent the next half hour or so in silence, Gideon engrossed by work, Emma trying not to think about the firmness of his shoulder pressed against hers. Now that they were in the air, she thought he might move back across the aisle, but he didn't. He remained buckled next to her, a large, silent, impossible to ignore presence. She cursed herself for not bringing work of her own along. She'd been so intent on gathering everything Gideon needed, not to mention stressing out about her first flight, that she forgot. Now, without the distraction, she was hyperfocusing on the unhealthy images she'd buried earlier.

Desperate to stop her train of thought before it got going, she pulled out her organizer and began writing unnecessary reminders on her to-do list. Silly things
like “pick up trash bags” and “laundry” just so she'd have something to do.

Unfortunately, she ran out of items within a few minutes. It didn't take long before she traded staring at her calendar for stealing glances at the man next to her. Gideon was lost in his own thoughts and didn't notice. He stared off in the distance, absently tracing the tip of his gold pen along his lower lip. Emma felt a surge of envy, watching the pen go back and forth. He had a remarkably beautiful mouth.

What thoughts distracted him? she wondered. Something pleasurable, no doubt, for his features had relaxed, the tension erased from his jaw. Daydreaming looked good on him.

Everything looked good on him, she realized. The suit, the plane. Even that ratty sweater.
A prince to the manor born,
she repeated to herself. Which made her what?

The poor Little Match Girl. On a corporate jet, heading for Manhattan. She turned and checked the view from her window. The plane appeared to be descending; they were no longer above the clouds. Far off in the distance, she saw a cluster of buildings that had to be New York City.

She would never admit it out loud, but looking at those buildings, she felt a thrill passed down her spine.

She was heading to New York.

 

They had to be kidding. Andrew Kent wanted to renovate this place? As Gideon guided her through the Landmark lobby, Emma couldn't help swiveling her head like a tourist. Everywhere she looked she saw
something—a vase, a painting, a carving—that took her breath away. She'd always thought the Fairlane to be the height of luxury, but this place… With its gold embossed ceiling and dark red marble, she felt as if she'd walked into a palace.

Complete with a handsome prince.

“The ceiling is supposed to remind you of Cortez's lost city,” Gideon said when she glanced upward. “In fact, this whole design has an Aztec motif. Very popular during the Art Deco period.” He pointed behind her, to the large mosaic hanging above the main entrance, a swirling mass of color and motion. “That's Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec sky god.”

“It's breathtaking,” Emma replied.

“Yes, it is.” His eyes were on her as he answered, making her stomach flutter. “Don't tell Mariah…” he leaned into her space, the upturned collar of his overcoat tickling her cheek “…but I think this place could rival the Fairlane.”

“Careful, that's heresy,” Emma replied, though she understood his point. “The Fairlane is more mainstream, more modern. This place has an…I don't know…an energy, maybe? I feel like I'm stepping back in time.”

“Andrew would call that feeling dated.”

“Maybe, but I like the look. It's—”

“Let me guess. Warm.” He shot her a grin that, had he been anyone else, would have earned him a smack on the arm.

Emma blushed. “Are you teasing me?”

“Not at all. I'm agreeing with you. You have an
eye for design, Miss O'Rourke. You should share your opinion with Mariah.”

Hoping the color flooding her cheeks again wasn't too evident, Emma looked away. Gideon's words flattered her more than she wanted to admit. She'd never been told she had a flair for anything. Other than hard work, that is. To cover, she laughed them off. “I'm sure your uncle Andrew would love that.”

“Andrew spends too much time listening to Suzanne.”

“Who?”

“The latest wife. No doubt she's the one who pushed for Josh Silbermann in the first place.”

“Oh.” Emma knew who he meant. A statuesque blonde several years Andrew Kent's junior, she always dressed stunningly and never acknowledged Emma's existence. “Well, she is very stylish.”

“Pretentious, Miss O'Rourke. The word you're looking for is
pretentious.
As well as superficial, hard to please and short-term. Andrew tends to like them that way.

“Sort of a Kent family tradition,” he added with a wry smile.

Including him? Emma kicked herself for letting the thought cross her mind. Gideon's preference in women was none of her business. It wasn't as if she would make the list, anyway. In fact, she couldn't believe she was even entertaining the idea.

“I better go check on our rooms,” she said, determinedly returning to business matters.

“No need. We've been spotted.” He nodded toward a short, ruddy-faced man marching in their direction.

“Mr. Kent!” the man exclaimed in a clipped, semi-British accent. He clasped Gideon's hand in both of his.

“Welcome back.”

“Sebastian. You haven't changed a bit.”

“Well, not so much that a little hair color won't hide, eh?”

“You have gray hair?”

“You should know. You caused most of it.” He turned and smiled at Emma. “You must be Miss O'Rourke. I see this rascal hasn't talked you into taking your shoes off yet.”

“Why would I take my shoes off?” She looked at Gideon who, to her surprise, actually had color in his cheeks.

“One time, Sebastian,” he replied. “That was one time. And the floors were freshly waxed. I couldn't help myself.”

“He couldn't help himself with a lot of things. Gave his grandmother fits, he did. He and those cousins of his.” Sebastian's smile grew serious. “It's good to have you home again, sir.”

“Just a short visit, Sebastian. Nothing permanent.”

“Of course.” There was no mistaking the disappointment in the manager's voice. It was so evident that Emma felt disappointed herself. Everyone, it seemed, wanted Gideon to stay.

Breaking the silence, she turned to Sebastian. “I was just about to check on our rooms.”

Like any good employee, he quickly righted himself. “Of course. Two suites, just as you requested.”

No, not as she requested. She'd reserved one suite for Gideon and a standard room for herself. “Actually…” She paused, trying to think of a way to correct the situation without calling attention to the manager's mistake.

“Thank you, Sebastian. I knew I could count on you.”

Emma frowned at Gideon. “You changed the reservations?”

“Last night, and before you ask why, I like having you close by.

“Don't worry,” he added with a chuckle. He spoke just behind her ear, his breath tickling the hair on the nape of her neck. “The beds in the VIP suites are just as comfortable as the ones in the standard rooms. I promise.”

 

Ten minutes later Emma stood in the middle of a parlor opulent enough to rival Mrs. Kent's. A VIP suite. What was Gideon thinking?

She looked around the living space, an elegant study in jewel tones and gold. There were three distinct areas. At one end, framed by a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows, a decorative fireplace flickered merrily, its flames complementing the darkening Manhattan skyline outside. Nearby sat a small dining table, perfect for a candlelit dinner.

At the other end was a large—no, make that a
huge—conference table, wet bar and desk. Everything an executive would need for business.

Both orbited a third space, a cozy sitting area with a velvet sofa and matching Queen Anne chairs. For those in-between moments, she supposed, when the rich just wanted to relax and read the financials.

And all of this was contained in one of the three rooms. What was she doing here? What did Gideon expect her to do with so much space?

A soft cough drew her attention. A waspish man in a crisp red blazer hovered in the doorway. Her personal concierge, he explained when he arrived with the bellman. “Excuse me, madam. I had your luggage placed in the boudoir. Would you like me to call a maid to help you unpack?”

A maid?
Emma blinked in surprise. What would the woman do, hang up Emma's one suit? “Thank you, but I can unpack myself,” she replied.

“Very well, madam. My name is Robert. If there's anything else you need, just ring the desk.”

“I doubt I'll need anything. I'm only staying one night.”

“Of course, madam.”

The formality and courtesy unnerved her. Especially since it was unnecessary. Surely he recognized her hotel uniform?