Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw the groom flinch. His bride-to-be noticed, too. “That’s going to be very expensive,” Emma said, getting out her calculator.
Too expensive, obviously, for Benjamin Posen, who was still being expected to foot half the bill of this extravaganza.
“Yes, Mother,” Michelle Snow said as she reached over and took Benjamin Posen’s hand. “Can’t we just rein in the budget a little bit? After all, two months from now, no one is going to remember where the floral arrangements came from.”
“Oh, yes they will,” Gigi Snow huffed, her reed-thin figure stiff with tension as she paced back and forth. “And you know why? Because this is going to be the wedding of the year in North Carolina!”
A knock sounded on the door frame. They all turned to see Joe standing in the open portal. He was dressed in athletic shorts, T-shirt and running shoes. He still hadn’t shaved and his light brown hair was rumpled and standing on end in much the same way it had been that very morning, when he had rolled out of bed. So why did he look so delectably sexy to her?
“Hey.” Joe issued the standard southern greeting as he nodded at the group.
They all smiled back, enthralled. Joe, exuding the supremely male confidence of a professional athlete, appeared as if he had expected as much. But then, Emma told herself, she shouldn’t be surprised. Being publicly adored—by complete strangers, no less—came with Joe’s territory.
Joe extended the index finger on his right hand and beckoned Emma to join him in the hall. “I need to see you.”
Benjamin Posen looked alert, and interested to see the hockey star. Gigi Snow, on the other hand, began to look annoyed.
Aware she was already on shaky ground with the Raleigh socialite, Emma smiled back at Joe in a crisp, professional way. “I’m busy here,” Emma said.
Joe was undeterred. “This’ll just take a minute.” Joe winked. He came on into the room, grabbed Emma by the hand and tugged her gently but firmly to her feet. “Excuse us, you all.”
The next thing Emma knew she was out in the hall and Joe had shut the door to her office behind her, insuring them some privacy.
Annoyed by his presumptuousness, Emma dug in her feet before he could lead her any farther away from her work. “What in the world do you think you’re do…?”
“Your key.” He pressed it into her hand, his fingers lingering warmly against hers. “To my house,” he said, looking deep into her eyes. “You’re going to need it to get in tonight.”
Emma ignored the faintly possessive expression on his face and the thrill that coursed through her at his warm touch. “Where are you going to be?”
Joe shrugged his broad shoulders aimlessly. “Out and about. I’ve got to go over to the practice arena for some physical-agility tests and meet with my conditioning coach for the off-season.”
Finally, a diversion. Emma smiled. “Great.” That would keep him out of her hair.
Helen Hart started down the corridor, toward them, just as Gigi Snow opened the door to Emma’s office and stuck her head out. Obviously, she was looking for Emma. Gigi looked none too pleased to see her still standing there with Joe.
“Hey, Mom.” Joe lifted a hand in greeting.
“Joe. Don’t leave here without taking those boxes of memorabilia,” Helen instructed sternly. “They’ve been here long enough. I know how valuable they are and I really don’t want to be responsible for them any longer. Okay? If they mean that much to you, you’ve got to be responsible for taking care of them.”
“Sure.” Joe shrugged. “I’ll get ’em and lug them over to my house right now.”
“They’re in the storeroom,” Helen continued. She handed over her keys.
“All right.” Joe reluctantly let go of Emma’s hand. “I’ll get ’em right now, Mom.”
Joe turned and looked Emma in the eye. “I’ll see you at home tonight,” he murmured, his words heavy with meaning.
Aware all eyes were upon her, Emma pretended to be inundated with newlywed bliss. “I can’t wait,” she murmured back, wondering what her bossy new husband had in mind for her next.
Helen smiled at Emma.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma noted everyone in the office was all ears. “How are things going, dear?” Helen asked, nodding at Emma’s office as Joe strode off.
Emma sighed and, tearing her eyes from the retreating figure of her handsome husband, motioned for Helen to join their clients.
“Apparently, we’ve got a problem with the flowers,” she said.
JOE BACKED HIS SPORTS CAR up to the service entrance and went back inside to the storeroom. No sooner had he unlocked the door, switched on the overhead light and stepped inside, than his mother appeared. Joe took one look at the expression on her face and knew her demand he immediately retrieve the cherished memorabilia collection he’d started when he was a kid had been nothing but an excuse to get him alone. Pronto.
Joe, however, was not in any mood for a parental “talk.” Especially as one-sided as this one was likely to be. “I can get this, Mom,” he assured her lazily, pretending not to know she was there to deliver one of her velvet-gloved lectures on his deportment.
“It can wait.” Helen shut the door behind her, ensuring them privacy. Her polite smile faded. “Sit down, Joseph.”
Abruptly, he felt all of about sixteen. Joe rubbed a hand across his stubbly jaw, knowing his continuing refusal to shave was irritating his mom almost as much as it was Emma. “Look.” He swallowed around the knot of emotion in his throat. “I have an idea what you want to say—”
“Do you, now?”
Joe sighed. That holier-than-thou tone. He set his jaw, slanted her a glance. “Must we talk about this?” he said, just as impatiently.
Helen perched on the top rung of a step stool. Looked him straight in the eye and didn’t glance away. “You’re the one who undertook such a serious commitment.”
It wasn’t all that serious, Joe disagreed silently. He and Emma were just doing what they had to do for the next couple of years, for the sake of both their reputations and careers. Sensing his morality-minded mother would not be pleased to hear that however, Joe merely shrugged, and defended himself as best he could under the circumstances. “It’s not like I committed a crime here, Mom.”
“You did if you married Emma without loving her with all your heart.”
Geesh. Hit him where it hurts, why don’t you? “Not everyone has or ever will have what you and Dad had, Mom,” Joe retorted, stepping past the shelves of starched damask tablecloths and leaning up against the cedar-planked wall.
Helen sobered, her anger and disapproval fading marginally. “They can if they want to, Joe. Love isn’t something that just magically happens to you. It’s a decision you make. Every single day.”
What the heck was she talking about? Joe frowned. “I don’t get it,” he grumbled impatiently.
Helen’s expression gentled but her voice held a touch of steel, “The chemistry is there between you and Emma. Everyone sees that. Bottom line, it’s why neither her parents nor I stopped you from saying your wedding vows again yesterday.”
His sense of dread increasing, Joe found himself getting a little testy, too. “Not to quibble over details, Mom, but you can’t stop me from doing what I want—” or need to do, Joe amended silently “—at this point in my life.”
“That may be true, Joseph,” Helen volleyed right back with the legendary Hart confidence. She looked deep into his eyes. “But I can sure as heck hound you like the devil to make sure you follow through on your responsibilities.”
Out of respect, and the desire not to make this dressing-down any longer than it was already going to be, Joe bit back a sigh. “Which are?” he queried with feigned politeness.
His mother was not fooled. Not in the slightest.
“To be a good husband to Emma.”
“Hey.” Feeling the need to defend himself, Joe aimed a thumb at the center of his chest. “I’m providing her with
a place to live, food in the fridge.” Or he would when he had a chance to go to the grocery. “She already has her own car to drive and an ample salary.” Not to mention an heiress-size fortune and wealthy parents to fall back on, if and when necessary. Not that Joe could really see Emma asking Saul and Margaret Donovan for anything. She was much too stubborn and independent. “What more do you want?” Joe demanded of Helen. His mom was acting as if Emma were a poor, unfortunate soul, now she was married to him. It wasn’t as if Emma wanted for anything, from what he could see.
His mother gave him the look that was even worse than her use of his given name. “I want you to be her partner, Joe.” She spoke as if underlining every word. “Her soul mate. For real.”
To be honest, all that sounded a little suffocating to Joe. He gestured in frustration. “Isn’t that what a husband and wife are?” he demanded right back.
Helen ignored Joe’s mounting exasperation. “I want you to take care of her emotionally as well as physically.”
His mother might as well have been speaking Greek for all the sense it was making to him. Joe narrowed his gaze. “How am I supposed to do that?” Joe huffed. When his lovely wife didn’t appear to want for anything!
Helen gave him a cryptic smile, more guilt-inspiring than any three-hour lecture on the gravity of his sins. She stood, brushing imaginary lint off her skirt. “You’re a team player, Joe, and a remarkably fine one at that. You figure it out.”
EMMA STAYED AT WORK as long as she could, but eventually exhaustion, and the need to remove herself from Helen Hart’s thoughtful, sympathetic regard, sent her out the door of the Wedding Inn, in search of her new abode, new address in hand.
To her relief, it looked as if she was going to be comfortable, anyway. Joe’s house was situated at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a newer part of town. The one-acre yard was beautifully landscaped, and obviously had a sprinkler system. As Emma walked up to the house at 8:00 p.m., her dress sticking to her in the muggy June heat, she could hear country-and-western music pouring out of the open windows.
Heart skittering at the thought of what the evening might hold for them, she used the key he had given her earlier and walked inside. And then and there, her impressed attitude faded.
It was quite frankly a disaster. The kind she didn’t need. The oak-floored foyer and formal living and dining rooms were filled with boxes, stacked two and three high. Most of the air-express boxes had Joe’s name on them, although a few of the moving boxes were marked simply “Emma.”
Trying not to think how long it was going to take to restore order to the mess, she kept going down the hall, toward the rear of the house, where a two-story family room and spacious country kitchen were located.
Joe was clad in a pair of bright blue beach shorts. His hair was damp. He smelled of soap and shampoo. And, Emma noted, he still hadn’t shaved.
Trying not to notice how tanned, buff and powerful his upper body was, she threaded her way through another maze of boxes, stacked two high, and made her way to his side. He was bent over the back of the television set, connecting cables. “Hey,” he said cheerfully, giving her barely a glance, so intent was he on his task. “I was wondering when you’d get home.”
Emma looked around. Her serpentine-curved red velvet sofa was against one wall, as were the end tables and console from her apartment. Next to the fireplace and directly facing the TV was a tobacco-brown leather recliner and oversize leather sofa, coffee table, end table and lamp. All still had price tags on them that indicated they had been purchased locally. Probably today. “Why don’t you have the air-conditioning on?” Emma asked irritably. She hoped it wasn’t broken. It was eighty-nine degrees outside and very humid. And about that inside.
“I like the fresh air.”
And going shirtless and shoeless, obviously.
Emma tugged at the collar of her jacket, plucking it away from her skin. She’d only been in here a few seconds and already sweat was trickling between her breasts, welling up between her thighs. “It’s hot, Joe.” I’m hot.
“Hot feels good after the last couple years in Canada.” He looked her up and down, taking in the trim silhouette of her business suit. “Put some shorts and a T-shirt on, kick off those high heels and peel off those stockings, and I guarantee it’ll feel good to you, too.”
Emma fanned herself with her handbag. “Assuming I could find my clothes.”
He grinned, one step ahead of her there, too. “I had the movers put all your clothes in the bedroom next to the master. I figured you’d want to put them away.”
Not really. But Emma supposed she would have to if she wanted to be able to get dressed for work the following day.
“Hard day?” Joe shot her a brief, sympathetic glance, then went back to what he was doing.
“Impossible.” Emma lifted the length of her hair off the nape of her neck.
“Gigi Snow is a royal pill, huh?”
“And then some.”
“Yeah, my mother thinks the same thing.” Joe paused and looked at her as if trying to find a way to comfort her.
Not sure she wanted him to comfort her, Emma turned on her heel and changed the subject. “Did you move your stuff here?” she asked.
“I had planned to, initially, but it was going to take too long, so I told the super in my apartment building in Montreal to sell all the furniture and pack up everything else and send it air express. So he did. And then I went to a furniture store and bought the essentials and had all that delivered today, too.”
“So basically this—” Emma gestured broadly “—is everything you own?”
“Yep.” Joe smiled, enthusiastic as ever, when it came to getting things done. He regarded her with bemusement. “I figured the sooner we get settled, the better.”
Emma couldn’t argue with him there. This mess was very…unrestful.
Finished with the TV, he popped in a tape, picked up a clipboard and pen and sat down in the center of the big leather sofa. “Listen, if you don’t mind—” he waved her away like a pesky fly “—I’ve got work to do.”
“Sure.” Trying to feel relieved instead of hurt by his abrupt dismissal, Emma changed out of her work clothes, moseyed on into the kitchen and, figuring it wouldn’t hurt her to relax a little, took a beer from the fridge. She looked in the cupboard for a glass, found none. Twisting off the top, she headed toward the living room. Joe was leaning forward, watching the tape intently. It was a tape of a game he had played the previous season in Vancouver.
Emma put the bottle to her mouth and drank deeply, while she watched Joe skate to the net, nearly put the puck in, get cross-checked, tripped and shoved into the crease in front of the goal. Joe put out a gloved hand to stop himself and barely missed conking his head with concussion-giving force on the hard metal posts. The fight that ensued was priceless, and, Emma thought, vintage Joe Hart. He didn’t throw the first punch, but when hit, he swung right back.
Just watching the tape, Joe looked furious at the other player all over again.
Emma took another sip as she watched the film of Joe and the other combatant being escorted over to the penalty box by the black-and-white-shirted referees. Joe’s head was turned away from the camera, but it was clear Joe and the other player were trading heated insults, as well as ready to go at it all over again.
“What were you two saying to each other?” Emma asked curiously as she sat down beside him. She might not like the mess she and Joe were in, but she loved the passion he exuded when he played hockey. Always had. It was what had kept her going back to the AHL arena in Providence again and again. Well, that, and the passion he had exhibited for her.
“Nothing your ladylike ears should hear,” Joe answered in a low, disinterested tone as he made a few notes on the pad in front of him.
Emma watched, fascinated, as the tape showed a furious Joe in the box, dripping sweat, and turning to continue to yell something at the other player in the opposite box. She slid across the butter-soft leather
cushions to get a better look at the TV. “Think I can’t take it?” she taunted, even as she made out a few of the words: “Yeah, you wish you—” it looked as if he had taunted the other player. You wish you what? Emma wondered.
Joe sent Emma a sidelong glance as her bare thigh brushed his. “I think you shouldn’t have to hear that…uh…whatever,” he said, deliberately censoring himself.
Again, for her protection.
If there was anything Emma didn’t need at this stage of the game, it was to be sheltered unnecessarily by Joe, her father or any other man. Never mind be told she couldn’t take a few bad words or heated insults, just as she didn’t have the inner grit it took to be married to a professional hockey player. His treating her like a delicate flower irking her beyond measure, Emma plucked the VCR remote from the coffee table in front of them and hit the reverse button. “I’ll just figure it out for myself, then.”
Emma pushed Play on the VCR remote.
Joe pushed stop on the TV remote.
The TV screen went blank.
Thwarted, Emma turned to him. Joe grinned, clearly realizing—and enjoying, Emma noted cantankerously—he was getting under her skin by refusing to cooperate with her. And suddenly she knew this battle was about much, much more than whatever had or had not been said at that particular hockey game.
He lifted a censoring brow in her direction. “Are you going to let me watch my game tapes undisturbed? Or not?” he asked plainly. If the answer was no, there was clearly going to be hell to pay.
“Not,” Emma clarified defiantly, holding the challenge in his eyes, even as she reached across his lap to wrestle the TV remote from his hand, “until you either tell me what I want to know or let me see for myself.”
Joe shook his head in wordless amusement even as he let the electronic device go with surprisingly little quarrel. “Then you’ve no one to blame but yourself,” he surmised victoriously as he put two fingers in his mouth and let out a startlingly loud whistle. Fists closed, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and held them there. “Two minutes for interference!” he declared, grabbing her wrist and pulling her over onto his lap.
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