Bed of Roses (32 page)

“You’re studying?”

Carter shifted his feet, a tell Jack recognized as mild to middling embarrassment. “I’m sort of working on a book.”

“No shit?”

“It may be shit. Parts of it probably are. But I thought I’d take the summer to find out.”

“That’s great. How do you know when she’s cleared out—the clients? Does she call over, tell you it’s safe to come home?”

“She’s trying to schedule clients in the morning, whenever she’s doing a shoot here, and shifting most consults over to the main house while the construction’s going on. I just check her book for the day, so I don’t come back during a shoot, break the mood or her concentration. It’s a pretty simple system.”

“It seems to be working for you.”

“Speaking of work, I didn’t expect all this to move so fast.” Carter gestured toward the studio. “Every day there’s something new.”

“Weather holds and the inspections pass, it’ll keep moving. It’s a good crew. They should—Sorry,” he said when his phone rang.

“Go ahead. I’d better get started.”

He pulled out his phone as Carter walked off. “Cooke. Yeah, I’m on the Brown site.” As he spoke, Jack moved away from the noise. “No, we can’t just . . . If that’s what they want we’ll need to draw up the changes and get a revised permit.”

He listened, continued to walk.

His job visits also gave him a clear idea of Emma’s basic routine. Clients came and went like clockwork in the beginning of the week. Midweek, she’d take deliveries. Boxes and boxes of flowers. She’d be working with them now, he thought. Early start, on her own. Tink or one of the others would probably come in later, do whatever they did.

In the middle of the day, if she could manage it, she’d take a break and sit out on her patio. If he was on-site, he’d squeeze in the time to sit out with her awhile.

How could a man resist Emma sitting in the sunlight?

And there she was now, he realized. Not on the patio, but kneeling on the ground, her hair bundled under a hat while she turned dirt with a garden spade.

“Tell them two to three weeks,” he said, and she turned, tipped up the brim of her hat and smiled at him. “I’m heading out from here in a few minutes. I’ll talk it over with the job boss. I’ll be in the office in a couple hours. No problem.”

He flipped the phone closed, scanned the flats of plants. “Don’t you have enough flowers?”

“Never. I wanted to plug in some more annuals here in front. It makes a nice show from the event areas.”

He crouched, kissed her. “You make a nice show. I figured you’d be working inside.”

“I couldn’t resist, and this won’t take long. I’ll put in an extra hour at the end of the day if I need to.”

“Busy after the end of the day?”

She cocked her head, slanted him a killer look from under the brim of her hat. “That depends on the offer.”

“How about we go into New York for dinner? Someplace where the waiters are snobs, the food’s overpriced, and you look so beautiful I don’t notice either.”

“I’m definitely not busy at the end of the day.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up about seven.”

“I’ll be ready. And since you’re here.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and took his mouth in a deep, dreamy kiss. “That should hold you,” she murmured.

“Pack a bag.”

“What?”

“Pack what you need for overnight and we’ll get a hotel suite in New York. Make a night of it.”

“Really?” She did a quick dance in place. “Give me ten seconds and I’ll pack right now.”

“Then we’re on.”

“I have to be back early, but—”

“So do I.” This time he kissed her, catching her face with his hands, drawing it out. “That should hold
you
. Seven,” he said, and rose.

Pleased with his idea and her reaction, he drew his phone out as he walked to his truck, and got his assistant busy making reservations.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I
TOLD HIM I COULD PACK IN TEN SECONDS. I’M SUCH A LIAR.” With the workday scrubbed off and every inch of her creamed and scented, Emma folded a shirt into her overnight case. “Obviously the coming home clothes aren’t a real issue, but . . .”

She turned, held up a silky white gown for Parker’s opinion. “What do you think?”

“It’s gorgeous.” Stepping forward, Parker brushed a finger over the delicate lace that framed the bodice. “When did you get this?”

“Last winter. I couldn’t resist it, and I told myself I’d wear it just for me, whenever. Of course, I didn’t. Haven’t. It has this little matching robe. I love lush hotel robes, but this is romantic. I feel like I want to have something romantic to put on after dinner.”

“Then it’s perfect.”

“I don’t even know where we’re going, where we’re staying. I love that. Love the feeling of being whisked away.” She did a quick spin then laid the peignoir in her bag. “I want champagne and candlelight, and some ridiculously indulgent dessert. And I want him to look at me in the candlelight and tell me he loves me. I can’t help it.”

“Why should you?”

“Because it should be enough to be whisked away, to be with a man who’d plan a night like this. He makes me happy. That should be enough.”

As Emma continued to pack, Parker stepped forward to rub her shoulders. “It’s not as if you’re setting limits for yourself, Emma. If you feel you have to.”

“I’m not doing that. I don’t think I’m doing that. I know I’ve had some ups and downs about this, so I’m trying to adjust my expectations. And do what I said I’d do when we started.” Reaching back, she laid her hand on Parker’s, squeezed. “Just enjoy and take things as they come. I’ve been in love with him for so long, but that’s my deal. In reality we’ve only been together a couple of months. There’s no rush.”

“Emma, as long as I’ve known you—which is forever—you’ve never been afraid to say how you feel. Why are you afraid to tell Jack?”

Emma closed her case. “If he’s not ready, and telling him made him feel obliged to step back, to just be friends again? I don’t think I could stand it, Parker.” She turned, faced her friend. “I guess I’m not ready to risk what we have. Not yet. So I’m going to enjoy our night away, and not put any added weight on it.

“God, I’ve got to get dressed. Okay, I’ll be back by eight, eight thirty at the latest. But if for some reason we get stuck in traffic—”

“I’ll call Tink, force her to get out of bed. I know how. She’ll take the morning delivery and start processing.”

“Good.” Confident in Parker’s abilities, Emma wiggled into the dress. “But I’ll be back.” She turned so Parker could do up the zipper.

“I love this color. Citrine. It’s annoying to know it would make me sallow. It just makes you glow.” She met Emma’s eyes in the mirror, then wrapped her arm around her friend’s waist and hugged. “Have a great time.”

“Can’t miss.”

Twenty minutes later when she opened the door, Jack took one look and grinned. “This is an excellent idea. I should’ve had this idea long before. You look absolutely stunning.”

“Snobby waiter and overpriced-food worthy?”

“More than.” He took her hand, kissed her wrist where the bracelet he’d given her sparkled.

Even the drive into New York struck her as perfect, whether they whizzed along or crept through a snarl of traffic. The light softening toward balmy evening, she thought, and the whole night ahead.

“I always think I’m going to get into the city more often,” she told him. “To play or to shop, to check out the florists and markets. But I don’t nearly as much as I’d like. So every trip in is exciting.”

“You haven’t even asked where we’re going.”

“It doesn’t matter. I love the surprise, the spontaneity. So much of what I do—you, too, actually—has to run on a schedule. So this? This is like a magic minivacation. If you promise to buy me champagne, I’ll have it all.”

“All you want.”

When he pulled up in front of the Waldorf, she lifted her eyebrows. “And the excellent ideas keep coming.”

“I thought you’d like the traditional.”

“You thought right.”

She waited on the sidewalk while the doorman took their bags, then she reached for Jack’s hand. “Thank you, in advance, for a lovely evening.”

“You’re welcome, in advance. I’m just going to check in, have them take the bags up. The restaurant’s about three blocks from here.”

“Can we walk? It’s beautiful out.”

“Sure. Give me five minutes.”

She wandered the lobby, entertaining herself with the shop windows, the lavish flower displays, the people swarming in, swarming out, until he joined her. He skimmed a hand down her back.

“Ready?”

“Absolutely.” She put her hand in his again to walk out on Park Avenue. “I had a cousin who got married at the Waldorf—before Vows, of course. Huge, ultrafancy formal affair as many of the Grants’ affairs are prone to be. I was fourteen, and very impressed. I still remember the flowers. Acres of flowers. Yellow roses the feature. Her bridesmaids were in yellow, too, and looked like sticks of butter, but oh, the flowers. They’d done this elaborate arbor of yellow roses and wisteria right there in the ballroom. It must have taken an army of florists. But it’s what I remember best, so it must’ve been worth it.”

She smiled at him. “What struck you most about a building that left that kind of impression on you?”

“There’ve been a few.” He turned east at the corner, strolling while New York rushed around them. “But honestly? One of my strongest impressions was the first time I saw the Brown Estate.”

“Really?”

“Plenty of mansions where I grew up in Newport, and some incredible architecture. But there was something—is something—about the estate that stands out. Its balance and lines, its understated grandeur, the confidence that combines dignity with touches of fanciful.”

“That’s it exactly,” she agreed. “Fanciful dignity.”

“When you walk in the main house, there’s an immediate impression that people live there. Really live, and more, the people who live there love the house, and the land. All of it. It remains one of my favorite places in Greenwich.”

“It’s certainly one of mine.”

He turned again, to open the door of the restaurant. The minute she stepped inside, Emma felt the pace, the rush drop away. Even the air seemed to hush.

“Nice job, Mr. Cooke,” she said quietly.

The maitre d’ inclined his elegant head.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle, monsieur.”

“Cooke,” Jack said in a James Brown deadpan that had Emma biting the inside of her cheek to smother a laugh. “Jackson Cooke.”

“Mr. Cooke,
bien sûr
, right this way.”

He led them through elaborate flower displays and flickering candles, around the gleam of silver and glint of crystal on snowy white linen. They were seated with all expected pomp and offered a cocktail.

“The lady prefers champagne.”

“Very good. I’ll inform your sommelier. Enjoy your evening.”

“I already am.” Emma leaned toward Jack. “Very much.”

“Heads turned when you walked through.”

She sent him that smile—that sexy, sultry smile. “We’re a very attractive couple.”

“And now, every man in this place envies me.”

“I’m enjoying the evening even more. Don’t let me interrupt.”

He glanced over at the approach of the sommelier. “Let me get back to you.”

When he’d ordered a bottle that met with the wine steward’s lofty approval, Jack laid his hand over Emma’s. “Now, where was I?”

“Making me feel incredibly special.”

“An easy job considering what I’ve got to work with.”

“Now you’re turning my head. Do go on.”

He laughed, kissed her hand. “I love being with you. You’re a lift to the day, Emma.”

What did it say about her, she wondered, that “love being with you” made her heart jump? “Why don’t you tell me about the rest of your day?”

“Well, I solved the mystery of Carter.”

“There was a mystery?”

“Where does he go, what does he do?” Jack began, and told her the studio routine he’d observed. “I’m only around for short periods,” he continued, “but those short periods range from morning to late afternoon, so my canny observations have taken in a variety of slices of the pie of their day.”

“And what were your conclusions?”

“No conclusions, but many theories. Was he slinking off to have a torrid affair with Mrs. Grady, or indulging in a desperate and downward cycle of online gambling on his laptop?”

“He could do both.”

“He could; he’s an efficient sort.” Jack paused to approve the label on the bottle presented to him. “The lady will taste.”

As the uncorking ritual began, Jack leaned closer to Emma. “And there, our beloved Mackensie, unaware, trusting, slaving away. Could the seemingly innocent and affable Carter Maguire have these shameful secrets? I had to know.”