An Enchanted Spring: Mists of Fate - Book Two (3 page)

Emma felt the blow exactly where Heidi wanted it to land, but she struggled not to let it show.

Intern One’s eyes were enormous, and she slunk back down to her desk, but Intern Two seemed not to realize the viper’s den into which she was staring. Heidi glanced up at her and raised an imperial, elegantly threaded brow. “Get me a grande cafe mocha, no sugar, no whipped cream, extra dry, with half skim, half 2 percent milk. Extra hot.
Now
, Thing Two.”

The girl scrambled off her chair amid loud crashes and a few gasps as she rushed to do Heidi’s bidding. Heidi gave a last look to Emma before turning around, effectively dismissing her.

Emma bit her tongue, her ears steaming, and continued on. No matter how many times she told herself she was a better person than Heidi, it really didn’t matter. When you sleep with the boss, you get the best contracts. And Emma refused to sleep with her boss.

At least she doesn’t have a corner office
, Emma consoled herself. Heidi’s cube was just as small as her own.

Gayle, Mr. Price’s sixty-something personal assistant, gave her a wink as Emma approached the office. “The heavens are smiling on you today,” she whispered as she pressed a button. Mr. Price’s door unlocked, and Gayle waved her in. “If you do nothing else today, enjoy that eye candy. We’re all jealous you get to spend time with him in close quarters!”

Emma’s mouth dropped open. Where had all the professionalism of the world gone? First the interns, now Gayle? Well, on second thought…the interns were college girls. Emma expected that kind of behavior from them. But Gayle? She was a grandmother, for heaven’s sake! Emma gave her a bemused look, then took a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, Emma breezed into Mr. Price’s office as though she met with high-profile clients on a daily basis.

“Ms. Perkins?” The lovely accent changed her name to
pair-kins
, his deep voice resounding in her chest. She saw him sitting at the same table she spent her morning at, the view of Central Park in the distance behind him.

And her mind went completely, utterly blank.

Aidan MacWilliam stood with an easy grace, and her eyes went wide.

The man was her darkest fantasy, all dressed up in a tailored Armani suit and tie. Searing green eyes, framed by unfairly dark lashes, stared back at her, and a slight smile played at the corners of his lips. His jaw and cheeks looked to be carved from granite—hard, smooth, perfect. His nose had a slight crook in it, as though it had been broken before. His shoulders were enormous; she dimly wondered if he played football. She simply stared up at him, her mouth dry, before realizing he was holding out his hand.

She dumbly grasped it, her eyes refusing to blink as if they didn’t want to miss out on a second of the raw masculine beauty before her.

“Hello,” she managed. “I’m Emmaline Perkins. From Price Publicity.”

She mentally slapped herself. Of course she was from Price Publicity! They were standing in Mr. Price’s office, for crying out loud. Emma felt the heat creep up her neck; she wouldn’t blame him if he walked out, told Gayle he’d changed his mind due to her utter lack of intelligence and sweaty hands.

Instead, he smiled at her, his white teeth flashing as her knees went weak. “Aidan MacWilliam. Pleasure, Ms. Perkins.” He raised her hand to his lips and, very chastely, kissed her knuckles.

She swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure if it was the way he said her name, the way he kissed her hand, or the intoxicating combination of both.

Apparently taking pity on her scattered wits, he waved her over to the table and waited for her to sit before folding himself into what had moments before appeared to be a normal-sized office chair. Now it resembled something closer to a child’s toy. He leaned back, crossed an ankle over a knee, and nodded to the large white binder sitting on the table in front of her.

Emma glanced at it, then back at Mr. MacWilliam. It almost hurt to look at him. Gayle’s advice popped into her head—
eye candy overload.

“I’d like to get to know you a bit, see if we can work together,” he said.

Emma’s brows knit. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from this meeting, but an interview was not it.

He stood and offered her a bottle of water from the small cooler against the wall. She shook her head, and he helped himself to one. His lips wrapped around the opening of the bottle. When he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, Emma mentally shook herself out of her daze and bit the inside of her own lip, hard.

Stop!
she chastised herself.
He is a client. And you are committed to being single for…
she paused in her thinking, then mentally shrugged
. You’re committed to being single for a while. Sure, he’s sexy, but he’d be a rebound
.

That was all this was—a healthy reaction to another male. A wave of relief washed over her. She could corral her rampaging hormones; all she needed to remember was that he was a client, nothing more.

“Have you ever seen a léine?” he asked, returning to his seat.

Emma blinked, thrown by the question. “As in an Irish kilt?”
Whatever happened to questions like, “Tell me about a time you excelled”?

He grinned. “I’ll forgive you that because you’re an American. For reference, the Irish don’t wear kilts; those would be the Scots.”

She placed her elbows on the table and folded her hands together, her hackles rising. If there was one thing she was not, it was uneducated in Irish history. “I’m aware that the Irish do not wear kilts, Mr. MacWilliam. However, there is no word in the English language that would properly convey what a léine is, which is why I drew a comparison to something similarly worn by a well-known people.”

His smile grew. “Duly noted. Language barriers are difficult. It would be easier if the world spoke in Gaelic.”

She tried not to snort. “Gaelic is no cakewalk.”

“Are you familiar with it?” he asked. In Gaelic.

“A bit,” she replied, also in Gaelic.

He raised a brow, impressed. He reached down next to his chair and pulled a large leather satchel onto the table. Carefully, he withdrew a léine—
holy moly, that looks authentic!
she thought wildly—then slid it over to her.

“Have you ever seen one of these, Ms. Perkins?” he asked again.

Reverentially, she held the blue cloth in front of her. Silver threads shot through it in a checked pattern; the material was thick, soft, and warm. She carefully studied the thread and the weave, then stood and carefully shook it out. She spread it on the table, assessed, then turned it around and assessed again. It looked like a long tunic with flaps of fabric at the shoulders. She wrinkled her forehead in concentration; she couldn’t figure out how those pieces fit into the overall purpose of the garment.

“I have, but only in pictures.” She met his eyes. “Do you know how this particular léine would’ve been worn?”

Mr. MacWilliam watched her, his thumb and forefinger playing with his bottom lip as though he were deep in thought. Without answering, he stood and shed his jacket. He placed the léine over his head and wrapped the extra fabric around himself. The complicated knots he tied at the front and even the back puzzled her, but once she saw it on him she almost clapped with glee.

That was most definitely a medieval style of dress.

Aidan stood, completely at ease in a medieval piece of cloth and a modern-day suit. The dichotomy was jarring; if his hair were longer and he shed his trousers, Emma could almost picture him riding across a forest, low on horseback, sword strapped to his back…

“It looks as though it’s from the 1400s, maybe the 1500s, I would guess,” she said without hesitation, erasing the image from her mind. She was a sucker for anything of medieval or Celtic history, and as such they were usually the subjects of her articles. Although it was nice to fantasize about it, college courses were about as close as she could—and wanted to—get to the Middle Ages.

“Very impressive, Ms. Perkins,” Aidan said, approval written all over his features. “Mid-1400s.”

“I’ve never seen a replica of such high quality.”

He unfastened it as quickly as he’d put it on and tossed it onto the table. “It’s not a replica.”

She gasped. “What? Good gracious, you just threw it! Shouldn’t it be behind glass? How is it so well preserved?”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I believe I was asking the questions.”

She blanched, horrified that she’d actually reprimanded a potential client for handling his own belongings.

“I am relieved to find that you are interested in artifacts,” he replied wryly. “Are you aware of the upcoming Antique Armory auction?”

“Of course,” she replied quickly, then cleared her throat. “Some of our clients plan to attend.”

“Perfect. Are you free for dinner tonight?” he asked, stuffing the léine back in the satchel.

She bit her tongue. Hard.

“I have reservations at The Colcannon and would love your company. We can continue our discussion there, after you’ve had a chance to go through this information.” He nodded at the white binder. “I trust I’ve passed muster with your office, as no one’s interrupted us.”

Her face gave away her guilt. She hadn’t had a client call the firm out on its in-office first meeting policy before.

“Don’t think another second on it, Ms. Perkins. I’m fully satisfied that this firm shows a high regard for its employees’ safety.” He held out the binder, but as she went to take it, he gripped it tightly until she met his gaze. “I must have your word that this is for your eyes only, Ms. Perkins. No one from your team—legal or otherwise—can view it, or dinner, and all else, is canceled.”

Emma nodded, though his insistence on secrecy gave her pause. “I didn’t get any of my questions in,” she pointed out, feeling the need to lighten the moment. Aidan MacWilliam was clearly a take-charge type.

His face softened, and he chuckled. “All right, then. I enjoy rain, sunsets, and whiskey.”

She laughed. “Not those kinds of questions. But okay. I’ll see your rain, up your sunset by a sunrise, and exchange your whiskey for wine.”

“Your beauty is outmatched only by your wit, Ms. Perkins.”

The cadence of his words washed over her, and she allowed herself to relax a fraction more.

“Keep up the compliments and I think we’ll suit just fine,” she said with another laugh. “All right, Mr. MacWilliam. I’ll keep your contract terms secret. For now.”

“For now,” he acquiesced. “I’m taking you as a woman of your word.” He released the binder, and she felt the thrill of a small victory. “I’ll pick you up here, or at your place?”

“I’ll meet you there,” she deferred.

He pursed his lips, but didn’t argue. “One more question.”

She waited expectantly.

Aidan picked up his suit jacket. “What’s the best piece of advice you give your clients about answering questions?”

“Never answer a question with a question,” she said immediately. “It just invites more questions.”

He smiled, and she felt as though she had passed another unquantifiable test.

“Wise. Perhaps you can walk me out,” he said as he shrugged his jacket back on and picked up the leather satchel. He tossed his empty water bottle into the recycling bin and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “My way in was fraught with predators.”

“Ah. Of the female sort? Perhaps you need a bodyguard more than a publicist.” Emma couldn’t help but let out another laugh.

He gazed at her. “You have a lovely laugh, Ms. Perkins. I hope I get to hear it again soon.” He opened the door for her, then followed her out.

They were almost immediately waylaid by Heidi.

“Oh, Emma,
there
you are!” she exclaimed in her sultry, I-just-adore-you falsetto voice. She placed her hand upon her chest—more of it was showing than earlier—and gave a small shake of her head. “I’ve been looking all
over
for you. The deadline for the
New York Times
piece about your client came and went, and she just tried to cancel your contract!” Heidi placed a hand on Emma’s arm and lowered her voice. “Don’t worry—I wrote something for her a couple of years ago, and once I polished it up a bit, it did the trick. Account and reputation saved! But really, that’s the third time you’ve let her down this month!”

Emma’s jaw hung so far off her face she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to scrape it off the floor.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, you’re with a client. I didn’t mean to intrude.” Heidi held out her hand and batted her eyelashes. “Heidi Swanson, publicist of the year for Price Publicity.”

Aidan’s eyes never strayed past Heidi’s face, and Emma gave him major points for that. Heidi’s chest was so fluffed it was a wonder she didn’t float away.

“Aidan MacWilliam.” He shook her hand briskly. Despite having just been at complete ease with him a moment ago, Emma felt a frisson of intimidation at his stony expression. “You understand that your blatant attempts to discredit Ms. Perkins do you more harm than good, Ms. Swanson?”

“Oh, you misunder
stand
, Mr. MacWilliam,” Heidi hurried to explain. “Emma and I work together; we’re on the same
team
.
”

“MacWilliam! Pleasure to finally meet you!” Mr. Price boomed as he approached. “Is your meeting over so soon?”

Fraught with predators.
She couldn’t have stated it better herself.

“Price,” he replied in the same tone he had used with Heidi. He turned his full gaze to Emma, and though his face remained hard, his eyes softened toward her. His voice firm, he stated flatly, “Under no circumstances can anyone see the contract.” His eyes never left hers. “Absolutely no one. Just you, or the entire agreement is off.”

“Duly noted,” Emma replied, biting the inside of her cheek. Aidan MacWilliam was proving himself to be a very insightful client, and she had the sudden urge to ensure she kept him.

Heidi sputtered, and Aidan’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, as though he were enjoying ignoring her as much as Emma was.

“Right, right, Ms. Perkins only,” Mr. Price assured him as he tried to steer him back toward his office. “Do you drink? I have a delicious brandy. Vintage, very good stuff. Care for a glass?”