Нора Робертс - Bed of Roses

He got to his feet as she started up. “What kind of cake?”

She stopped, turned, and ended up on level with him. Her eyes, those deep velvet eyes, looked sleepy to match her voice. “She’s calling it her Parisian Spring. It’s this gorgeous pale lavender blue covered with white roses, sprigs of lilac, with this soft milk chocolate ribboning and—”

“I was more about what’s inside.”

“Oh, it’s her genoise with Italian meringue buttercream. You don’t want to miss it.”

“It may beat out the crиme brыlйe.” She smelled like flowers. He couldn’t say which ones. She was a mysterious and lush bouquet. Her eyes were dark and soft and deep, and her mouth . . . Wouldn’t it taste every bit as rich as Laurel’s cake?

The hell with it.

“Okay, this is probably out of line, so apologies in advance.”

He took her shoulders again, eased her to him. Those dark, soft, deep eyes widened in surprise an instant before his lips took hers.

She didn’t jerk away, or laugh it off as a joke. Instead she made the same sort of sound she had when he’d rubbed her neck—just a little breathier.

Her hands clamped on his hips, and those luscious lips of hers parted.

Like her scent, her flavor was mysterious and essentially female. Dark and warm and sensual. When her hands moved up his back, he took more. Just a little more.

Then he changed angles, took more still, and pleasure hummed in her throat.

He thought of just snatching her up, carrying her off to whatever dark room he could find to finish what a moment of impulse had begun.

The beeper at her waist sounded, and both of them jolted. She made a strangled sound, then managed, “Oh. Well.” In a jerky move she unclipped the beeper, stared at it. “Parker. Um. I have to go. I have to . . . go,” she said, then turned and bolted up the stairs.

Alone, he lowered to the stairs again and finished off his neglected wine in two long gulps. He decided he’d skip the rest of the reception, and take a long walk outside instead.

Emma could only be grateful work kept her too busy to actually think. She helped clean up an incident involving the ring bearer and chocolate йclairs, delivered the tossing bouquet, rearranged the decor on the cake table to ease the serving, then began the stripping down of the Grand Hall.

She readied centerpieces and other arrangements for transport and supervised the loading of them for the proper recipients.

When the bubbles were blown and the last dance finished, she began the same process on the patios and terraces.

She didn’t see a trace of Jack.

“Everything okay?” Laurel asked her.

“What? Yes. Sure. Everything went great. I’m just tired.”

“Right there with you. At least tomorrow’s event will be a breeze after today. Have you seen Jack?”

“What?” She jumped like a thief at the shrill of an alarm. “Why?”

“I lost track of him. I planned to bribe him with pastries to help with the breakdown. I guess he skipped.”

“I guess. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Liar, liar. Why was she lying to her friend? It couldn’t be a good sign.

“Parker and Mac are seeing off the stragglers,” Laurel commented. “They’ll do the security check. Do you want me to help you cart these to your place?”

“No, I’ve got it.” Emma loaded the last of the leftovers she’d put back in the cooler. She’d donate the bulk to the local hospital, take the rest apart and make smaller arrangements to put around her place, and her friends’.

She closed the cargo doors. “See you in the morning.”

She drove the van home, reversed the process and carried flowers and garlands into her cooler.

No matter how firmly she ordered her mind to stay calm and blank, it just kept opening up to one single thought.

Jack kissed her.

What did it mean?

Why should it mean anything?

A kiss was just that. It had just been a product of the moment. Nothing more.

She readied for bed, trying to convince herself it was nothing more.

But when a kiss blew right off the spark-o-meter, blasted through the scale, it was hard to describe it as “nothing more.”

Something else was what it was, she admitted. And she didn’t know what to do about it. That was frustrating because she always knew what to do when it came to men and kisses and sparks. She just knew.

She climbed into bed telling herself since she’d never be able to sleep, she’d just lie there in the dark until she came up with a solution.

And she dropped away in seconds, pushed off the edge by sheer exhaustion.

Emma got through the sunday event and her monday consults and adjusted the arrangements for some upcoming events due to changes of bridal minds.

She canceled two dates with two perfectly nice men she now had no desire to spend evenings with. She filled those evenings by doing inventory and ordering ribbons, pins, containers, forms.

And wondering if she should call Jack and make some light, breezy comment about the kiss—or pretend it never happened.

She alternated between the top options and a third, which involved going over to his house and jumping him. So she ended up doing nothing but tying herself into knots over it.

Annoyed with herself, she arrived early for a scheduled afternoon staff meeting. She cut through Laurel’s kitchen, where her friend was arranging a plate of cookies beside a small fruit and cheese platter.

“I’m out of Diet Coke,” Emma announced and opened the fridge to take one. “I’m out of almost everything because I keep forgetting my car battery is dead as disco.”

“Did you call the garage?”

“That, at least, I remembered to do about ten minutes ago. When I confessed—under expert interrogation by the guy—that I’ve owned the car for four years, have never taken it in for a tune-up, couldn’t remember exactly the last time, if ever, I’ve had the oil changed or some computer chip check job thing and other car business I don’t remember now, he said he’d have it picked up, taken in.”

Pouting a little, she popped the top and drank straight from the can. “I sort of felt as if I’d been holding my car hostage and he’s releasing it. He made me feel like even more of an idiot than Jack did. I want a cookie.”

“Help yourself.”

Emma picked one up.

“Now I’m going to be without a car until he decides to give it back. If he does, and I’m not entirely sure he intends to.”

“You’ve been without a car for over a week because your battery’s dead.”

“True, but I had the illusion of a car because it was sitting there. I guess I need to take the van and go to the grocery store, and the zillion other places I’ve put off going. I’m actually afraid to, as it occurred to me I’ve had the van for a year more than the car. It may rebel next.”

Laurel tossed some pretty pastel mints on the cookie tray. “I know it’s a crazy idea, but maybe once you get your car back, you can have the garage service the van.”

Emma nibbled at the cookie. “The car guy tossed that idea in the hat. I need consolation. How about dinner and movie night?”

“Don’t you have a date?”

“I canceled. I’m not in the mood.”

Laurel blew hair out of her eyes, the better to stare in shock. “

You’re not in the mood for a date?”

“I have to get an early start tomorrow. Six hand-tied bouquets, and the bride’s makes seven. That’s a good six, seven hours of work. I have Tink coming in for half a day, so it cuts it back, but there’s all the rest to put together for the Friday night event. And I spent most of the morning processing the flowers.”

“That’s never stopped you before. Are you sure you’re feeling all right? You’ve been just a shade off.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m good. I’m just not . . . in the mood for men.”

“That couldn’t include me.” Delaney Brown walked in, lifted Emma off her feet to give her a resounding kiss. “Mmm. Sugar cookie.”

Emma laughed. “Get your own.”

He plucked one from the tray, grinned at Laurel. “Consider it part of my fee.”

Going from experience, Laurel got out a Ziploc bag and began to fill it with cookies. “Are you in on the meeting?”

“No. I just had some legal business to go over with Parks.”

Since it was there and so was he, Del went to the coffeepot.

He and Parker shared the dark brown hair, the dark blue eyes. What Laurel would have called their refined features were just a little more roughly carved on him. In the smoke gray pin-striped suit, Italian shoes, and Hermиs tie, he looked every bit the successful Connecticut lawyer. The scion of the Connecticut Browns.

With the food prep complete, Laurel untied her baker’s apron and hung it on a peg.

Del leaned on the counter. “I hear you kicked some ass with the Folk wedding last weekend.”

“Do you know them?” Emma asked.

“Her parents are clients. I haven’t had the pleasure—though from what Jack says that may be overstating—of meeting the new Mrs. Harrigan.”

“You will when they file for divorce,” Laurel said.

“Always the optimist.”

“She’s a nightmare. She sent Parker a critique list this morning. E-mailed from Paris. From her honeymoon.”

“You’re kidding!” Stunned, Emma gaped at Laurel. “It was perfect. Everything was perfect.”

“The champagne could’ve been colder, the wait service faster, the sky bluer, and the grass greener.”

“Well, she’s just a bitch. After I gave her ten more roses. Not one, but ten.” Emma shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone who was there, and who was an actual human, knows it was perfect. She can’t spoil it.”