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An attractive, cheeky brat, she’d worn red lipstick to draw attention to her lush mouth, batted her long lashes and flaunted her shapely golden body in a string bikini every chance she got. She would arch her back and lift her wet hair so the breeze would catch the damp strands.
Amused by her kittenish play, he’d let her practice her feminine wiles on him. Keeping his distance, however, grew increasingly difficult as she got bolder. Then came the afternoon she caught him alone in the kitchen. In an insanely short skirt and high heels, she’d strutted past him, plying his libido with her sassy smile.
If he’d caught wind of her intentions, he’d have been out of there fast, but he never dreamed that she’d back him against a counter and set her full, rosy mouth on a collision course with his lips. For two sluggish heartbeats he’d stared at her pretty face, long lashes painting ebony half moons on her flushed cheeks, and been tempted to teach her a lesson on the dangers of flirting with older men. Instead, rattled by her detrimental effect on his good judgment, he’d rebuffed her without much finesse, cut his visit short and hit the highway.
Twelve years later she was no longer forbidden fruit.
Three weeks ago, he’d had his first taste, and it left him hungry for more.
With an impatient, disgusted snort he shoved the provocative pictures away and focused on the problem at hand: convincing Emma to marry him. Because he couldn’t do the deal with her father and take control of Case Consolidated Holdings away from his half brothers unless he did.
Three
Emma sat in the middle of her walk-in closet. Surrounded by empty hangers and four plastic garbage bags filled with the last of her designer clothes, she fought an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. She needed to replace $35,000 and had about five weeks to do it. The amount staggered her.
Her cell phone rang.
“I was calling to invite you out to dinner,” Addison said, her tone brisk. “Paul’s taking the kids to basketball practice tonight so I’ve got a couple hours free.”
Emma pictured her best friend sitting in her beautifully decorated home office, going over the details for whatever event she was organizing. For the last five years, Addison had been growing her party planning business, working long hours, setting goals and achieving them. With a tireless work ethic and an abundance of determination, she inspired Emma’s entrepreneurial drive and at the same time made Emma feel guilty that she didn’t work harder.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” Emma said, when what she really meant to say is that she didn’t know if she could afford it. Thanks to her father’s actions a year ago, she’d gone from spendthrift to penny pincher. The transformation had been humbling, but she recognized that it had also been a good lesson to learn. “I’ve been going through my closet to see what I can sell.”
“Are you crying?”
Emma shook her head and dashed the back of her hand against her damp cheek. “No.”
“You sound like you are. Why don’t you just let me lend you the money?”
“You and Paul can’t afford to do that. And I wouldn’t take it anyway. I’ve got to do this on my own.” She’d never get her father to stop meddling if she didn’t beat him at his own game.
“You aren’t going to make enough money in five weeks by selling your clothes. Have you heard from the people running the art and design show?”
A couple months ago, Addison had badgered her into applying for a spot at a prestigious art and design show in Baton Rouge. Unsure how her work would be received, Emma’s nerves had been tied up in knots. Yesterday, she’d been accepted.
“I’m in. But I don’t have enough inventory to take to the show. Almost everything is consigned at Biella’s.” By her calculation, she had at least $50,000 tied up in unsold jewelry. Almost all of it decorated the cases in Biella’s, Houston’s most prestigious jeweler.
“So, go there and get it back. It’s not as if they’ve sold more than five or six pieces in the last six months. I think the Baton Rouge show’s your best bet.”
“But can I make enough?” Emma dumped a garbage bag out onto the floor and began sliding hangers back into her clothes. “Daddy says I don’t have the drive to succeed. Maybe he’s right.”
“He’s not right. I know you can do this and, deep down, so do you.”
Did she? Emma wasn’t so sure. Being independent and financially responsible was hard work. And, right now, the enormity of the task before her made her want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head.
“Besides,” Addison continued. “Don’t you want to see the look on your father’s face when he realizes he has to turn your money over to you? It should be priceless.”
