5

Emerson's fingers typed fast across the keyboard of her laptop responding to emails. She checked the status of her team's prioritized projects, fielded questions from partners, instructed her assistant to rearrange her schedule.

She thought about checking on Liam's assistant and the cupcake order then decided to let it go and let it be handled.

Then she reconsidered and asked her own assistant to follow through even though it was a personal task. Mixing business and personal wasn't a regular practice but given the circumstances, she made the exception.

She opened a data file on her computer and pulled some numbers she wanted to check against her team's conclusions—she hated numbers so she was diligent about double-checking. Pulling her legs up to stretch down the length of the couch, she crossed her feet at her ankles and dove into work as she usually did in the evenings after Archer went to sleep.

It was early still, but hard to tell time away from the schedule and routines with her family.

Glancing up to the high windows, only inky black could be seen with swirling white flakes making it look like it was raining stars. Night had arrived as fast as the storm and, with a heavy dose of guilt, her insides tugged between wanting to slow down the evening, to seep in the experience, and wanting to speed it up so she could get home and back to her purposeful life.

Time would tick away as it always did and she didn't need to worry about it, she reminded herself as she got back to work.

Occasional clanks came from the kitchen, echoing down the stone hallway from where Liam made dinner. Scents of marinade meandered along with an oath and a gruff dog bark here and there.

They were happy sounds, homely sounds. Looking up from her computer again, she wondered what it was like to live in such a grand and expansive castle. It should have been cold, dark, and empty given that one man lived alone in it. But it wasn't. Somehow it managed to be fun, warm, insularly cozy, and comfortable despite the winter storm that pounded outside.

At least enemies weren't pounding outside the walls of the castle, she mused.

And she knew, despite being snowed in against her desires, that she was exactly that—comfortable.

Not that Emerson wanted to notice any of this. She had her own home, her own family to be thinking about. Relaxing into the life she was snowed into was dangerous and guilt-ridden.

She sipped from her wine glass and reminded herself she didn't need to feel guilty; it wasn't her fault she was stuck in New Hampshire while her son and mom were in California.

It was Liam Wyatt's fault.

Back in a work zone, she fired off a detailed response to a restless client she considered high-touch. Likely not worth the revenue if one were to subtract the amount of time spent handholding, but the bottom line looked better and she'd gotten a gold star and a nice bonus. Payment for biting her tongue and exercising patience, the way she figured it.

And she thanked God for the payment as neither silence nor patience were strengths of hers.

When a bell rang through the castle, reverberating off of the tall slabs of stone, she was reminded of where she was—very far from home. Her own doorbell had been broken for the last few months and featured a pitiful sound that did more gurgling than ringing. Archer had volunteered that it sounded like a cat in a blender being blended in slow motion. The kid wasn't lacking for imagination.

As she heard voices echo, Emerson smoothed a hand over her mane of red out of habit and hoped she looked presentable.

Then a small glimmer of hope shined—if they got in, she could get out.

But hope dimmed at the duet of women's laughter and talk of power outages and road closures that trailed in from down the hall.

Moments ticked by while she waited for them to enter the room.

"When I was in Tuscany last spring there was nothing, I mean nothing, that came close to the utter regality of this place you have—"

Still clad in Liam's white collar shirt and the large wool socks covering her feet that were kicked up on the couch, she struggled to not let her back stiffen at the sight—and smell—of the women who'd clearly made an effort to pretty themselves up.

Liam scratched at the stubble on his chin as he led the additions into the room.

"Emerson, this is Grace who has a house across the way, and her niece Hannah. Their power is out so they bravely schlepped over and brought cookies they baked today."

"Chocolate chip, your favorite." Grace winked at Liam.

Emerson eyed both Hannah and Grace's freshly coiffed golden hair, the swipe of glossy lipstick, the long, curled lashes, and decided whatever their game was, she wanted no part in it.

Power outage. Right.

She fixed a smile on her face she knew wouldn't last. "Nice to meet you both. You must be cold from the walk over. Come take my seat in front of the fire, I've still got some work to do. Excuse me."

As she gathered her computer and straightened the pillow, trying not to lean over and flash the New England debutante and regal aunt who were likely members of the Daughters of the American Revolution or Junior League or both, Liam strode in and set an arm around her shoulders. He was keeping her in place and she didn't care for it. She didn't have on any pants, dammit, and was feeling feistier by the minute.

"Emerson and I were just about to have another drink before dinner. Join us?"

She hissed through her clenched teeth.

As the smiling women sent sterling sparkles to Liam and daggers to her—a subtle difference perceivable by any observing woman—she fought to not get sucked into whatever game they were competing in.

If the prize was Liam Wyatt, they could have him. She was on the next plane out anyway, she reminded herself.

Her back still went up. Out of reflex she decided, nothing more.

"Poor thing doesn't even have proper clothes!" Grace announced with the sweetness of a sugar cube then muttered, overtly, to Hannah. "She must be from the shelter in town. Liam supports a whole manor of charities and charity cases."

"Excuse me?" Emerson demanded, mad that she'd been thrust into engagement and still wasn't wearing any damn pants. "I'm not from a shelter, nor are my living arrangements any of your business."

"Wine for you ladies?" Liam interrupted the baring of claws before the scratches started. "We've opened a cabernet if that works for you. Two glasses?" He started toward the wet bar in the room.

Emerson glared but gave points to Liam for saying "we."

"Hannah loves a good glass of wine. Not hours ago, she mentioned wanting to go on a chateau wine tour in France. Oh I just knew you two would have a lot to talk about." Grace exclaimed, pulling her attention from Emerson and apparently deciding she no longer existed.

Rolling her eyes, Emerson left the room without announcement.

As she reached the end of a hallway, she cursed the idea that her admittedly dirty clothes were still crumpled in the kitchen. There had to be another path that didn't involve walking back through the living room the vipers were in. Even if her shirt was covered in paw prints and lipstick, it was an improvement over what looked more like a nightshirt.

Or an after-sex shirt.

Not that she'd mind waltzing by with her clothes in hand, but she didn't need to play that game—she had a life, a family, a child. She didn't need to compete for a man she'd already had sex with. A fling. One didn't need to compete for a fling. The fling was over anyway, so she didn't care.

Sort of didn't care, she corrected, as she pulled open door after door looking for another path, something, anything to spare her the walk of shame through the castle.

When she pulled open the door to a closet the size of her living room, she stared. Around the room were stacks piled high and racks crammed full of clothes. When she spotted the obviously female section her stomach dropped.

"You better not be married, asshole."

Realizing his neighbor, the ungracious Grace, would know if he was married, and the obvious flaunting of her niece signaled otherwise.

She set her laptop on a nearby table then checked the rack of cashmere sweaters in a selection of colors and sizes.

"Okay, so...you, what? You're a playboy who has a room for people you bring here and who forget their clothes?"

Finding her size in a heather gray V-neck cashmere sweater, she tugged it off the rack with little trepidation, letting the hanger rattle on the rack.

Flustered, she flipped through the pile of jeans neatly folded on the stack of shelves and pulled out a pair of skinny Hudson jeans in her size.

She frowned as she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. It was a good thing she wasn't competing because next to the debutante, she looked downright shaggy. She'd flown all morning, endured the horrors of a helicopter, had fainted when she reached ground, had slept through the beginning of a major snowstorm, and had had sweaty, invigorating sex with a man who knew how to handle a woman.

God, did he know how to handle a woman, she thought, the knots in her stomach loosening.

Well, it wouldn't hurt to make a little bit of an effort to look acceptable...

She ran her fingers through her hair to smooth, pinched at her cheeks for some natural blush, and rolled her shoulders back.

Passable but not at all interesting.

Itchy with herself all of a sudden, she clicked through a rack of more clothes, eyeing each piece with increasing discrimination. As she pushed past a periwinkle James Perse T, her eye caught a glimpse of the long-sleeved royal blue maxi dress.

Exactly the right size, she noted. Wrong season for a dress, but what did she care at this point? Well aware of the ridiculous competitive spirit that had reluctantly sparked, she tossed off the jeans and sweater and pulled on the dress that clung around her hips and boobs, and bunched on the ground. It was too long by a couple inches, but she'd keep on the wool socks and stay indoors so what did it matter? And the scoop neck covered just enough to not be slutty.

There, she thought. Now she was armed for battle with the oh-dear-my-power's-out damsels in distress.

It was a ridiculous game, and she knew it.

But, away from her son, away from professional responsibility, she felt the momentum of having a small and petty streak of fun and decided to go for it.

Doing a quick turn in front of the mirror and a fast jiggling lift of boobs—Marilyn Monroe style because she may as well have fun—she opened the door ready to perform. With a smile on her face, she strode back into the living room where voices lifted and echoed.

Fully committing to the moment, she walked straight for Liam, who sat in a high-backed leather chair, and leaned down, laid an easy kiss on his cheek.

"Sorry for the delay, everyone. What do you think of the wine?" Her voice interrupted.

Grace's face melted into antipathy while Hannah shyly scanned Emerson's figure.

"You look...fantastic." Liam ran his knuckles along the edge of his jaw covered in dark stubble.

"Thank you, darling." Emerson sat on the arm of Liam's chair, winked at the two ladies seated on the couch.

Liam pressed his lips together, biting back a grin. So, the lady had some spit in her. He figured he'd have to go retrieve her from her computer and convince her to join them. But instead, there she was, clad in a dress she'd likely found in the monster closet, ready to battle.

He didn't know if he should be honored or amused and figured a little bit of both were good for a man's ego.

Pleased to play along, he laid a hand casually on her leg. "Grace here was just telling me she'll host a fundraiser for my campaign."

Emerson caught herself before she asked what campaign he was talking about. This was why she never lasted long in mating games and preferred a direct approach—stories always crossed and became complicated.

"Grace, that's wonderfully kind of you. Cause to celebrate."

"Well," Grace said emphatically, "the state needs changes and Liam here is powerful and knows how to get the job done. Of course, you'll need a Jackie on your arm, you know, dear? Not a Marilyn—blond, brunette, red-headed, or otherwise."

Emerson brightened, not only at the Marilyn comparison—which was laughably inaccurate but something that had just been on her mind—but also because she saw the effect she was having. Any game that had her being compared to Marilyn Monroe was a fun one indeed.

"Funny you should bring that up, I was accepted to George Washington University where Jackie O attended. Their B-school is one of the best. Settled on Berkeley instead."

"What's B-school?" Hannah asked pertly.

"Business school, honey," Grace responded with hushed curtness. "You must forgive our Hannah. She's been in Florence studying great works of art and creating some of her own. She's a passionate woman, filled with life and desire." Grace ended on a flourish while Hannah silently and uncomfortably looked around the room.

"Understated passion," Grace amended. "She paints her passion so elegantly. You really should come see some of her paintings, Liam. Just wonderful; they lift my soul. You studied business then I assume?" A small smile fixed on Grace's face as she turned back to Emerson.

"I did indeed."

"It was Da Vinci, I believe, who said 'Intellectual passion drives out sensuality?'"

Emerson's temper flared. "Why yes he did. And he also said, 'Blinding ignorance does mislead us.'"

"Dinner's about ready," Liam rose before the women began to throw down—not that it wouldn't be entertaining to watch and his money was definitely on Emerson, but he needed Grace if he was going to run in the next gubernatorial race.

"Em, honey, why don't you help me in the kitchen. And, Grace, you know the way to the dining room. You and Hannah mosey that way and we'll get everything ready for you."

Grace stood, chest puffed, mouth stern with the lines of it pursed. "Of course, dear. I know the way around here just fine."

Liam reached for Emerson's hand, pulled her down another hallway toward the kitchen, passing the dog, Darwin, who ran in the opposite direction with a bone in his mouth.