The Cinderella Bride (11 page)

“Dr. Crenshaw is a middle-aged worrywart.”

“Dear God, this place looks like the inside of a florist's.”

Gideon's voice sounded from the doorway, causing Emma to jerk her hand back and send water sloshing over the nightstand. For once she was grateful for her clumsiness, because she could avoid looking up. She grabbed a handful of tissues and tried not to think about the man whose footsteps were entering the room.

To her chagrin, the footsteps rounded the bed and stopped behind her.

“Sorry I startled you,” he murmured. His breath was warm against the back of her neck, reminding her of last night, when that same breath had been hot and steady on her skin. Just like last night, Emma's insides began to tremble.

“Good morning,” she heard him say to Mariah, followed by a soft noise that sounded like a kiss on the cheek.

“I see you decided to look your best for this visit,” Mrs. Kent said in greeting.

“And I see you're feeling better. How did this morning's tests go?”

“Humph, tests. Dr. Crenshaw's a little too fond of tests. If you ask me, she's using them as an excuse to run up my bill.”

“Really? I thought you said she was a middle-aged worrywart.” Emma could hear the smile in Gideon's voice. “Wasn't that the phrase she used, Miss O'Rourke?”

Emma kept her eyes on the table in front of her. “I believe so, Mr. Kent.”

“Nice to know you two are keeping records of everything I say. I thought you were coming by earlier.”

“I stopped by the hotel to pick up Hinckley before he took over your bedroom.”

“Too late. That three-legged monster made himself quite at home on the first night. On my cashmere throw, no less.”

“That's Hinckley. Nothing but the best. Right, Miss O'Rourke?”

Why couldn't he ignore her presence and talk to his grandmother? Reluctantly, she looked up.
Please don't let there be indifference in his eyes,
she prayed. That would be worse than the flowers.

She should have prayed for something else. Like her legs not turning to jelly, or for Gideon not to look quite so perfect.

No wonder Mrs. Kent had made a comment about his clothes. He'd reverted back to sailor mode—faded jeans and that ratty Irish-knit sweater—and looked as beautiful and awe-inspiring as ever. Emma's heart gave a sad little lurch.

“I'll send the throw out to be dry-cleaned,” she said.

“Never mind.” Mrs. Kent waved away the comment.

“Gideon might as well take it with him, since that creature is so fond of the thing.”

“Ah, but then he won't want to sleep on it anymore,” Gideon told her. “Where's the fun in sleeping on something you're
allowed
to sleep on?”

Or with,
thought Emma bitterly.

“Sorry to interrupt,” a nurse said, knocking on the
door, “but it's time to check Mrs. Kent's vital signs.” Her eyes swept over Gideon with obvious attraction as she approached the bed. Gideon smiled back, causing Emma's stomach to knot with jealousy.

Knock it off,
she told herself sternly.
You don't have any claim on him.

Meanwhile, the nurse practically beamed, she smiled so brightly. “If you'd like to wait, I promise I won't take long.”

Seeing her chance to escape, Emma scooped the flowers from Mrs. Kent's bedside table. “I'm going to take this to the nurse's station and make those arrangements we talked about.” After which she'd slip into the elevator, and finish visiting later, after Gideon left.

Or not.

Ten steps from the room, she heard Gideon call out, “Emma, wait!”

Her heart urged her to pretend she didn't hear. Unfortunately, her brain told her that wouldn't work, so she stopped.

“Apparently the nurse watches
All My Loves,
” he said, catching up. “At least I hope so. They're in there discussing who fathered some woman's baby.”

“The ex-husband,” Emma replied automatically.

“How do you know?”

“It's always the ex-husband.”

“You'd think I'd know that by now.” Without asking, he took the floral arrangement from her. “So Mariah's giving flowers to the nurses?”

“Among others.” She told him the plan to deliver flowers to other patients.

“Nice idea. Yours?”

Hating how his compliment made her insides turn mushy, she focused on the flecks embedded in the gray linoleum. “Your grandmother wanted to spread the wealth.”

“Just don't give away all the flowers that get delivered.”

She paused, then realized what he meant. “The roses.”

“Good, you got them. I was going to send them to your place, but didn't want them sitting on your doorstep all day.” His mouth quirked. “For some reason I figured I'd have better luck sending them to you at work.”

“They're lovely,” she replied quietly.

“Not nearly as lovely as the recipient, I assure you.”

Again, her insides melted. “You don't have to do that, you know.”

“What, send flowers? I wanted to.”

“I mean the compliments. There's no need to let me down easy. I told you last night I didn't expect anything.”

He regarded her for a long moment. “Most women would.”

“Guess I'm more realistic than most.”

They reached the nurse's station, where the head nurse was on the phone, updating someone on a patient's condition. When she saw them approach, she signaled that she'd be another minute.

Gideon set the flowers on the counter. “Do you really think I'm trying to let you down easy?”

“Aren't you?”

“Funny, I thought I was showing my admiration.”

The nurse on the phone signaled that she'd be a few more moments. Emma busied herself with the arrangement, repositioning chrysanthemums.

Gideon's voice came from behind her shoulder. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, it follows this afternoon.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought we could have dinner on my boat,” he replied.

“That's not necessary.”

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that?”

She adjusted another stem. From the corner of her eye, she saw the nurse wrapping up her phone conversation. Or so Emma hoped. She needed the interruption. Gideon's question gave birth to an optimism she didn't want to feel. He was only inviting her out of guilt, trying to make amends for last night. Like with the roses.

“I have to make arrangements for the flowers,” she said.

“You haven't accepted my invitation yet.” He lowered his head towards her. To the nurses at the station, it would look as if he was merely speaking confidentially. Except that he used the same maddening lover's voice he'd used in her bed. The one that coaxed her to do whatever he wanted. “You know you want to.”

Heaven help her, but she did. She wanted another night with his hands on her skin and his voice murmuring lover's words in her ear. What good would it do,
though, except to pull her back into the orbit of a man she was better off forgetting?

Gideon's fingers curled around her shoulders. “I'm waiting.”

The fissure dividing common sense and want widened. This whatever-they-were-doing had no future, no point. Only a glutton for punishment would say yes.

She sighed. “What time?”

 

Was she making a mistake? Probably, but making a mistake apparently didn't stop her from finding her way to the marina at sundown.

Gideon's hatchway was open. Light and the aroma of Italian food spilled out into the cockpit. He'd told her to dress warmly and she had, in jeans and a wine-colored sweater she knew set off her hair. Even so, a shiver ran through her as she stepped aboard.
What are you doing?
she asked herself yet again. Another night would only make the inevitable that much harder.

Suddenly changing her mind, she turned to leave, but before she could run, Gideon's head appeared in the hatchway opening. “I thought I heard footsteps,” he called. “Come on down.”

Emma found she couldn't say no. With tentative steps, she headed toward him.

The cabin looked different than the last time she'd seen it. For one thing, the brass lamps were dimmed to their lowest setting. As their gimbals swayed with the current, they flickered like candles. The table was set for two with fine china and silver. With slight amusement she recognized the pattern as the same one from the
Fairlane dining room. A vase with a single rose graced the middle. An open bottle of wine waited next to two crystal goblets.

It reminded her of New York.

Gideon never looked better. He'd shaved, and ditched the sweater in favor of a white shirt that pulled tight across his chest. Dark curls teased the open neck. He was gazing at her like he'd never seen a woman before. The unabashed desire stirred hers.

“You wore your hair down,” he drawled. “I like it.”

“Thank you.”

He moved forward, eyes locked on her. Emma's mouth went dry. She regretted wearing such a heavy sweater, because she was suddenly quite hot. Another couple steps and there'd be no space between them.

“I'm looking forward to dinner,” she said.

“Me, too.”

He came closer. Emma started to tremble with need. “I'm hungry,” she managed to say.

“Me, too.”

He reached the stairs, then reached for her. Emma's vision glazed as she melted into his embrace. Immediately his fingers tangled in her hair, urging her mouth to his. “Let's start with dessert.”

“I'
M REARRANGING DECK
furniture, aren't I?”

Hinckley blinked at her. At the moment he lay sprawled across the seat cushion, far more interested in having his fur stroked than listening to her ramble.

It had been three days since Mrs. Kent's heart attack. Three nights with Gideon. Here, on morning four, Emma found herself repeating the same argument as days one through three—that being with Gideon was a bad idea with a capital B.

“Our ship's going nowhere but down,” she told Hinckley. “I should get off before I drown, right?”

Except she wasn't entirely sure she wasn't over her head already.

She stared at the red streaks painting the horizon. Gideon was below, sleeping. Or so she presumed, from the soft snoring she'd heard as she slipped from the sheets about an hour before. As had become her habit these last couple of days, she'd gone on deck to watch the sunrise. This morning the October wind blew wet with the remnants of last night's fog. Shivering, she pulled the sweatshirt hood over her head, only to shiver again because the thick cotton smelled like Gideon. She
inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma like a women in a fabric softener commercial. Maybe he'd let her keep the shirt when he left.

When he left.
Her heart sank a little. As much as she tried to live in the moment, thoughts of his inevitable departure dogged her, anyway.

Bringing her back to the deck chairs.

Hinckley nudged her thigh, demanding attention. “Yeah, I know, stop talking and put my fingers to better use,” she replied, finding the sweet spot between his two shoulder blades. The action flipped a switch, and the feline immediately rolled onto his back, his three limbs stretching straight in the air so she could scratch his belly. The purr in his throat rivaled the fishing boats' engines.

“If only we could all be more like you,” she told him.

“Please, the world couldn't handle that much self-centeredness.”

Gideon emerged from the hatchway, two cups of coffee in his hands. His smile flipped Emma's switch, and her heart sped up. Lord, but he was handsome in the morning. He was handsome any hour of the day, but mornings, when his eyes were the bluest part of the world, were especially good to him. Today he'd showered before coming up. His damp hair had a little bit of curl in the back.

“I thought I'd find you up here,” he said, handing her a cup. “You're turning into quite the sea dog, you know that?”

She breathed in the steam wafting from her mug. “I
never knew how pretty the harbor could be this time of the morning. The solitude's very peaceful.”

“That it is.” Settling on the other side of Hinckley, he gave the cat's jaw a scratch. Which of course Hinckley responded to by stretching and making room for more hands on his body.

Gideon chucked. “Reminds me of someone else I know,” he teased. “Must be my magic hands.”

Emma stuck out her tongue. He didn't need the encouragement, even if he was right. “More likely it's having two sets of hands on him at once.”

“True. Heaven help him when he has to go back to one-person attention.”

Meaning when Gideon left Boston. They hadn't talked about his leaving, but with Mrs. Kent out of the hospital, the time was coming. A lump rose in Emma's throat. To ignore it, she studied the trails their fingers made in Hinckley's fur. “I'm sure he'll adjust. Cats always do.” Same as she would.

“I don't know. He's pretty spoiled.”

“I think he's proved he can roll with life's punches, don't you?”

“Maybe, but you can roll only so many times.”

It didn't feel like they were discussing Hinckley anymore.

The sun had breached the horizon and was painting the gray with pink streaks. She pointed toward the light. “Red sun at dawn, sailor's forewarned, right?”

“Listen to you quoting seamen's myths. Next thing you know you'll be singing sea shanties and munching hardtack.”

“Don't forget the parrot on my shoulder.”

“A parrot, huh?”

“A girl's got to assimilate.”

“And you assimilate so adorably, too.” He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose.

This was how they worked. Deliberately steering the conversation to lighter fare, sharing but not sharing. As if they both knew delving too deeply would be a mistake.

Indignant that their teasing interrupted his massage, Hinckley stretched and got off the bench. Gideon used the opportunity to scoot closer to Emma. She leaned back against his chest, and together they watched the sun rise higher.

“Tell me,” he said after a few moments, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder, “does this new assimilation of yours mean you're planning to accept my offer?”

Sailing lessons. Last night he'd offered to teach her.

Emma shook her head. “I think I'll draw the line at forecasting. I told you last night, the ocean's a bit too cold for me at the moment.”

“And I told you, you could come to Saint Martin.
Mi casa es su casa.
”

“I thought they spoke French on your part of the island.”

“Okay,
ma maison est votre maison.
Or should I say
mon bateau est votre bateau?
”

My boat is your boat.
She couldn't think of anything more enticing than being with Gideon on a tropical
island, but they both knew the invitation wasn't serious. “Thanks, but I think we're all better off if I stay on dry land.”

“You navigated the water all right last night.”

Color crept into her cheeks as she remembered how they'd made love to the rhythm of the waves. “That was different. The boat wasn't actually moving.”

“Says you.”

He caught her chin, reeling her in for a quick kiss. His touch was so warm and gentle, and felt so good that Emma was surprised she didn't start purring like Hinckley. “You'd make a helluva first mate,” he said against her lips.

When he dropped his voice like that it was hard to remember this was only banter. Emma bit back a sigh. Her index finger traced his lower lip before trailing to his collar. He wore a white button-down shirt. “You're dressed for business,” she mused.

“Breakfast summit,” he explained. “Mariah issued an edict for first thing this morning.”

“That's right. I forgot.” Arranging the breakfast had been one of Emma's first tasks when Mrs. Kent came home.

She took a long, fortifying sip of coffee. “I better head to the shower.”

She moved to get up, but he caught her wrist. “Whoa, no need for you to rush.”

“Are you kidding? When your grandmother says first thing, she means first thing.”

“For her sons and me. For you, on the other hand, there's absolutely no reason to rush. She'll have you
doing her bidding all day. Take your time, have a second cup of coffee, pleasure Hinckley. Better yet, think about ways I can pleasure you later.”

With that, he leaned forward and kissed her. She expected he meant the kiss to be a quick peck, but as usual, what started innocently enough quickly ignited into something more, erasing all coherent thought. Emma sighed into Gideon's mouth as he pulled her tight. He tasted of coffee and spearmint and something more. Something unmistakably Gideon. It was incredible, and totally, completely addictive. She was putty in his hands.

“Emma,” he whispered, when they finally broke apart. He pressed his forehead to hers, his ragged breathing matching hers. “I so don't want to go to breakfast.”

She so didn't want him to go. “But your grandmother…”

“I know.” He broke away, but not before emitting a guttural groan. “We'll continue this tonight, okay?”

Emma nodded. She couldn't have refused if she wanted to.

 

When did his uncle become such a pompous ass?

Gideon sat back in his seat, listening as the man described, of all things, coffee grind and eggshell facial wraps. Had to be Suzanne's influence. The man was working overtime to make this marriage stick. Good luck with that.

Gideon tried to picture Emma having a coffee grind facial, and failed. No matter. He'd much rather picture her as she'd been this morning, anyway. Hands and head
tucked in his sweatshirt, with only her face visible to the morning. Well, her face and her legs. Those long, long legs. He shifted uncomfortably and wished for the umpteenth time he had stayed with Emma on the boat. From the disappointment he'd caught in her eyes when he'd disembarked, she did, too.

Funny, he'd thought he would have gotten her out of his system by now, but the opposite held true. If anything, the past three days had whetted his appetite for more. And given Emma's uninhibited response to his lovemaking, he had to assume she was as hungry for more as he was.

Why didn't she want to go to Saint Martin, then? They were having a good time together. Why not extend the fun a little longer under the hot tropical sun? He could show her all the sights he'd described to her. Those places that made her eyes light up with fascination. Maybe they could jet over to Cabo. He could picture her face now as she watched the sunset. Eyes growing wide, lips parting in a small O, the way they did just before she—

“Gideon?”

“Hmm?” He jerked his attention back to Mariah.

“I asked if Ross had anything else to say when you met with him,” she stated.

“Nothing I haven't already told you. He seemed satisfied that Kent Hotels had a solid future. Why?”

“Because I got a message yesterday from Gerard Ambiteau. He was inquiring about my health.”

“You did have a heart attack, Mother,” Andrew said.

“He's simply showing professional courtesy.”

“Nonsense. Gerard Ambiteau doesn't believe in courtesy. He smells blood in the water. That's why we need to make sure we have Ross Chamberlain's loyalty. Thank goodness I didn't have my heart attack twenty-fours earlier.”

“Mother!”

“I'm simply pointing out a fact.” Mariah set down her tea. “We dodged a big bullet the other day. There's no guarantee that next time we'll be so lucky.”

Gideon sipped his orange juice, which had suddenly lost its flavor. He didn't want to talk about a next time, with regards to business or Mariah's health. Both topics churned his stomach and made his heart burn. It didn't help that Jonathan sat through the entire meeting like some kind of stone statue, barely saying a word. If not for the occasional sidelong glance, one would think Jonathan didn't know his supposed firstborn was even in the room.

Using his glass as a screen, Gideon stole a look to his left. Jonathan was intent on his egg-white omelet and didn't look up. Gideon's heartburn kicked up a notch. From the hollow sensation beneath his rib cage, he was pretty sure the acid had burned a hole in his chest.

As soon as this breakfast ended, he was taking Emma for a long solitary walk and some fresh air.

“And then there's our other shareholders,” Mariah continued. “What about them?”

“Most of them are family,” Andrew noted.

“Being family doesn't equate loyalty. The way this family's gone to hell in a handbasket the past few years,
I wouldn't be surprised if they lined up to sell us out. Unless they feel Kent Hotels is in good hands.”

“And how do we convince them of that?” Andrew asked.

Mariah looked unwaveringly at Gideon and raised her teacup to her lips. “Simple,” she stated. “We name a successor.”

 

“Gideon, wait!”

Emma was returning from the business center when she heard Jonathan call his son's name. His tone, unsure and soft, stopped her in her tracks. She hovered outside her office door, uncertain what to do.

“Yes?” she heard Gideon say.

“I—We—never thanked you for everything you did the other day. With your grandmother. Keeping Andrew under control.”

“You don't need to thank me. I was simply doing what needed to be done.” He sounded like her, Emma thought with a smile. She'd have to tease him later.

“Yes, we do,” the elder Kent insisted. “If you hadn't arrived when you did…” Silence filled the air. Unable to help herself, Emma peered through the door crack. Gideon and his father stood face-to-face, much closer together than she would have guessed from their stilted voices. Jonathan Kent was looking down, toeing the carpet with his Italian loafer. “Your grandmother didn't tell me you were coming to Boston.” He looked up with a nervous smile. “I think she feared I would bolt.”

“I'm surprised you didn't,” Emma heard Gideon say under his breath.

“Guess I deserved that. It's been a long time.”

“Ten years.”

“You've done well for yourself.”

“You paid attention?”

“Of course.” Jonathan's expression was one of forlorn surprise. A mirror, Emma suspected, of Gideon's face seconds before. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Because it's been ten years.”

Emma knew she should back away. This was a intimate moment between father and son, one she had no business watching. But she couldn't move. Gideon stood with posture so erect and proud it broke her heart.

Again, Jonathan toed the carpet. “I suppose you'll be heading back soon, to Saint Martin.”

“Well, there isn't any real reason for me to stay, is there?” Emma's heart crumbled when she heard Gideon's answer.

“There's your grandmother's offer. I thought perhaps you might reconsider. The family…” Jonathan cleared his throat. “Your family needs you.”

“
My
family?” Gideon responded with cynicism.

“Yes, your family. We need you.” Jonathan touched Gideon's shoulder. “I know what you're thinking, but no matter what, your last name is and always will be Kent. That makes this your family. It makes you
my
family.”

There was no response. Emma saw Gideon bow his head. Jonathan kept his hand on his son's shoulder. “I should have told you that a long time ago. But then you left, and I kept waiting for the right time, and…” He
gave a halfhearted shrug. “The more time that passed, the less sure I was you'd listen.”