The Billionaire's Bidding (8 page)

“What did you tell her about me?” Emma asked as she craned her neck to watch the stunning blooms.
Wow.
The Vanderbilts' gardener had nothing on the Garrisons'.

“That I was marrying you for your hotels,” he said.

“You did not.”

“Actually, I told her I was helping you out of a financial jam. She guessed the part about the hotels.”

That surprised Emma. “Well, at least I don't have to lie to her.”

“You don't have to lie to anyone else either.”

Okay, now that was about the most ridiculous thing Emma had ever heard. “Yeah, I have to lie.”

“We tell them we're getting married,” he explained. “We tell them we couldn't be happier—which, when you consider the money, has got to be true. And we tell them we're co-managing McKinley Inns. All perfectly valid.”

“And what do we do when they ask about our feelings? You planning to pull a Prince Charles?”

He glanced her way, raising an eyebrow. “A Prince Charles?”

“When Prince Charles was asked if he loved Diana, he said ‘whatever love is.'”

Alex chuckled.

“Hey, you pull a Prince Charles on me, and I'll pull a Mrs. Nash on you.”

“What's a Mrs. Nash?”

“I don't know, but she does something that intimidates you, and I'm going to find out what it is.”

“You're crazy.”

“Like a fox.” Emma glanced back out the windshield to see the three-story white building rising up in front of them. “I swear your house is bigger than some of my hotels.”

“That's why I bought an apartment in Manhattan.”

“You kept getting lost?”

Alex laughed.

The building grew closer and seemed to get taller. White stone pillars gleamed in the morning sun. Dozens of dormered windows delineated the three, no,
four
stories, while a fountain dominated the circular drive's center garden.

“You spin me around three times in there, I swear you'll never have to see me again.”

“Good tip,” said Alex as he brought the car to a smooth halt in front of the polished staircase.

She pulled a face, but he just laughed at her.

They exited the car and started climbing the wide steps.

“We have to talk about this,” said Emma, trying not to feel outdone by Alex's status and old money.

“About my house?”

“About everything. How this marriage thing is going to work. How much time we'll have to spend together. How we'll coordinate our schedules.”

Alex reached for the handle on the massive front door. “We can coordinate schedules over breakfast.”

She supposed they could schedule a regular morning call. “What time do you get up?”

“Around six.”

Emma nodded. “I usually eat about seven. We could talk on the phone over coffee.”

“The phone?”

“You'd rather e-mail?”

“I'd rather eat at the same table. Dining room, breakfast nook, kitchen, pool deck, I don't care—”

“What are you talking about?”

He reached for the ornate knob on the huge double doors. “Breakfast. Pay attention, Emma. We're talking about breakfast.”

“Where?”

“Here, of course.”

Emma stopped dead. “Here?”

“Can you think of a better place?”

“My penthouse.”

He smirked as he pushed open the door. “You want to share your bedroom with me?”

“We don't have to live together.”

“Sure we do. We'll be married.”

In name only. And even if they did spend time in the same residence, it couldn't be here.

Emma walked tentatively into the cavernous rotunda foyer, gazing upward. It definitely couldn't be here. “Regular people don't live like this,” she said. “It's practically a palace.”

“That's because great-great-great Grandpa Hamilton was British royalty. The second son of an earl.”

Emma gazed at the row of portraits sweeping off down the main hallway. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“The Earl of Kessex,” said Alex. “It's a small holding just south of Scotland. However, his older brother inherited the property and the title. So Hamilton became an admiral in the British navy. I guess he always wanted the trappings because he bought the original eight hundred acres and built this place.”

Emma made her way slowly down the hallway, peering at the old portraits of nobility.

“This guy,” said Alex, pointing to a distinguished man in a dress navy uniform, gold tassels on his shoulders, medals adorning his chest, with a saber clutched in his left hand. He looked proud, serious, intense. In fact, take away the hat, the moustache and about twenty-five years, and he looked surprisingly like Alex.

Emma stepped back and glanced from one to the other.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Alex. “I know.”

“It explains a lot,” said Emma. “It's genetics that make you so intent on expanding the family empire.”

“Oh, I
like
her,” came a woman's voice. She had a British accent, and her staunch declaration was quickly followed by the tapping of her heels on the hardwood floor.

Embarrassed, Emma pulled away from Alex.

The woman was taller than Emma, maybe five feet ten in her sensible shoes. Her hair was dyed sandy blond and cut fashionably short so that it feathered around her narrow face. She had on a straight skirt, a high collar and minimal makeup, and a pair of reading glasses dangled from a gold chain around her neck.

“You don't deserve her,” the woman said to Alex.

“Mrs. Nash. May I present Emma McKinley, my fiancée.”

It was the fist time Alex had used the title, and it made Emma's stomach clamp with guilt.

“You're quite certain you want to do this?” Mrs. Nash asked Emma, carefully searching her expression.

“Quite certain,” said Emma. And she was. There were a million reasons against marrying Alex. But the one reason in favor of marrying him was pretty compelling.

“Well, let's get a look at you, then.” Mrs. Nash glanced her up and down with a critical eye.

“Mrs. Nash,”
Alex protested.

“Amelia's,” she pronounced.

Emma looked to Alex.

“Emma can pick her own wedding dress,” said Alex.

Her wedding dress? So far Emma had blocked that tiny detail from her mind—along with the church, the flowers, the cake and the groom. Most especially the groom. And the kiss from the groom. And the shiver of arousal she got even now when she thought about their engagement kiss on Saturday night.

“If you're going to do this,” said Mrs. Nash. “And let me go on record here and now as being dead set
against
your doing this. For the sake of the family, you're going to do it right.”

“We can do it right without Amelia's dress,” said Alex.

“You definitely don't want Cassandra's.” Mrs. Nash spoke to Emma. “Or Rosalind's.”

“I was thinking of something from Ferragamo or Vera Wang,” said Alex.

“New?” asked Mrs. Nash with obvious horror.

“What's wrong with Cassandra and Rosalind's dresses?” asked Emma, partly to appease Mrs. Nash, but also partly to put Alex in his place. If he thought he was picking out her wedding dress, he had another think coming.

“Rosalind died young, dear.”

“Oh, I'm so—”

“It was in nineteen-forty-two,” Alex put in.

“Oh.” Okay. So maybe condolences weren't necessary.

“And Cassandra.” Mrs. Nash clicked her tongue. “She was a most unhappy child.” She cast a knowing look at Alex. “And you two have quite enough problems without the dubious karma of that dress.”

“It's a very generous offer,” Emma said to Mrs. Nash. “But I'm sure I can find something on Fifth—”

“Do you want the world to believe you're marrying for love?”

Emma hesitated, thinking of poor Princess Diana. “We do.”

Mrs. Nash divided her disdain between both of them. “I must say, if I'm to be a coconspirator in this folly, then you will have to take my advice.”

Emma almost said
yes, ma'am.

“A Garrison,” Mrs. Nash continued, “would never buy a wedding dress off the rack. Now, let's take a look at the ring, shall we?”

Alex slanted an accusatory glare at Emma, and she guiltily inched her hands behind her back.

“I, uh, left it at home.”

“Indeed.” But then, instead of leveling a criticism, Mrs. Nash gave a decisive nod. “Just as well. We'll be needing the Tudor diamond for this.”

Emma didn't know what the Tudor diamond was, but it sounded old and sentimental, and most certainly valuable. She shook her head. “I don't want any of Alex's heirlooms.”

“But of course you do.”

“No, really—”

Alex slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Mrs. Nash is right, Emma.”

She shook her head more vigorously, fighting the reaction to his touch. Why did this stupid sensation have to rise up every time he put his hands on her? It was beyond frustrating, and it made no sense whatsoever.

Sure, he was a fit, sexy man who smelled like cedar musk. And he was rich and smart, with a brilliant if convoluted set of ethics that she couldn't help but admire.

And he sometimes seemed to have her best interests at heart. And every once in a while he showed a soft spot or a wicked streak of humor. She liked that. She didn't want to, but there was no point in denying he could make her laugh.

“You need to save those for your real bride,” she insisted.

“That would be you,” said Mrs. Nash. “
You
are his real bride.”

“No, I'm…” She turned to Alex for support.

He shrugged his shoulders, and she felt completely adrift. The heirloom ring, on top of everything else, suddenly seemed ridiculously overwhelming.

“We need to get organized,” Emma told him. Maybe if they made a list—the prenup, the ceremony, where they'd live, how long they had to stay together. Maybe then she'd feel like things were under control.

“Exactly,” Mrs. Nash agreed. “And we'll begin with the Tudor diamond. It's being stored in the safe in the Wiltshire bedroom. I trust you remember the combination, Alex?”

“I remember the combination, Mrs. Nash.”

“Well, we're not keeping the liquor in there, so you won't have had a use for it lately.”

“I should have fired you years ago,” said Alex, but there was clear affection in his tone.

Their banter made Emma feel even more like an interloper. “I'm sure the ring isn't intended—”

“You might take a look through the rest of the collection while you're up there,” Mrs. Nash added. Then she winked at Alex. “Nothing says commitment quite like flawless emeralds.”

Alex nodded to Mrs. Nash and patted Emma's shoulder. “Shall we?”

No, they shouldn't. She had to slow this thing down. They
had
to get organized. “We need to talk,” she said with renewed vigor.

“We can talk in the Wiltshire bedroom.”

“Y
ou'll definitely have to write these into the prenup.” Perched on the edge of the four-poster bed, Emma had given up trying to reason with Alex. Instead, she slid a serpentine pattern ruby-and-diamond choker over her forearm. She'd have to be blind not to appreciate the brilliance of the jewels against her pale skin. A more mercenary person might be plotting ways to keep the necklace.

McKinley Inns had certainly allowed Emma and Katie to grow up with a lot of advantages in life, but it was still a relatively small company, and there'd been lean times with their family business. It was hard to imagine a threat to the Garrison wealth. Alex had produced an emerald necklace that looked to be a hundred years old. And she could only guess at the fortune tucked away in the leather and velvet boxes of the multi-shelved safe.

Alex extracted yet another case from a high shelf. “Would that be in favor of you or me?”

“I'm an option?” she joked. “Because a girl could get attached to some of these things.”

So far, they'd discovered a sapphire pendant, several diamond bracelets, a man's ruby ring, even a tiara dripping with so many teardrop diamonds that Emma was sure it should be in a museum.

Still, the serpentine choker outshone them all.

“Afraid I can only lend them to you.” He smiled at her as he crossed the room, his eyes going a shade of smoke she was beginning to like. “But we'll say yes to some of the party invitations, so you can show them off.”

“Only if we bring along a bodyguard.” She'd be scared to death wearing the necklace in public.

“You don't need a bodyguard.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You've got me.”

She couldn't help but grin at that one. “Okay. But only if you bring along great-great-great Grandpa Hamilton's saber.”

“You don't think it might attract attention?”

“I thought attracting attention to us was your mission in life.”

He snapped open the newly discovered case. “Touché.”

“I, on the other hand.” She gave in to temptation and looped the heavy choker around her neck. “Am trying to be classy and circumspect about our engagement.”

Alex set the case down on the edge of the bed, motioning for her to turn around. “Let me.”

Emma stood and faced away from him so that he could work with the clasp.

He brushed her hair out of the way and took the two ends from her fingertips.

“Thanks,” she whispered, allowing herself a few seconds to enjoy the brush of his hands and the fan of his breath.

He smoothed the necklace and touched her shoulders, half turning her so she was facing a big oval mirror above a mahogany vanity table. “Take a look.”

Emma's hand went to her throat where the necklace sparkled with the brilliance of two dozen flawless gems. She took a few steps closer, watching the diamonds reflect the light and the heavy gold glisten with her movements.

“Stunning,” she breathed out loud.

“Stunning,” Alex agreed, his voice a low rumble.

She glanced up and met his eyes in the mirror.

The smoky gray had turned to dark slate. His gaze dropped to the necklace, and in slow motion he brushed away a few stray strands of her hair.

Then he leaned down.

She knew she should stop him. She
had
to stop him. But her body was already anticipating the taste of his lips, his smooth warm lips against the delicate curve of her neck. Desire sizzled within her, and she held still, waiting, wanting.

His lips touched her skin, nudging the necklace out of the way, drawing her in with a gentle kiss. Her hands grasped the vanity top, steadying herself as her need for him took the strength out of her knees.

He broke contact, but then kissed her again. This time the tip of his tongue drew a circle above her collarbone. He blew on the moist spot, and her entire body contracted in response. Then he moved to the other side of her neck with a full, enveloping, overwhelming kiss.

Higher, then higher still. He kissed her jawline, her cheek, then his hands tunneled into her hair, bringing her head around as he zeroed in on her mouth.

When his lips met hers, passion and longing welled up from every corner of her being. She released the vanity, grasping his arm instead, clinging to the strength of his bicep and turning fully into his embrace.

While one hand guided her chin, his free arm snaked around her waist, pulling her firmly into the cradle of his thighs. His muscles were hot and hard as steel, transmitting the unmistakable signals of male desire.

His mouth opened wide, and she answered greedily. His tongue plundered her inviting depths, sending pulsating messages of need through her veins. She subconsciously arched her spine, moving closer, pressing her pelvis, her breasts, her thighs tight against his body.

The world outside disappeared, and her only thought was Alex. His incredible scent, his unbridled power, and the salty, tangy, heady taste of his skin fueled her hunger and hijacked any semblance of reason.

“Emma.” Her name vibrated on his lips.

His hand slid to her bottom, grinding her high and tight against him, leaving her no illusions about the state of his arousal. The knowledge shot through her, ricocheting out from the apex of her thighs, streaking electricity to her toes and fingertips.

She cupped his face, smoothing her palms over his rough, masculine skin. She dug her fingers into his hair, kissing him harder, kissing him deeper. There was a primal magic to this passion, something she'd never, ever felt before.

In some dim recess of her mind, she knew they'd have to stop. But not now, not yet.

His breathing grew ragged. With both hands, he lifted her from the floor, slipping her skirt up her thighs, wrapping her legs around his waist so that the fabric of his suit abraded the thin silk of her panties. His thumbs slipped beneath the delicate elastic, and her muscles clenched around the touch.

Alex swore under his breath.

Emma couldn't disagree.

“We have to stop,” he groaned.

She nodded, not sure she was capable of forming words.

His thumbs circled higher, forcing a moan from her lips.

“Don't do that,” he growled.

“Then stop—” She moaned again.

His hands retreated. He drew his head back to gaze into her eyes. “I want you,” he confessed bluntly, then waited for her reaction.

She took a breath. Then another. Then another, desperately gathering her bearings. “That can't be good.”

“On the contrary,” he said as he slowly lowered her to the floor. “I have a feeling it could be very, very good.”

She moved away, out of range, shaking her head. “Don't you say that.”

“Not saying it won't change a thing.”

Maybe not, but it was all she had. She couldn't take this. She'd never felt so wickedly free, as if some unbridled hedonist had taken over her body. She would have said anything, promised anything,
done
anything.

“We can't ever do it again,” she murmured.

“That's one solution,” he agreed. But then his voice dipped low, and he leaned slightly forward. “Or else we do, do it again. But we never, ever stop.”

The room temperature seemed to spike as they stared at each other. For a moment, Emma actually hesitated over the choice.

Abrupt noises came from the other side of the bedroom door.

“
Mr.
Garrison,” Mrs. Nash cried from the hallway.

Her rapid footsteps were followed by more measured ones and a litany of rapid-fire French.

“Philippe,” said Emma as Alex reflexively sprang toward the door.

It burst open, and Mrs. Nash marched inside.

“Will you
please
be so kind as to inform this odious man that the Garrison wedding feast dates back to William the Conqueror, and that we are
not
serving Garrison guests microscopic portions of bottom-feeding crustaceans smothered in outlandish butter sauces while I'm alive and breathing.” She took a breath.

“A slab of beef and a dollop of dough?” Philippe demanded, coming abreast of Mrs. Nash. “You have the nerve to call that food?”

“I call that the Queen's supper,” Mrs. Nash snapped in return.

“You Brits don't know how to do anything but
boil.
”

“I'll boil you, you—-”

“
Excuse
me?” Alex interrupted, glancing back and forth between the two.

Philippe seemed to recover his composure. “Forgive me, Mr. Garrison. Mademoiselle.” He clicked his heels together and fixed his attention on Alex. “I am Philippe Gagnon. Sous Chef, trained at the Sorbonne and apprenticed under John-Pierre Laconte. I have cooked for princes and presidents. And I am at your service.”

Alex turned to blink at Emma.

“I hired a caterer,” she confessed into the silence.

He paused, his expression carefully neutral. “You hired a caterer?”

“Is that a bad thing?” Before the question was out, she knew it sounded ridiculous. Mrs. Nash was about to call up the Royal Navy. And Philippe's complexion was turning an unnatural shade of purple.

Alex didn't answer, but his eyes widened.

Mrs. Nash sniffed. “You
are
the bride, of course.”

Emma might be the bride, but it was easy to see she'd stepped on some very important toes. She hadn't wanted to hire a caterer. It had been an act of self-preservation.

Though she had to admit, Philippe was wonderful. He'd cleared her lobby and emptied her mezzanine of unwanted wedding planners and reporters. Since then, he'd been nothing but professional and helpful. She didn't want to fire him.

But Mrs. Nash, who was obviously the uncontested mistress of her domain had very concrete plans for Alex's wedding. Emma sure didn't want to alienate her, either.

She glanced at Alex. No help there. He was obviously waiting for her next move.

She looked from Mrs. Nash to Philippe and back again. “Could we, um, compromise?” she asked.

Alex coughed. “You want the English and the French to compromise over food?”

“Is that a bad thing, too?”

No one seemed inclined to answer.

“I am willing,” Philippe finally put in, with a long-suffering sigh, “to make a few—how do you say—concessions.”

Emma glanced hopefully at Mrs. Nash.

Mrs. Nash's lips pursed.

“Mrs. Nash?” Alex prompted.

“It's tradition,” she spouted.

Emma struggled to come up with something helpful. “Perhaps you could do the main course? And Philippe could do dessert?”

“Mon Dieu.” Philippe crossed himself. “I will be ruined.”

Mrs. Nash clacked her teeth together. “The admiral would turn over in his grave.”

Emma looked to Alex once more. He should feel free to jump in anytime.

“Any more good ideas?” he asked her.

That did it. This whole mess was his fault anyway. “
You
were the one who proposed in public. You unleashed the dogs.”

“What dogs?”

“Philippe is the one who saved me. He cleared out the reporters. He sent the other caterers packing—”

“Thirty-five years,” Mrs. Nash put in. “Thirty-five years I've been with the Garrison family.”

Philippe made a slashing motion with his hand. “Yorkshire pudding and boiled cabbage has
no place
on my table.”

“
Your
table?” cried Mrs. Nash. “I think you mean Mr. Garrison's table.”

“Can we get back to the dogs?” asked Alex.

“They were metaphorical,” said Emma.

“I got that much,” he drawled.

“The press,” said Philippe, providing a few more dramatic hand gestures. “They were everywhere. Ms. McKinley was forced into hiding. I saved her.”

“He saved me,” Emma agreed. And she wasn't about to fire the man for his trouble. Surely to goodness four sane adults could come up with a compromise.

She turned to Mrs. Nash. “Why don't we pull out your recipes—”

“Water, salt and a big ol' slab of beef,” said Philippe.

“At least it's not the legs of amphibians—”

“That's it.” Alex took a decisive step forward. “Philippe, Mrs. Nash, you'll work together. I want three recommendations for a compromise by Wednesday.”

The two immediately stopped talking.

“Morning,” said Alex.

After a pause, Philippe and Mrs. Nash eyed each other suspiciously.