"Exactly what we're after." She sipped the wine, shut her eyes. "Oh God, that's good."
"How's the MB behaving?"
"She's actually not too bad. It's hard to be bitchy when everyone's telling you how beautiful you look, how happy they are for you. She actually did count the roses in her bouquet, so that made her happy. Parker's smoothed over a couple of potential crises, and Mac actually got a nod of approval over the B and G shots. If Laurel's cake and dessert table pass muster, I'd say we hit all the hot spots."
"Did she do those little crème brûlées?"
"Oh, yeah."
"You're gold. Lot of buzz on the flowers."
"Really?"
"I actually heard gasps a few times-the good kind."
She rolled her shoulders. "Then it's all worth it."
"Here."
He boosted himself up a stair, straddled her from behind, and dug his fingers into her shoulders.
"You don't have to . . . Never mind." She leaned back into his hands. "Carry on."
"You've got some concrete in here, Em."
"I've got about a sixty-hour week in there."
"And three thousand roses."
"Oh, adding the other events, we could double that. Easily."
He worked his thumbs up the back of her neck, made her groan. And as his stomach knotted in response, realized he wasn't doing himself any favors. "So . . . how'd the fiftieth go?"
"It was lovely, really lovely. Four generations. Mac got some wonderful pictures. When the anniversary couple had their first dance, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. It goes down as one of my all-time favorite events."
She sighed again. "You have to stop that. Between the wine and your magic hands I'm going to end up taking a nap right here on the steps."
"Aren't you done?"
"Not even close. I have to get the tossing bouquet, help out with the cake service. Then there's the bubbles, which we hope to do outside. In an hour, we'll start breaking down the Grand Hall, boxing centerpieces and arrangements."
Her voice went a little thick, a little sleepy when he kneaded her neck. "Um . . . Loading up those, and the gifts. Loading up the outdoor arrangements. We have an afternoon event tomorrow, so we'll break down the Ballroom, too."
He tortured himself, running his hands down her biceps, back up to her shoulders. "Then you should relax while you can."
"And you should be upstairs enjoying the party."
"I like it here."
"So do I, which makes you a bad influence with your wine and staircase massages. I have to get back up, relieve Laurel on patrol." She reached back, patted his hand before she rose. "Cake cutting in thirty."
He got to his feet as she started up. "What kind of cake?"
She stopped, turned, and ended up on level with him. Her eyes, those deep velvet eyes, looked sleepy to match her voice. "She's calling it her Parisian Spring. It's this gorgeous pale lavender blue covered with white roses, sprigs of lilac, with this soft milk chocolate ribboning and-"
"I was more about what's inside."
"Oh, it's her genoise with Italian meringue buttercream. You don't want to miss it."
"It may beat out the crème brûlée." She smelled like flowers. He couldn't say which ones. She was a mysterious and lush bouquet. Her eyes were dark and soft and deep, and her mouth . . . Wouldn't it taste every bit as rich as Laurel's cake?
The hell with it.
"Okay, this is probably out of line, so apologies in advance."
He took her shoulders again, eased her to him. Those dark, soft, deep eyes widened in surprise an instant before his lips took hers.
She didn't jerk away, or laugh it off as a joke. Instead she made the same sort of sound she had when he'd rubbed her neck-just a little breathier.
Her hands clamped on his hips, and those luscious lips of hers parted.
Like her scent, her flavor was mysterious and essentially female. Dark and warm and sensual. When her hands moved up his back, he took more. Just a little more.
Then he changed angles, took more still, and pleasure hummed in her throat.
He thought of just snatching her up, carrying her off to whatever dark room he could find to finish what a moment of impulse had begun.
The beeper at her waist sounded, and both of them jolted. She made a strangled sound, then managed, "Oh. Well." In a jerky move she unclipped the beeper, stared at it. "Parker. Um. I have to go. I have to . . . go," she said, then turned and bolted up the stairs.
Alone, he lowered to the stairs again and finished off his neglected wine in two long gulps. He decided he'd skip the rest of the reception, and take a long walk outside instead.