Bed of Roses (Bride Quartet #2)(90)

"He could; he's an efficient sort." Jack paused to approve the label on the bottle presented to him. "The lady will taste."

As the uncorking ritual began, Jack leaned closer to Emma. "And there, our beloved Mackensie, unaware, trusting, slaving away. Could the seemingly innocent and affable Carter Maguire have these shameful secrets? I had to know."

"You put on a disguise and followed him to the house?"

"Considered and rejected." He waited while the sommelier poured a taste of the champagne into Emma's flute. She sipped, paused, then sent the man a smile that melted the dignified ice. "It's wonderful. Thank you."

"A pleasure, mademoiselle." He poured the rest expertly. "I hope you'll enjoy every sip. Monsieur." He replaced the bottle in its bucket, bowed away.

"All right, how did you solve the mystery of Carter?"

"Give me a minute, I lost my train with the spillover dazzle. Oh yeah, my method was ingenious. I asked him."

"Diabolical."

"He's writing a book. Which, you already knew," Jack concluded.

"I see them every day, or nearly. Mac told me, but your method was a lot more fun. He's been writing it on and off for years, when he can squeeze in the time. Mac gave him a nudge to work on it this summer instead of teaching summer classes. I think he's good."

"You've read it?"

"Not what he's working on, but he's had some short stories and essays published."

"He has? He's never mentioned it. Another mystery of Carter."

"I don't think you ever learn everything about anyone, no matter how long you know them, or how well. There's always another pocket somewhere." 

"I guess we're proof of that."

Her eyes smiled and warmed as she took another sip of champagne. "I guess we are."





"THE WAITERS AREN'T SNOOTY ENOUGH. YOU'VE CHARMED THEM so they want to please you."

Emma took a scant spoonful of the chocolate souffle she'd asked to share. "I believe they achieved the perfect level of snoot." She slipped the souffle between her lips. Her quiet moan spoke volumes. "This is every bit as good as Laurel's, and hers is the best I've ever tasted."

"Tasted is the operative word. Why don't you actually eat it?"

"I'm savoring." She scooped up another smidgen. "We did have five courses." She sighed over her coffee. "I feel like I've had a little trip to Paris."

He traced his finger over the back of her hand. She never wore rings, he thought. Because of her work, and because she didn't want to draw attention to her hands.

Odd he felt they were one of the most compelling aspects of her.

"Have you been?"

"To Paris?" She savored another stingy bite of souffle. "Once when I was too young to remember, but there's a picture of Mama pushing me in my stroller down the Champs-Élysées. I went again when I was thirteen, with Parker and her parents, Laurel and Mac and Del. At the last minute Linda said Mac couldn't go, over some slight or infraction. It was awful. But Parker's mom went over and fixed it. She'd never say how. We had the best time. A few days in Paris then two amazing weeks in Provence."

She allowed herself another spoonful. "Have you?"

"A couple times. Del and I did the backpack through Europe thing the summer of our junior year in college. That was an experience."

"Oh, I remember. All the postcards and pictures, the funny e-mails from cyber cafes. We were going to do it, the four of us. But when the Browns died . . . It was too much, and so many things to deal with. And Parker channeled everything into putting together a business model for Vows. We just never got around to it."

She sat back. "I really can't eat another bite."

He signaled for the check. "Show me one of your pockets."

"My pockets?"

"One of those things I don't know about you."

"Oh." Laughing, she sipped her coffee. "Hmm, let's see. I know. You may not be aware that I was the Fairfield County Spelling Bee Champion."

"Get out. Really?"

"Yes, I was. In fact, I went all the way to the state competition, where I was this close . . ." She held up her thumb and finger, a fraction apart. "This close to winning, when I was eliminated."

"What was the word?"

"Autocephalous."

His eyes slitted. "Is that a real word?"

"From the Greek, meaning being independent of external authority, particularly patriarchal." She spelled it out. "Except under pressure, I spelled it with an e for the second a, and that was that. I remain, however, a killer at Scrabble."

"I'm better at math," he told her.