His mouth opened wide, and she answered greedily. His tongue plundered her inviting depths, sending pulsating messages of need through her veins. She subconsciously arched her spine, moving closer, pressing her pelvis, her breasts, her thighs tight against his body.

The world outside disappeared, and her only thought was Alex. His incredible scent, his unbridled power, and the salty, tangy, heady taste of his skin fueled her hunger and hijacked any semblance of reason.

“Emma.” Her name vibrated on his lips.

His hand slid to her bottom, grinding her high and tight against him, leaving her no illusions about the state of his arousal. The knowledge shot through her, ricocheting out from the apex of her thighs, streaking electricity to her toes and fingertips.

She cupped his face, smoothing her palms over his rough, masculine skin. She dug her fingers into his hair, kissing him harder, kissing him deeper. There was a primal magic to this passion, something she’d never, ever felt before.

In some dim recess of her mind, she knew they’d have to stop. But not now, not yet.

His breathing grew ragged. With both hands, he lifted her from the floor, slipping her skirt up her thighs, wrapping her legs around his waist so that the fabric of his suit abraded the thin silk of her panties. His thumbs slipped beneath the delicate elastic, and her muscles clenched around the touch.

Alex swore under his breath.

Emma couldn’t disagree.

“We have to stop,” he groaned.

She nodded, not sure she was capable of forming words.

His thumbs circled higher, forcing a moan from her lips.

“Don’t do that,” he growled.

“Then stop-” She moaned again.

His hands retreated. He drew his head back to gaze into her eyes. “I want you,” he confessed bluntly, then waited for her reaction.

She took a breath. Then another. Then another, desperately gathering her bearings. “That can’t be good.”

“On the contrary,” he said as he slowly lowered her to the floor. “I have a feeling it could be very, very good.”

She moved away, out of range, shaking her head. “Don’t you say that.”

“Not saying it won’t change a thing.”

Maybe not, but it was all she had. She couldn’t take this. She’d never felt so wickedly free, as if some unbridled hedonist had taken over her body. She would have said anything, promised anything, done anything.

“We can’t ever do it again,” she murmured.

“That’s one solution,” he agreed. But then his voice dipped low, and he leaned slightly forward. “Or else we do, do it again. But we never, ever stop.”

The room temperature seemed to spike as they stared at each other. For a moment, Emma actually hesitated over the choice.

Abrupt noises came from the other side of the bedroom door.

“Mr. Garrison,” Mrs. Nash cried from the hallway.

Her rapid footsteps were followed by more measured ones and a litany of rapid-fire French.

“Philippe,” said Emma as Alex reflexively sprang toward the door.

It burst open, and Mrs. Nash marched inside.

“Will you please be so kind as to inform this odious man that the Garrison wedding feast dates back to William the Conqueror, and that we are not serving Garrison guests microscopic portions of bottom-feeding crustaceans smothered in outlandish butter sauces while I’m alive and breathing.” She took a breath.

“A slab of beef and a dollop of dough?” Philippe demanded, coming abreast of Mrs. Nash. “You have the nerve to call that food?”

“I call that the Queen’s supper,” Mrs. Nash snapped in return.

“You Brits don’t know how to do anything but boil.”

“I’ll boil you, you-”

“Excuse me?” Alex interrupted, glancing back and forth between the two.

Philippe seemed to recover his composure. “Forgive me, Mr. Garrison. Mademoiselle.” He clicked his heels together and fixed his attention on Alex. “I am Philippe Gagnon. Sous Chef, trained at the Sorbonne and apprenticed under John-Pierre Laconte. I have cooked for princes and presidents. And I am at your service.”

Alex turned to blink at Emma.

“I hired a caterer,” she confessed into the silence.

He paused, his expression carefully neutral. “You hired a caterer?”

“Is that a bad thing?” Before the question was out, she knew it sounded ridiculous. Mrs. Nash was about to call up the Royal Navy. And Philippe’s complexion was turning an unnatural shade of purple.

Alex didn’t answer, but his eyes widened.

Mrs. Nash sniffed. “You are the bride, of course.”

Emma might be the bride, but it was easy to see she’d stepped on some very important toes. She hadn’t wanted to hire a caterer. It had been an act of self-preservation.

Though she had to admit, Philippe was wonderful. He’d cleared her lobby and emptied her mezzanine of unwanted wedding planners and reporters. Since then, he’d been nothing but professional and helpful. She didn’t want to fire him.

But Mrs. Nash, who was obviously the uncontested mistress of her domain had very concrete plans for Alex’s wedding. Emma sure didn’t want to alienate her, either.

She glanced at Alex. No help there. He was obviously waiting for her next move.

She looked from Mrs. Nash to Philippe and back again. “Could we, um, compromise?” she asked.

Alex coughed. “You want the English and the French to compromise over food?”

“Is that a bad thing, too?”

No one seemed inclined to answer.

“I am willing,” Philippe finally put in, with a long-suffering sigh, “to make a few-how do you say-concessions.”

Emma glanced hopefully at Mrs. Nash.

Mrs. Nash’s lips pursed.

“Mrs. Nash?” Alex prompted.

“It’s tradition,” she spouted.

Emma struggled to come up with something helpful. “Perhaps you could do the main course? And Philippe could do dessert?”

“Mon Dieu.” Philippe crossed himself. “I will be ruined.”

Mrs. Nash clacked her teeth together. “The admiral would turn over in his grave.”

Emma looked to Alex once more. He should feel free to jump in anytime.

“Any more good ideas?” he asked her.

That did it. This whole mess was his fault anyway. “You were the one who proposed in public. You unleashed the dogs.”

“What dogs?”

“Philippe is the one who saved me. He cleared out the reporters. He sent the other caterers packing-”

“Thirty-five years,” Mrs. Nash put in. “Thirty-five years I’ve been with the Garrison family.”

Philippe made a slashing motion with his hand. “Yorkshire pudding and boiled cabbage has no place on my table.”

“Your table?” cried Mrs. Nash. “I think you mean Mr. Garrison’s table.”

“Can we get back to the dogs?” asked Alex.

“They were metaphorical,” said Emma.

“I got that much,” he drawled.

“The press,” said Philippe, providing a few more dramatic hand gestures. “They were everywhere. Ms. McKinley was forced into hiding. I saved her.”

“He saved me,” Emma agreed. And she wasn’t about to fire the man for his trouble. Surely to goodness four sane adults could come up with a compromise.

She turned to Mrs. Nash. “Why don’t we pull out your recipes-”

“Water, salt and a big ol’ slab of beef,” said Philippe.

“At least it’s not the legs of amphibians-”

“That’s it.” Alex took a decisive step forward. “Philippe, Mrs. Nash, you’ll work together. I want three recommendations for a compromise by Wednesday.”

The two immediately stopped talking.

“Morning,” said Alex.

After a pause, Philippe and Mrs. Nash eyed each other suspiciously.

“Can I get a yes?” Alex prompted.

Philippe lifted his chin. “But of course. I will do everything in my power to assist.”

“We can certainly discuss it,” said Mrs. Nash, canting her chin at an equally challenging angle.

“Then, thank you,” said Alex. “If you’ll excuse us, Emma and I were picking out some jewelry.”

Both Philippe and Mrs. Nash nodded stiffly and exited the room. Mrs. Nash closed the door behind them.

Alex gave Emma an exaggerated sigh of exhaustion. “A Frenchman?”

“How was I supposed to know you had a rabid housekeeper?”

Alex ambled back to the open safe. “You’re right. Silly me. Anything else I should know about? A Greek limousine driver? A Romanian florist?”

“What does Mrs. Nash have against the Romanians?”

His back was to her, but Emma could tell Alex smiled at that.

“Maybe you should run any future plans by me first.”

“To pander to your control freakish nature?”

“To avoid murder or dismemberment during the ceremony. Ahhh. Here it is.”

Emma’s curiosity got the better of her, and she stepped closer to the safe. “What did you find in there?”

He popped open a purple velvet box. “The Tudor diamond.”

Emma glanced down at the jewel in his hands and instantly stopped breathing.

It was gorgeous.

Old, unique, luxuriant and gorgeous.

The band was fashioned from strands of platinum, woven together to form an intricate Celtic pattern. Rubies tapered up the curve, highlighting the centerpiece-a glittering oval of a flawless gem.

The Tudor diamond.

“Try it on,” said Alex.

She shook her head. Fake brides didn’t touch a piece like that. At the very least, it had to be bad luck.

He moved the box toward her. “Mrs. Nash is right. The family jewels work in our favor.”

Emma shook again, shifting from one foot to the other, her heart rate increasing. No way. No how. The ring he’d given her at casino night was perfectly fine.

“It is insured,” he said.

“Against bad luck?”

He glanced at the ring in confusion. “What bad luck? It’s nothing but metal and stone.”

“It’s a precious family heirloom.”