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The helicopter swayed in the sky and so did her stomach. It had been enough to fly across the country, which she often did for business, but that was after the proper preparatory measures of peaceful meditation music playing in her ear-buds and drops of a calming homeopathic remedy under her tongue. But the peace and remedy had worn off, and so had the professional polish she'd left California with.

Now, one side of her crisp white collar was popped up, the other laying flat with a smearing of respectable spice colored lipstick pressed into the fabric. She felt awful and couldn't help but show it. As her stomach dipped into another quick tug and low pull followed by a few fast flips, she figured her face was likely as green as the cash she'd stuck in the inside pocket of her purse for tips along the business trip.

Blades chopped at the thick gray opaque clouds that coated the New Hampshire sky. The pilot told her that it wouldn't be too much further and she pressed her lips together to refrain from pointing out that any distance further was too far. But given that in a few hours she'd be back in the same helicopter returning to the airport, she sucked it up and attempted to study the storm that brewed around them but couldn't bring herself to appear as anything other than sick to her stomach rather than confident and professional as she would have liked.

Showing how she felt came with the territory of having red hair, her mother had explained to her as a child. She'd been told it was a privilege, the gift of being an innately colorful person, but as she approached the home of one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in the country, she cursed it. It would be so much easier to be one of those women who could just remain glossy and perfect at all times, regardless of what was felt on the inside.

Emerson Brown closed her eyes, then opened her eyes, then closed them again. Nothing made her feel better. Except for the thought of strangling Liam Wyatt who'd arranged the tin bug with top wings to pick her up in the first place.

But not even hating an elusive billionaire made her feel less like throwing up.

Don't think about throwing up, she reminded herself. Think about work. Purpose.

There, she decided. Better. She was the Vice President of Business Development for a social media technology start-up and she was great at it. She could certainly fly from San Francisco to Boston to New Hampshire for a meeting like the respectable professional she was.

Except she hadn't planned on the private helicopter ride. She'd been told she'd be picked up at the Boston Logan airport but had assumed a car would be waiting. A car was a lovely, wonderful way to transport a person as it kept all wheels intelligently and practically on the ground.

The initial curiosity she'd felt when the apparently brilliant and secretive businessman's assistant called to set up the meeting with her had dissipated during the rough ride through the sky. But she was a professional, and a fine one at that. She would get the deal done. Of course, to be fair, she didn't know why he'd scheduled the meeting so she didn't actually know what kind of deal he was interested in. She'd done some of her usual due diligence in preparation but even after days of searching, she found very little information on the man or his holdings.

At least her company knew where she was, she decided. Just in case the guy turned out to be some eccentric psychopathic killer. Her CEO had all but begged to come with her, excited to meet the mysterious mogul, but at the last minute had flown to Britain, much to his dismay, to meet with an investor who threatened to pull his money.

The invitation had been to stay the night at Liam Wyatt's camp in New Hampshire, but that sounded quite dreadful and would have kept her away from her son regardless of her personal feelings. Plus she had no interest in brushing her teeth in a tent cabin next to some agoraphobic business beast. No one but her son, Archer, knew the color of her toothbrush these days. That information was much too personal. So she'd shocked her over-eager CEO and agreed to a one-hour meeting only. Then she'd fly back to California and be home in time to kiss her son's head, get a couple hours of sleep, wake up before dawn to bake, then drop him off at daycare with two dozen cupcakes for their little party.

She couldn't, for the life of her, remember what the party was for but she did store every fact and figure pertaining to business in her head and gave herself a pass when it came to remembering reasons for daycare parties.

The life of a working single mom wasn't an easy one, but a rich one nonetheless, and she never considered herself bored.

Thank God her mom lived with them. Always at the ready, her mom treated each one of Emerson's business trips like her own vacation. She got to play with her grandson and give him extra candy, run around and encourage chaotic noise with the rambunctious boy, and sleep in the middle of Emerson's plush bed during overnight trips.

The helicopter dipped in altitude and her stomach lurched right along with it, pushing the wistful smile she'd worked up down her face into a deep frown of pure dread.

She considered death as a viable alternative to business trips.

The pilot announced their arrival at camp and Emerson glanced out the window.

Her mouth dropped and held open in shock as a massive stone castle came into view. It filled the window she stared out of, sprawling with several wings, snuggled up against the shadowy lake with a thick blanket of trees and remnant patches of snow surrounding.

She'd been expecting a tent cabin that required the literal act of camping, not a New England castle with long stretches of rough stone and curved drum towers popping up at various corners and juts. The place looked like it belonged in the United Kingdom, not in the United States.

As they lowered toward the helipad in a wide grass clearing, her brain began to spin in jerky circles along with the beat of the spinning blades. Even with the distraction of shock at the site of the imposing castle, she fought the sensation of losing her wary stomach and watched as her world spun.

When the helicopter finally met with the ground, her full and whirling mind settled long enough to register that she was expected to take the man's hand that held open the door. He motioned for her to stay down, the man in the black tie, as she was gently guided along.

Disoriented as they made their way to what she considered safety, away from the torture machine—otherwise known as a helicopter—she barely registered anything else until the contraption lifted in the air once again and the man in the tie wandered off with her purse and computer bag.

Ground, she was on the ground where she belonged. And she didn't even care if she'd been kidnapped or the fancy man stole her laptop and was on the run. Nothing mattered nearly as much as being on the ground.

Momentum kept her legs walking, one in front of the other, and she dazedly rethought the sharp black leather heels she now wobbled in.

"You look pale. You alright?"

She pulled her focus away from the ground and stopped, scanning up the man's legs that filled out a pair of jeans much too nicely, then gazed further up and over his strong and steady chest to where a blur of sculptured features, dark stubble, and cool gray eyes met with warm brown waves of hair.

Something in her shivered and simultaneously overheated her already frazzled nerves. "You," she managed.

Hair blown into disheveled knots, her collar still out of whack, lipstick printed on her shirt, and her five-foot two-inch frame barely able to balance on her high heels, she provided an easy, remembering smile then gave into the warmth and slid into the gilded glory of relaxation and promptly passed out.

"Where am I?" Emerson sat up from the long leather couch she laid on, a forest green plaid cashmere blanket covering her.

The stone fireplace, tall enough for her to stand in, hissed at her in response.

She stayed still, taking a moment to focus her eyes, and noticed that large wool socks, much too big for her feet, were in the place of her hard earned classic Jimmy Choos.

Windows, too high up to see out of, let in stark white light that reflected down into the massive room.

She rose, wobbled upon standing, then slid along the creaking wood floor, slowly, as her head was still a bit light, and looked around for people. "Hello?"

The memory of seeing a face that was faintly familiar fuzzily came into focus. That had been quite some dream if that's what it'd been. She hadn't thought about that night, that amazing night with that amazing man, in years. And as the memory rolled through her mind, her body warmed in response. He'd been exactly what she needed that night in New Orleans, had fulfilled her body, mind and spirit when she'd been heartbroken and craving a distraction.

Starting down the impressively long stone hall that housed too many knotty pine doors to count, she reminded herself this was a business trip. She would think about sex with that stranger—the only time she'd ever done that, had ever desired that—on her way back to the airport. Maybe if she thought about sex she could survive the impending helicopter ride.

She came across a restroom and absently decided to do a quick mirror check.

Gasping at her reflection—lipstick smeared, hair resembling a matted bird's nest, and now both sides of her collar featuring makeup—she quickly shut the door and locked it.

"Good God, Emerson," she whispered the reprimand.

Dampening a washcloth, she cleaned up the best she could, pulled a hand through her disheveled hair in lieu of a comb, and re-tucked her white button-down shirt into her fitted gray pencil skirt.

That better have been the sexiest groundskeeper she'd ever seen and not the elusive businessman Liam Wyatt she'd fainted in front of, she thought, wincing. But he did, in her hazy pre-fainting memory, look a lot like that man she'd slept with in New Orleans.

Death really was sounding better than business trips.

Cringing, she poked at ideas as to what may have happened while she'd been unconscious. Had he caught her when she'd fallen? Had he carried her into the castle? Taken off her shoes? Slipped a pair of socks on her feet?

She winced again.

At least she'd painted the fresh swipe of fire engine red on her toes before she left, she decided.

She would do her best to put back on the professional face she'd left San Francisco with, get the meeting over with, and get back to her son.

Deciding she'd done a decent enough job putting the pieces of herself back together, she wandered back out into the hall and followed the line of archways. The cave-like hallways made of polished stone featuring domed ceilings were the most interesting to her. With her forever-active imagination, she could see them through her son's eyes, full of wonder and curiosity.

She wished for her phone to text her mom to check on the pair, see how they were getting on, to make sure he wasn't wearing his Superman costume to daycare. Again. Once a week was enough and she'd told Archer that superheroes needed rest.

The sleepless hypocrite in her pushed forward to find Liam Wyatt, get the meeting over with, then get back on the dreaded modes of transport.

A raucous crash interrupted the silence and she wandered toward the sound. One room led into another, intimidatingly formal and somehow still welcomingly open, and she found herself back in the living room.

"Darwin, no."

She turned at the man's command as a Great Dane flopped his weight across the floor and lifted onto his back paws then pushed with his front before she could react.

"Darwin, dammit, no."

Emerson pushed back up to standing as the dog was pulled off of her. Brushing off the frozen mud that now smeared on her dress shirt, she finally got a good look at the man she'd fainted in front of. "It is you."

She watched, studied him as he shoved the lanky dog through the nearest door then pulled it closed. When he turned and their eyes met, her heartbeat roared to life in her chest.

A grin covered his face as he walked toward her. "Emerson."

Her name rolling off his tongue so casually caused her eyebrow to shoot up in question.

"You...you're not surprised to see me? You know my name? I haven't seen you since New Orleans when we..." She took one step back, away from him. "Who are you?"

He stopped just short of reaching her, and his attentive gray eyes scanned her over. When his gaze settled on her face, light revealed the shadowy flecks of danger that sliced through the smoky gray.

"Liam Wyatt. Welcome to camp."

"You're Liam Wyatt?" She stared at him, waiting for explanation. When no other words were spoken, she took another step back, then another, getting closer to the fireplace that danced with flames, shimmering in colors of bold orange and icy blue.

"Why did you bring me here?"