Private Engagement
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Private Engagement
By Adrienne Perry
Copyright © 2017 by Adrienne Perry.
All right reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This book is intended for adults only.
Published by Graffiti Fiction. www.graffitifiction.com
Perry, Adrienne
Private Engagement
Cover Design by Natasha Snow, http://natashasnow.com/
Edited by Maggie Ryan.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
About the Author
Also from Adrienne Perry
Prologue
Ethan stood with his back to the door, taking in the scene before him. A woman was perched on the edge of the oversized armchair, watching him with large, blue, pleading eyes. Silhouetted against the window was the outline of a man, his eyes focused on something outside of the room, as if he desired an escape. Ethan wished that he could remove himself from the discussion as well, could escape from the teary eyes that started at him beseechingly.
“Please,” she repeated to him again. “It’s the only way.”
“There’s always another way,” he spat. “This scheme is ridiculous.”
The tears that had welled in the woman’s eyes threatened to spill down her cheeks. She fell to her knees before him. “You know why it has to be this way. What other choice do I…do we…have?” She sent her gaze towards the man at the window, but he steadfastly ignored her.
Ethan swore under his breath, and turned on a clipped heel to pace the room, putting whatever small measure of distance between him and the woman. He knew he was no match for her pleas, her desperation. He knew he’d give in. Everybody did to her, in the end.
“Get off the floor. It’s unbecoming for a woman to be on her knees before a man like that.” He cast an imploring glance to the man at the window, silently willing him to turn around and intervene, to put a stop to this madness. But the man maintained his stare out the window, oblivious to Ethan’s turmoil, and his imminent capitulation.
When no words of protest came from the man, Ethan sighed and strode to the other end of his library. Decorated in masculine tones of burgundy and leather, the room was both large and cozy, and Ethan considered it his haven, his escape from the rest of the world. Today, it had failed to protect him.
“Unbecoming?” the woman countered. “What is this, Victorian times?” Nevertheless, she reseated herself on the chair.
Silently, Ethan opened the safe that was concealed behind a painting of a sailboat on a stormy sea. Not very original to hide a safe behind a painting, but the top end security system that monitored his house was the real safety net. The painting and the safe were just for tradition, and only partly meant to be ironic. Ethan reached into the safe and withdrew a small box.
“If it were the 1800s, then I might believe there was a legitimate reason to go through with this plan,” he responded.
He turned the box over several times in his hand, hoping for some idea to pop into his head to rescue him from what he was about to do. When nothing came, he turned back to the woman, box in hand. She remained mute, refusing to give him an out.
“Well, I suppose we’d better make it official, then,” he said. “But don’t expect me to get down on a knee for this.”
“Charlotte,” he continued, opening the box before her to reveal a large, gleaming emerald ring. His grandmother’s. With his face arranged in a mocking solemnity that bordered on a grimace, Ethan spoke the words that threatened to get stuck in his throat. “Will you marry me?”
At this, a large smile of relief broke out on the woman’s face as she launched herself at him. “Oh, thank you, thank you so much!” she exclaimed, while her hug threatened to knock him over.
The man at the window turned, and with a look of disgust and anger on his face, stormed from the room, letting the door slam behind him.
Charlotte’s body jerked at the sound of the door closing with such finality. Ethan watched the shadow of second-guessing that crossed her delicate, heart-shaped face before she chased it away with a wide, gleaming smile. Only because he knew her so well did he notice the slight downturn of her mouth at the corners that betrayed her regret.
Ethan thought he could use this moment to talk her out of her plan, convince her that it wasn’t too late to back out of it. Instead, he steadied both himself and Charlotte, setting her back a bit. He plucked the emerald ring from its velvet bed and offered it to Charlotte who clasped it with the desperation of a drowning woman grasping at a life preserver before sliding it onto the ring finger of her left hand. Both Ethan and Charlotte paused, then, staring at the shining gem, contemplating the depth of its meaning and the course it would set for their lives.
“I take it that’s a yes, then. Shall we tell our families the happy news?”
Chapter One
Clack, clack clack…Emily Hunter’s Manolo Blahnik’s sounded unbelievably loud as she raced across the marble-tiled lobby of the office building that housed Rivera Productions, the event planning company for which she worked. “Shit, shit, shit,” she repeated in her head in sync with the clicking of her heels. A glance down at her watch and she upgraded the curse to “Fuck.” 9:17. Not good.
Emily skidded around the corner to the elevators, and pushed the up arrow button. When the elevator doors didn’t immediately slide open for her, she impatiently jabbed the button repeatedly. Despite the temperature-controlled sixty-eight degrees that pumped silently through the building’s ductwork, wafting a chilly breeze on her skin, Emily felt a prickle of sweat break out on the back of her neck. Reaching behind her head to lift her glossy brown hair away from her skin to let in a cool draft, she surreptitiously fanned her face with her other hand, and willed her heart to stop racing and her breathing to return to normal. It wouldn’t do to show up late AND frazzled looking. Mari would never forgive both offenses.
She stabbed the elevator button again. Why did the slowest fucking elevator in the history of the world have to be in this building?
9:18. Fuck.
Stab. Stab. Pause. Stab.
“You know that won’t make the el
evator arrive any quicker, right?” came a smooth, male voice from behind her. It was deep and sexy, with a hint of a chuckle, and sent a delicious chill skittering down her spine. It was a voice for long nights of hot sex and lazy Sunday mornings spent in bed. It was a voice that made Emily forget her lateness, her urgency to get to work replaced by a more primal need that tingled to life low in her belly.
She turned to look at the owner of the voice. Later, she wouldn’t be able to say what, exactly, she noticed first. It might have been the amused green eyes, though would she have noticed their vibrant color so quickly had they not been highlighted by the dark, wavy hair? And was it the deep, rich chestnut color of his hair that she first saw, or the lock that threatened to fall forward onto his forehead? It was probably the mouth, though. It was always the mouth, and this one, perfectly centered under a straight nose, was wide, and full, and quirked up in one corner as he measured Emily’s distress. All these physical characteristics molded into a face that was pure seduction. Handsome was too pedestrian a word to describe him. His voice had been enough to unfurl a wisp of desire, his face made it bloom.
Emily’s eyes fell to his shoulders and she mentally measured their breadth. Wide, was her non-mathematical yet brilliant conclusion, but damn, she didn’t need to know inches to see that they were strong and led to well-muscled arms. Arms that could sweep her off her feet and carry her away like a caveman claiming his prize. Shoulders that would support his strong body as he lowered himself onto her.
Catching herself, Emily wondered what he saw in return. She definitely wasn’t feeling her best right now. She was sure her hair was frizzing all over the place, her carefully styled locks destroyed into a jumbled mess by the combination of humidity and running. Her face felt shiny and hot, and she was panting slightly, her breathlessness only partly due to her dash across the lobby. This man standing before her was literally taking her breath away.
Though she wanted to turn her back on him, she was too mesmerized by the sheer beauty of him and the cocky half-smile that was still playing at the corner of his mouth. Emily had a flash of herself leaning over and nibbling that smirk away.
Her eyes traveled down those built arms to catch a glimpse of his hands. She was a sucker for hands. Mouths and hands…that’s what mattered. Emily’s eyes caught on the glimpse of silver on his wrist. A watch. Reality snapped back in as she desperately remembered how late she was and flipped her wrist up to read her own Cartier look-alike. She might splurge on her shoes, but the rest of her fashion choices were made with more frugality.
9:19. One more minute and she’d be in imminent firing territory.
When her latest button press had the doors sliding open immediately before her, Emily couldn’t resist shooting a saucy glance towards the man, one of her eyebrows raised in challenge and triumph.
He said nothing, but smiled back, his shoulders lifting ever so slightly in an acknowledgement of defeat, and motioned for her to enter the elevator before him.
Emily walked in ahead of him, and pressed the button for the fifteenth floor. As he entered after her, he reached across her and let his finger hover above the number fifteen for an instant or two before pressing it again, though it was already lit.
“Just in case it helps speed this thing up,” he remarked, and shot her a smirk. “Though I’m hoping it doesn’t go too fast. I think I may really enjoy this ride.”
Emily noticed that they were standing a little too close, just a few centimeters beyond typical personal space. She didn’t mind. And he didn’t seem to, either. She could feel the warmth from his arm, and it sent tingles up her spine. Emily caught a whiff of clean, soapy smell from him, and forced herself not to inhale the heady scent. Damn, he smelled as good as he looked. He appeared oblivious to their breach of protocol, though the cocky half-smile remained on his lips. His posture suggested he was as relaxed and unflappable as she was nervous and stressed.
Emily was caught between wanting the ride to continue forever so she could bask in his extreme maleness and her desperation to get to the office to try and save her job. Ultimately, the sobering reality of the upcoming confrontation with her boss was enough to douse the embers of her arousal and attraction towards this man.
They didn’t speak again, though Emily remained intimately aware of his solid presence next to her in the too small space. When the elevator doors finally (too soon!) dinged open on the fifteenth floor, Emily skittered out with just the briefest pang of regret for what she was walking away from. But she needed to focus on work and figure out a way to keep from getting fired for being twenty, no twenty one, minutes late to the biggest meeting of her career.
*****
Emily smoothed her hair as she pushed open the frosted glass doors that guarded the inner offices of Rivera Productions from hoi polloi. Only the most high-end (expensive) events were produced (never planned…always produced) by Mari Rivera. From the plush carpets, huge bouquets of fresh flowers, premium leather seating, to the in-house caterer who designed fresh hors d’oeurves for each meeting, everything about Rivera Productions was designed to please and comfort the client.
The comfort and pleasure of the staff, on the other hand, was of far less importance to the company’s founder and matriarch, Mari Rivera. While the clients saw nothing but opulence and charm, many of the staff offices, discreetly tucked behind an oak–paneled door, were Spartan and crowded with two or even three people. Mari said it was to “inspire collaboration” between the different planners and organizers, but everyone knew it was just that she wanted to reserve the premium square footage of the office space for those who matter to her most: The high class patrons of Greenville, South Carolina, who were used to being treated like royalty.
It was obvious to everyone that Mari thought of herself as a too-big fish in a too-small pond. She dominated the market in Greenville and the surrounding areas of South Carolina, but Mari made no secret of the fact that she absolutely belonged in New York City, producing events for the city’s and the country’s elite. Despite her aspirations for greatness in the big city, however, Mari had never made the move. It was a constant source of gossip amongst the staff. Some speculated that she was afraid of failing. Others whispered about a secret lover who refused to move. Someone, at one point, even suggested that she was under modified house arrest, and couldn’t go anywhere but home and work.
Whatever the reason, Mari stayed in the South, keeping her fist tightly wrapped around the event planning market of the region. Her sharp tongue was well hidden from her clients, over whom Mari would gush and flatter. Instead, she unleashed her vitriol on her staff, snapping and criticizing daily. Staff turnover was high; most didn’t survive a year. Those who did could hope to receive a recommendation from Mari that would catapult their careers. It was a delicate process, and one wrong move could see you thrown out of the office with no reference.
Emily was worried that she had made the wrong move today. For the past ten months, she’d worked hard as a planner – producer – at the company, with the hope that she would one day soon have enough contacts and experience to start her own business. While she loved planning the perfect event for someone, she didn’t enjoy the atmosphere of Rivera Productions.
Emily’s dream was to have a smaller, more intimate enterprise…one that felt less like an assembly line of flowers and caterers and designers, and more like a family, as sappy as that sounded. But one of the things she enjoyed most about her job was getting to know the clients, really understanding them, and being able to give them an event that was so uniquely suited to them, with some surprises that were specific to each individual involved, that she could create an experience even more perfect than was imagined.
With Rivera Productions she got glimpses of that perfection, enough to keep her coming back. However, it wasn’t enough, and she was biding her time until she could venture out on her own.
9:22.
Without even stopping at her desk, Emily sailed right towards the conference room
, where she should have been at 9:00 am sharp for the briefing meeting on their new client. Mari had implied that this wedding was to be their biggest, most high-profile event yet. Weddings were Emily’s favorite, by far. Weddings were the moments when a couple was at their happiest, their most hopeful for the future. Marriages Emily could do without…marriages were all about compromise and disappointment. A toilet seat left up, again. A meal unshared. An escape into a book or TV series instead of into each other. Weddings, on the other hand, were the exact opposite. Weddings were the fairy tale beginning without the “ever after.”
This wedding, however, she would never get to plan. She was late, and tardiness was strictly punished by Mari, who typically made snide comments about latecomers and then awarded the big jobs, in a humiliating fashion, to a person in the room “who valued timeliness enough to deliver it to the customer.” Punctuality and professionalism were the two maxims upon which everything else rested.
Emily ignored her assistant, Troy, who rose out of his chair and signaled to her as she whizzed past. She waved her hand at him, indicating she couldn’t stop. Pausing outside the conference room door, she took a deep breath for courage, and eased the door open as quietly as she could, vainly hoping she might be able to sneak in without anyone noticing how late she was.
The door opened silently—no squeaky hinges at Rivera Productions. Emily had mentally primed herself for this moment. She expected the look of disdain that would appear on Mari’s face as she stopped speaking, mid-sentence to glare at Emily. She anticipated the heads that would turn towards her, eyes full of sympathy, some maybe with barely concealed glee. The sight that greeted Emily, however, was nothing that she could have prepared for.
Chapter Two
Empty. The room was empty. A look at her watch: 9:23. Where was everybody? She wasn’t late enough to miss the whole meeting.
A presence behind her, and Emily turned. Troy was standing there, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.