Bed of Roses (24 page)

“That’s a long time ago.” Her voice went thick. “A long time to imagine. I know one thing. We really need to go back to the beach.”

The laugh should’ve eased some of the ache, but only increased it. Another first, Jack concluded: A woman who could make him laugh and burn at the same time.

He whipped the car off the road and onto the long drive of the Brown Estate.

There were lights glowing on the third floor, both wings of the main house, and the glimmer of them in Mac’s studio. And there, thank God, the shine of Emma’s porch light, and the lamp she’d left on low inside.

He hit the release for his seat belt even as he hit the brakes. Before she could do the same, he managed to shift toward her, grab hold of her and let his mouth ravish hers.

He molded her breasts, gave himself the pleasure of riding his hands up those legs, under that seductive red.

She closed her teeth over his tongue, a quick, erotic trap, and struggled with his fly.

He managed to yank down one shoulder of her dress before he rammed his knee into the gear shift.

“Ouch,” she said on a breathless laugh. “We’ll have to add knee pads to the elbow pads.”

“Damn car’s too small. We’d better get inside before we hurt ourselves.”

Her hands gripped his jacket, yanked to bring him back for one more wild kiss. “Hurry.”

They shoved out of opposite sides of the car, then bolted for each other. Another breathless laugh, a desperate moan, sounded in the silence. They stumbled, grappled, and groped as their mouths clashed.

She yanked and tugged his jacket away as they circled up the walk like a pair of mad dancers. When they reached the door she simply shoved him back against it. Her mouth warred with his, breaking only so she could drag his sweater up, nails scraping flesh before she tossed it aside.

The heels and the angle brought her mouth level with his jaw. She bit it as she whipped the belt out of his pants, and tossed that aside as well.

Jack fumbled behind him for the doorknob, and they both lurched inside. Now he pushed her back to the door, yanked her arms over her head and handcuffed her wrists with his hand. Keeping her trapped, he shoved her skirt up and found her. Just her, already hot for him, already wet. And her gasp ended on a cry when he drove her hard and fast to climax.

“How much can you take?” he demanded.

Breath ragged, body still erupting, she met his eyes. “All you’ve got.”

He drove her up again, beyond moans and cries, storming her system with his hands, with his mouth. Heat sheathed her, slicked her skin as he dragged the dress down to free her breasts, to feed on them. Everything she wanted, more than she could imagine, rough and urgent, he used and exploited her body.

Owned her, she thought. Did he know? Could he know?

Want was enough, to want like this, be wanted like this. She would make it enough. And wanting him, craving him, she braced against the door and wrapped a leg around his waist.

“Give me more.”

She consumed him, in that moment before he plunged inside her, the look, the feel, the taste of her consumed him. Then with a new kind of madness, he took her against the door, battering them both while her hair tumbled out of its pins, while she said his name over and over.

Release was both brutal and glorious.

He wasn’t entirely sure he was still standing, or that his heart would ever beat normally again. It continued to jackhammer in his chest, making the basic act of breathing a challenge.

“Are we still alive?” he managed.

“I . . . I don’t think I could feel like this if I wasn’t. But I do think my life passed before my eyes at one point.”

“Was I there?”

“In every scene.”

He gave himself another minute, then eased back. He was indeed still standing, he noted. And so was she—flushed and glowing, and naked but for a pair of sky-high sexy heels.

“God, Emma, you’re . . . There are no words.” He had to touch again, but this time almost reverently. “We’re not going to make it upstairs yet.”

“Okay.” When he gripped her hips, lifted, she boosted up to wrap both legs around his waist. “Can you make it as far as the couch?”

“I’m going to give it a try.” He carried her there where they could fall in a tangled heap.

 

 

 

T
WO HOURS LATER, WHEN THEY FINALLY MADE IT UPSTAIRS, they slept.

She dreamed, and in the dream they danced in the garden, in the moonlight. The air was soft with spring and scented by roses. Moon and stars silvered the flowers that bloomed everywhere. Her fingers twined with his as they glided and turned. Then he brought hers to his lips to kiss.

When she looked up, when she smiled, she saw the words in his eyes even before he spoke them.

“I love you, Emma.”

In the dream her heart bloomed like the flowers.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I
N PREPARATION FOR THE SEAMAN MEETING, EMMA FILLED THE entrance urns with her big pots of hydrangeas. The intense blue created such a strong statement, she thought, dramatic, romantic, and eye-catching. Since the bride’s colors were blue and peach she hoped the hydrangeas would fit the bill for the initial impact.

Humming, she went back to her van to unload the pots of white tulips—the bride’s favorite—that would line the steps. A sweeter image than the hot blue, softer, more delicate. A nice mix, to her mind, of texture, shape, and style.

A taste, she thought, of things to come.

“Em!”

Bent over between the urns, her arms full of tulips, Emma turned her head. And Mac snapped her camera. “Looking good.”

“The flowers are. I hope to look better before the consult. Our biggest client to date requires careful grooming.” She placed the pots. “All around.”

In a suit as boldly green as her eyes, Mac stood, legs spread, feet planted. “Not much time left to beautify.”

“Nearly done. This is the last.” With her system bursting with flowers and scents, Emma took a deep breath. “God! What a gorgeous day.”

“You’re pretty chirpy.”

“I had a really good date last night.” After stepping back to examine the portico, she hooked an arm with Mac’s. “It had everything. Comedy, drama, conversation, sex. I feel . . . energized.”

“And look starry-eyed.”

“Maybe.” Briefly, she dipped her head to Mac’s shoulder. “I know it’s too soon, and we’re not even talking about—or anywhere near—the serious L. But . . . Mac, you know how I always had this fantasy about the moonlit night, the stars—”

“Dancing in the garden.” Instinctively, Mac slid an arm around Emma’s waist. “Sure, since we were kids.”

“I dreamed it last night, and it was Jack. I was dancing with Jack. It’s the first time I ever had the dream, or imagined it where I knew who I danced with. Don’t you think that means something?”

“You’re in love with him.”

“That’s what Parker said last night before I went out, and of course, I’m all no, no, I’m not. And, of course, as usual, she’s right. Am I crazy?”

“Who said love was sane? You’ve sort of been there before.”

“Sort of been,” Emma agreed. “Wanted to be, hoped to be. But now that I am, it’s more than I imagined. And I imagined a lot.” Emma sidestepped, pivoted, pirouetted. “It makes me happy.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“God, no. He’d freak. You know Jack.”

“Yes,” Mac said carefully, “I know Jack.”

“It makes me happy,” Emma repeated as she laid a hand on her heart. “I can stay there for now. He has feelings for me. You know when a man has feelings for you.”

“True enough.”

“So I’m going to be happy and believe he’ll fall in love with me.”

“Emma, solid truth? I don’t know how he could resist you. You’re good together, that’s easy to see. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

But Emma knew Mac’s tones, her expressions, her heart. “You’re worried I’ll get hurt. I can hear it in your voice. Because, well, we know Jack. Mac, you didn’t want to fall in love with Carter.”

“You’ve got me there.” Mac’s lips curved as she danced her fingers at the ends of Emma’s hair. “I didn’t, but I did, so I should stop being so cynical.”

“Good. Now I’ve got to stop standing around and go transform into a professional. Tell Parker I’m done, will you, and I’ll be back in twenty.”

“Will do.” And with concern showing now, Mac watched her friend rush off.

 

 

 

A
N HOUR LATER, DRESSED IN A TRIM SUIT AND LOW HEELS, Emma took the lead in escorting the future bride, her eagle-eyed mother, and the mother’s fascinated sister around the gardens.

“You can see what we’ll have blooming next spring, and I realize the gardens aren’t as flush as you need or want.”

“They just can’t wait until May or June,” Kathryn Seaman muttered.

“Mom, let’s not go there again.”

“It is, however, prime time for tulips—which I know you favor,” Emma said to Jessica. “We’ll plant more this fall, white tulips, and peach tulips—you’ll have a flood of them, and blue hyacinths. We’ll also fill in with white containers of peach roses, delphinium, snapdragons, stock, the hydrangeas. All in your colors, popped out by the white. I plan to back this area here with a screen covered with roses.”

She turned her smile on Kathryn. “I promise you, it’ll be like a fantasy garden, and as full and lush and romantic as anything you could wish for your daughter’s wedding.”

“Well, I’ve seen your work so I’m going to take your word.” Kathryn nodded to Mac. “The engagement photos were everything you said they’d be.”

“It helps to have two gorgeous people wildly in love.”

“We had so much fun, too.” Jessica beamed at Mac. “Plus, I felt like a storybook princess.”

“You looked like one,” her mother said. “All right, let’s talk about the terraces.”

“If you remember from the sketches at the proposal,” Emma began, and led the way.

“I’ve seen your work as well.” Adele, the bride’s aunt, scanned the terraces. “I’ve been to three weddings here, and all were beautifully done.”

“Thank you.” Parker added a polite smile to the acknowledgment.

“Actually, what you’ve done here, built here, has inspired me to look into plans for doing something similar. We live part of the year in Jamaica. A destination wedding spot. And a perfect place for a good, upscale, all-inclusive wedding company.”

“You’re serious about that?” Kathryn asked her.

“I’ve been looking into it, and getting more serious. My husband’s going to retire,” Adele told Parker. “And we plan to spend even more time in our winter home there. It would be an excellent investment, I think, and something fun.”

She gave Emma a twinkling smile and a wink. “Now, if I could lure you away with the promise of unlimited tropical flowers and balmy island breezes, I’d have my first real building block.”

“Tempting,” Emma said in the same light tone, “but Centerpiece of Vows keeps me busy. If you move forward with your plans, I’m sure any of us will be happy to answer any questions you might have. Now, for this area . . .”

 

 

 

A
FTER THE MEETING ALL FOUR WOMEN COLLAPSED IN THE parlor.

“God.” Laurel stretched out her legs. “That woman sure knows how to put you through your paces. I feel like we had the event instead of just talking it through. Again.”

“Unless there are any objections, I’d like to black out the Friday and Sunday around the event. The size and scope of this wedding will more than make up for that lost revenue, plus the publicity and the word of mouth will bring in more.” Parker toed off her shoes. “That would give us the full week to focus exclusively on this.”

“Thank God.” Emma heaved a long, relieved sigh. “The amount of flowers and landscaping, the type of bouquets and arrangements, centerpieces, swags, garlands, ornamental trees? I’d have to hire more designers to get it done. But with that full week on the single event, I think I can stick with the usual team. I can add someone else if need be for the actual dressing, but I’d really prefer to do as much of this as I can personally, and with the people I know.”

“I’m right there with Emma,” Laurel said. “The cakes, the dessert bar, the personalized chocolates, they’re all on the elaborate and labor-intensive side. If I had the full week on nothing else, I’d actually get a couple hours’ sleep.”

“Make it three for three.” Mac raised a hand. “They want full photo documentation of the rehearsal, and the rehearsal dinner, so if we had another event on Friday, I’d have to assign a photographer to that as I’d have to cover the Seamans. As it is I’m putting two more on the event itself, plus two videogra phers. Keeping Sunday black means we don’t have to kill ourselves and our subs breaking down, and redressing.”

“Which doesn’t even begin to address what they expect of you,” Emma said to Parker.