“Beef Wellington,” Philippe suddenly sang out.
Emma turned to stare, while Mrs. Nash stilled.
“A compromise,” said Philippe. “I will give up the fleur-delis if you agree to the
“The Duke of Wellington’s dish?” asked Mrs. Nash.
“Which he stole from Napoleon.”
“After defeating him in the war.”
Alex jumped in before the two could get going again. “Let’s just say yes.”
“And
Alex raised his brow.
“Your six hundred and twenty-two guests for a drive-through wedding in Vegas.”
“Three hundred of them are yours,” said Mrs. Nash, flipping her way through the invitation samples.
“What?” Emma’s astonishment was clear.
“I spoke with your sister, and with your secretary.”
Alex didn’t even try to disguise his smug expression. “Three hundred of them are yours.”
“Shoot me now,” said Emma.
“Ahhh, mademoiselle,” said Philippe, rising to put an arm around Emma. “It is no matter. You will be beautiful. The dinner will be magnificent. And people will forgive us for the insipid invitations.”
“The flowers?” Alex quickly put in, before Mrs. Nash could make a remark that did justice to her expression.
Standing on the wide, concrete veranda, Emma watched a team of gardeners working on the expanse of lawn that stretched out to the cliffs at the edge of the Garrisons’ property.
The tent would be set up on the north lawn. The arbor and guest chairs for the ceremony were slated for the rose garden. And a band would play in the gazebo. If the weather looked promising, a lighted dance floor would be constructed near the bottom of the veranda stairs.
The print shop would work overtime on the invitations tonight, and come next Saturday, she’d marry Alex. The guests likely had plans for that day. Heck, Emma already had plans for Saturday. But she’d cancel them and so would they. A garden wedding at the Garrison estate was too hot a ticket to miss.
Alex was counting on that.
And, as Mrs. Nash had said, being a billionaire, he usually got his way.
“Everything okay?” his voice rumbled behind her.
She coughed out a laugh. “What could possibly be wrong?”
He came up beside her. “Thought you might like to know they’ve agreed on the centerpieces.”
“Yeah?”
“White roses and purple heather. Okay by you?”
The timbre of the lawn-mower motor changed, and she shrugged in response to Alex’s question. “I really don’t have an opinion on the centerpieces.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“It’s your party.”
She pulled her gaze away from the two men in the rose garden to look up at him. “You feel at all funny about this?”
“Funny how?”
“Like a fraud?”
His eyes squinted down for a moment. “A little. I didn’t expect to…”
“It’s not like we’re breaking the law,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“We’re throwing a great party, solidifying a business relationship, and giving the tabloids something good to write about for the next two weeks. I don’t see the harm.”
Emma didn’t either, at least not from the logical perspective he’d outlined. But there was a problem at a visceral level.
“I guess I should ask you who pays for it,” she said.
“Pays for what?”
“The party. The wedding. The six hundred guests. Are we splitting it down the middle?”
“I’ll get this one,” he said, crossing his arms to lean them on the rail, shifting his attention to the distant horizon. The ocean was growing restless, frothing up green and white as the tide rolled in. “You can catch the next one.”
“The next wedding?”
“The next dinner.”
“I doubt it’ll be for six hundred.”
Alex just shrugged.
“We need to talk about that,” she said, matching his posture, leaning on the top rail and gazing out at the rhythmic waves.
“About dinner?”
“About how we’re going to work this. Where are we going to live.”
“Here. I thought we’d decided.”
“
There was a smirk in his voice. “And your point?”
She elbowed him. “My point is, I get a vote, too.”
“I’ll pull a Philippe.”
“How so?”
“A compromise. We stay here on weekends. Weekdays, we hang out in the city at one of the penthouses.”
Emma had to admit that sounded reasonable.
“You do know we have to stay together?” he asked. “At least at first.”
“I know. That solution sounds fine.”
“Given any thought to the honeymoon?”
“Not even a moment.” In fact, she’d been avoiding thinking about the honeymoon. This wasn’t exactly any girl’s dream scenario.
“What about Kayven Island?”
She twisted her head to look at him. “A McKinley resort?”
“Sure.”
“I thought you’d fight tooth and nail for the
“Will we be making any business deals on our honeymoon?”
“Wasn’t on my agenda.”
“Then you can have the home court advantage.”
“It’s not our best resort.” Paris was bigger, and Whistler was most recently renovated.
Alex shrugged again. “I’d like to check out the island.”
“A couple of days only-I’ll book it. And I’m taking my laptop and PalmPilot.”
“You afraid we’ll get bored if we’re alone together?”
A salt breeze gusted in off the ocean, and an image of Friday night when they were alone together bloomed in her mind. “Alex.”
His expression said he was reading her mind.
“About Friday night…”
He waited.
“We can’t do that again.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Alex.”
“I’m just saying we could if we wanted to.”
“Well, we don’t want to.”
