After Dylan’s brief speech, several people toasted the bride-and-groom-to-be, and then it was time for dancing. A small orchestra set up shop in one corner of the room. The lights dimmed. Music filled the air. Holiday songs and romantic ballads and even a smattering of classical pieces coaxed brave couples onto the floor in the center of the room.
Emma watched wistfully. She should probably slip out. This was not the time to be without a date.
Before she could make her excuses to her tablemates and head unobtrusively to the exit, Mia appeared unexpectedly with Aidan in tow. “Emma...” Her smile was conspiratorial. “I told my future brother-in-law you were feeling much better. I know you met under odd circumstances, but we should celebrate, don’t you think? You could have been badly hurt. And since neither of you has a date tonight...”
One look at Aidan’s face told Emma this was not his idea. “I’m sure Aidan has lots of people he wants to chat with since he lives out of town. I’ll just sit and listen to the music.” She tried to back out gracefully, but though Mia was quiet by nature, she was a woman of strong opinions.
Mia tugged Emma to her feet. “Don’t be silly. Aidan wants to dance, don’t you?” She looked up at her fiancé’s brother with a cajoling smile.
Aidan nodded stiffly. “Of course. If Emma’s up to it.”
He was giving her an out...perhaps giving both of them an out. Perversely, his patent reluctance made her want to irritate him. “I’d love to dance,” she said, draping her scarf across the back of her chair. The room was plenty warm. With two large-scale fires blazing and the body heat from a hundred guests, she was definitely not going to get a chill.
Mia, her job done, waved a hand and went to reclaim Dylan for the next dance. Emma and Aidan stood in a small cocoon of awkward silence. He wore a tux, as did most of the men in the room. Only in Aidan’s case, the formal attire fit him so comfortably and so well, he seemed in his element. A man who, no doubt, had a closet full of such clothes back in New York.
He was bigger than the boy she remembered. His shoulders—barely contained by the expensive fabric of his jacket—were broad, his belly flat. When he took her hand and pulled her into a traditional embrace, she felt a little giddy.
Was it wrong to be glad that Mia was bossy and that Aidan was too much of a gentleman to make a scene? Emma bit her lip, looking anywhere but at his face. One of his hands, fingers splayed, rested against the back of her gown just below the place where bare skin met soft fabric.
She had intended to make light conversation, but her throat dried up. A wave of nostalgia and sexual yearning swept over her with such force that she stumbled once. Aidan righted her effortlessly, his strong legs moving them with ease across the crowded dance floor.
When Aidan spoke, she actually jumped.
“Relax,” he said, his tone frustrated. “I’m not going to out you to the room. No one needs to know our dirty secrets.”
Her spine locked straight. “We don’t have any dirty secrets,” she said, enunciating carefully.
“Then why haven’t you told my family who you really are?”
Finally, she allowed her gaze to meet his. If she had expected to see tumultuous emotion, she was way off base. His face was a pleasant mask, only a tic in his cheek betraying any hint of agitation. “Who am I?” she asked pointedly. “An old girlfriend? That hardly seems worth mentioning. We were little more than children playing at being grown-ups.”
Finally, she stirred the sleeping dragon. Fire shot from his eyes, searing her nerves and making her tremble. “Don’t you dare,” he said, the words forced from between clenched teeth. “It may have been a long time ago, but I won’t let you rewrite history so you can whitewash the truth.”
“The truth?” She stared up at him, confused and upset. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You screwed me over, Emma. Though I must admit that your prissy English manners almost made it seem like a privilege. I was a young fool. But I learned my lesson. When I told you I didn’t want to talk about the past, I meant it. But apparently, it’s not so easy to overlook.”
“I didn’t ask you to dance with me,” she said, the words bitter in her mouth.
“You didn’t put up much of a fight, either.”
To any onlookers, it must have appeared that Aidan and Emma were conversing politely in the midst of a dance.
Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to have him touching her. Not when she knew how much he despised her.
“I will not cause a scene and ruin Mia’s party.” Her tone was soft but vehement. “But I am leaving this dance floor—now.”
“Not without me.” The fake smile he plastered on his face was in direct counterpoint to the unrelenting grip of his fingers around her wrist as he walked casually away from the dancers, pulling Emma in his wake.
If she struggled, everyone would see.
She waited until they reached the relative privacy of the hallway until trying to jerk free. “Let go of me, damn it.”
But Aidan wasn’t done. He stared down at her, a slash of red on each of his cheekbones. The glitter in his eyes could have been anger—or something far more volatile.
“We’re going upstairs,” he said. “And we’re going to hash out a few things.
“My scarf and purse are at the table.”
“I’ll call and ask them to hold your things at the front desk.”
“Oh, good,” she said, glaring at him. “At least someone will know I’ve gone missing.”
Seven
Aidan knew the moment they stepped into the elevator that he had made a strategic mistake. The mirrored walls reflected Emma’s cool, English beauty no matter where he turned his gaze. The swanlike grace of her neck. The perfect features...even the vulnerable spot at her nape that he had unfortunately fantasized about all evening.
She carried herself with the poise of a Grecian goddess who might have worn such a dress once upon a time. The only flaw he could see was the slight limp caused by the injury to her leg. She had used makeup to cover the stitches near her ear. They were barely noticeable.
From the first moment he saw her tonight with her hair intricately woven around her head, he had wanted nothing more than to remove each pin, one by one, and watch all that golden silk tumble down around her bare shoulders.
They reached his floor in a matter of seconds. Emma made no move to elude him. Perhaps she knew they had been heading for this moment all along.
When he opened the door of his suite and ushered her inside, she glanced around curiously but did not comment. The accommodations were luxurious, but for a woman of Emma’s background, the antique furnishings and Oriental rugs were old hat.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
She perched on the edge of a chair, her hands folded in her lap. “Whiskey. Neat.”
He raised an eyebrow. The girl he had known rarely drank anything stronger than wine. Perhaps she was more nervous that he realized. It was petty of him to be glad. But he was.
When he handed her the heavy crystal tumbler, she eyed him over the rim, tossed back her head and swallowed the shot in one gulp. She might be nervous, but she was defiant as hell.
Taking a sip of his own drink, he rested a hip against the arm of the sofa, too antsy to sit down.
Emma finally relaxed enough to lean back in her chair. Kicking off her small shoes, she curled her legs beneath her. For a moment he caught a glimpse of slim ankles and berry-painted toes before she twitched her skirt to cover the view.
“I find myself at a loss,” he said. “I know you’re up to something, but since my sister and my mother have taken you to their bosom, I can hardly toss you out on your ear.”
“I live here now,” she said, her gaze daring him to disagree.
“And why is that?”
“You didn’t want any explanations,” she reminded him, the words tart.
“Perhaps I was too hasty.” He offered the conciliatory olive branch, but Emma stomped on it.
&
nbsp; “The information window is closed.” Her ironic smile and visible satisfaction at thwarting him made his temper spark, but he was determined to keep the upper hand.
“What if we agree to an exchange? One piece of info for another.”
“I don’t need to know anything about you. I don’t care.”
If the way her breasts heaved was any indication—threatening their containment—she cared far more than she was letting on.
He poured her another drink. “I forgot to ask if you were still taking pain pills.”
She took the second shot and treated it like the first. Though her face turned red and her eyes watered, she never wavered. “Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
“I never said you were. Everyone at Oxford was quick to point out to me that you were one of the smartest women on campus.”
“Not too smart, apparently.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, never mind.” She seemed crestfallen suddenly, her lower lip trembling, her expression lost.
“I own a very lavish penthouse apartment in the heart of New York City. I deal in high-end real estate.”
“Believe me, Aidan. That’s not exactly news. Your mother has been singing your praises in great detail. She misses you.”
“I’m here now.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Look at me.”
He strode to where she sat, pulled her to her feet, and settled them both on the sofa. Finishing his own drink, he placed his glass on the coffee table. “Actually, there’s only one thing I really need to know.”
She half turned to face him, her wide-eyed gaze curious. The platinum silk molded to her body with mesmerizing results. “What’s that?”
“I’ll show you.” Capturing her mouth beneath his, he kissed her slowly, allowing her every opportunity to resist. Nowhere did their bodies touch except for the breathless press of lips on lips.
Her scent was familiar—sweet English roses with a hint of dewy spring. He’d been down this road a hundred times...heard the same angel choirs...seen the land of milk and honey.
His heart slugged in his chest, struggling to keep up with the need for oxygen. His circulatory system was taxed to the limit, as if his blood had become thick molasses.
In his head he heard the raucous sound submarines make when diving. Something was pulling him under. Something dangerous.
Emma made no move to put her hands on him. He was the one to crack first. Helpless, desperate, he slid both hands alongside her neck and angled her chin with his thumbs.
The room was silent except for their harsh breathing. He felt as if he were floating on the ceiling, watching himself fall through the same rabbit hole. At one time, Emma’s kisses had been the magic elixir that made his days in England as bright and sweet as a dream.
He was losing control. His brain knew it. His body fought the truth. Shuddering with a desire that shredded his resolve, he used one hand to tug at the bodice of her dress. The thin fabric yielded easily, as did the filmy lace of her bra. In moments his fingertips caressed the puckered tip of one breast, then the other.
Emma groaned. “Aidan...” The word was barely a whisper.
He leaned over her warm, curvy body stretched out on the sofa. Abandoning her lips with no small amount of regret, he moved lower to kiss her more intimately, using his teeth to scrape furled nipples.
So lost was he in the feast that was her body, it took several long seconds for him to recognize the moment when she rebelled. Small hands beat at his shoulders. “No more, Aidan. No more.”
Groggy with shock and confusion, he sat up, moving away from her with haste. In her face he saw what they had done. In her eyes he saw the woman he had loved more than was sane.
“God help me,” he muttered, unable to look away as Emma tugged her dress into place. Several strands of her hair had come loose to dangle onto her shoulders. She looked rumpled and well loved.
She sat up as well, her complexion paler than the night he’d brought her home from the hospital.
Rage and fear consumed him. He stared at her in silence, his chest roiling with emotions to which he dared not give a name. Self-preservation kicked in. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, removing traces of lip color. “Amazing,” he said, his heart as cold as his hands. “How can you look like a princess, kiss like a siren and have the duplicitous heart of a cheat and a liar?”
Emma blinked. He saw the moment she processed his deliberate insult. Dark color flooded her face. She smacked him hard with an open palm. The sound echoed. “How dare you,” she cried, as moisture brightened her eyes. “You don’t even know me. Apparently you never did.”
He shrugged, insolent and furious, as much at himself as at her. “I know enough. I won’t be wrapped around your finger again, Lady Emma. I learned my lesson.”
She lifted her chin, as though daring the teardrops to fall. “You’re a miserable, hardened, shallow man. You’ve let your prejudices and your grudges and your righteous indignation blind you. I can’t believe I ever thought I was in love with you.”
“But you never really were. It was all a charade. Though for the life of me I can’t understand why you bothered. Was having a fling with an American something on your bucket list? Or did you simply want to defy your father and prove your independence?”
Emma stared at him, her lips pressed together in a thin line. If there were a prize for dignity, she would win it every time. He knew she was in the wrong, and she knew it as well. Yet somehow, she managed to look like the injured innocent. Making him the villain.
“I’m going home,” she said, the words flat. “You’ve made your point. Do us both a favor and keep your distance.”
She jumped to her feet abruptly, obviously intending to reach for her shoes. But she tripped on the hem of her dress and slammed into the coffee table. Her cry of pain made him wince. Blood colored the skirt of her dress, no doubt from the stitches on her leg.
“Good Lord,” he said. “What have you done to yourself?”
Not waiting for permission, he scooped her up and took her to his bedroom. Flipping back the covers to protect the expensive duvet, he set her down and unceremoniously lifted her dress.
“Don’t touch me.” She batted his hands away. The tears she had held at bay earlier fell now. Silent wet tracks that dripped onto her bosom.
“Settle down,” he muttered. “Let me see what you’ve done.” He took her ankle in his hand and bent to get a closer look. The bones beneath her skin seemed impossibly fragile. Touching her hastened his own defeat. But he had no defense. The feel of her skin beneath rough fingertips did something terrible to his resolve not to get sucked in again. He would have to keep up his guard.
He didn’t care about her. Of course he didn’t. It had been a decade. Only his libido had any interest in pursuing this inconveniently persistent attraction. Emma Braithwaite was a stunning woman. It was normal for him, or any man, to react to her sexuality. In fact, if he weren’t affected by her allure, he would be worried.
The carefully worded but unspoken argument did little to settle the churning in his stomach.
The wound on her leg had been healing nicely, but the blow to her shin evidently had landed in exactly the wrong place. One end of the reddened seam had pulled apart maybe an eighth of an inch and was bleeding profusely. “We need to go back to the emergency room,” he said.
“No. I don’t want to. I have butterfly bandages at home. That will take care of it.”
She tried to pull her skirt down, but he held the cloth firmly. Her bare thighs were slim and supple. Damn it... He cleared his throat. “You don’t want a nasty scar.”
“The worst scars are the ones you can’t see.”
Her eyes met his. Their gazes clung. Something hovered in the air. Memory. Regret.
He almost kissed her again. The urge was overpowering, his need vital and pressing. “Don’t move,” he said. “I have some Band-Aids in my shaving kit. That will cover it un
til you get home.”
His miscalculation cost him. Perhaps he had misunderstood the import of their kiss, because he had been in the bathroom no longer than thirty seconds when he heard the door to his room slam shut. Rushing out to stop her, he saw the empty bed. The bed that already figured prominently in his dreams at night—only in the dreams, he was not alone...
Emma’s skin glowed like pearls in the shaft of moonlight that fell through her window. The bed was narrow, the sheets unexceptional. For a student apartment, the two-room space was above average. Aidan barely noticed his surroundings. How could he with a naked Emma on her back waiting to love him?
Ripping off the last of his clothes and donning a condom, he gave her a quick grin. “Scoot over. There’s no place for me.”
She bent one knee, placing her foot flat against the mattress. The sight of her feminine secrets made his hands shake.
“I suppose you’ll have to climb on top,” she said, her smile droll and mischievous.
The sex was still new. He felt like a fumbling peasant in the presence of royalty. Not that Emma gave herself airs. But because she was so damned perfect. He was hard and ready. But still he waited.
Emma seemed to read his mind. “I won’t break,” she said softly. “I love it that you want me so much. It’s the same for me.”
It couldn’t be. No one could feel what he felt in that moment...
He sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. How ironic that he had been so worried about recollections of Danielle during the holidays, when in fact, the worst memories of all were the ones about him and Emma that had blindsided him.
The urge to jump in his car almost won. He could be back in New York by morning if he managed to stay awake. Emma would understand, once and for all, that her ploy hadn’t worked...whatever it was.
But his mother would never forgive him. And he wouldn’t forgive himself. It would be unbearably selfish to let his problems ruin Dylan and Mia’s wedding day. Equally as bad would be abandoning his family at Christmas. They were all so wretchedly glad to see him. As if he were the prodigal son returning after a long absence.
Christmas in the Billionaire's Bed Page 6
