An Enchanted Spring: Mists of Fate - Book Two Read online

  “What?!”

  “Trust me, Emma. Keep it simple, right?”

  Emma smiled a little. That was her mantra for her clients—keep it simple. Simple press releases, simple statements, simple truths—or lies, as the case warranted.

  If only real life worked like that.

  “Good night, Josh. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Six thirty, Emma.”

  Emma hung up, morose. Work always came first; everyone always needed something from her. But that was how her world worked—she gave, everyone took, and she was paid for it. Emma squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she didn’t need anything else from anyone. She had herself, and that was enough. It had been that way for years before Ben, and she was committed to being that way for years to come. She had her job, her health, and her true passion.

  When Emma was small, maybe seven or eight, her father had given her a giant toy castle. It was enormous, one of the spectacular dollhouses they sold in department stores, and it sparked her imagination like no other toy. Her mother gave her a tiny princess doll, and an entire garrison of knights to protect it. Emma usually made the princess rescue the knights, which made her mother laugh. The tinkling sound was full of joy; she always said how proud she was that her daughter was willing to save herself from any evil princes.

  It was Emma’s clearest memory from her childhood, aside from the day her teacher led her into the principal’s office, where a police officer told her that her parents had been killed in a car accident.

  When the time came for her to move into her grandparents’ house, she left the castle and the toys behind.

  But in college, something propelled her to take a medieval studies class, and in it, she found peace and a rediscovered love of knights in shining armor, which led to a major in Medieval Thought and Antiquities. It was her passion, and even though her job was demanding, she made time every month to write an article or two for various obscure publications. Articles that she told no one about, and even wrote under a pseudonym. It was her last shred of that girlhood dream, and she didn’t want reality to ever intrude.

  She blinked back the prick of tears. Her reality was anything but valiant knights. No, hers only included the evil prince. She was grateful her mother wasn’t alive to see what a failure she’d become.

  Emma shook herself from the direction of her thoughts, refusing to start a pity party that would no doubt have her reaching for another bottle of wine. She couldn’t go down that path, not when she had an important meeting in the morning about some hotshot client. She looked up at the sky, wishing she could see the stars, but in the city, all she ever saw was the kind of star who demanded more and more of her.

  Her phone buzzed with a text from Josh, reminding her to take the aspirin. Emma headed inside the empty apartment, trying to ignore the loneliness that threatened to overwhelm her.

  • • •

  “Ms. Perkins.” Paul Price clasped his hands tightly in front of his protruding belly. Although she tried to avoid looking directly at it, Emma always found herself staring at his shirt, her eyes locked on the bottom button as it strained against the hole. She wondered, if it did pop off, whether she’d have to dodge left or right.

  Mr. Price cleared his throat, and Emma’s eyes snapped up to his. Caught. She mentally chastised herself and resolved to pay better attention.

  “You’re certain there’s no prior connection to this client?” Mr. Price asked.

  Emma slid a glance to the clock that hung on the wall behind Josh, who was also forced to sit through this meeting. It was barely past eight a.m. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out before asking for coffee.

  She carefully folded her hands in front of her and rested them on the polished mahogany conference table in the center of his cavernous office. “Mr. Price, I promise, I have never heard of Aidan MacWilliam. I don’t understand why he called you on your personal phone, nor why he’s refusing to work with any other publicist but me.”

  Emma had to admit, she herself was curious as to why Mr. MacWilliam sought her services. On paper, she was just like all the other midlevel publicists at the company. While she did have a growing list of well-known clients, she knew she wasn’t yet at the level where the elite people of the world would seek her out. And, glancing at the file in front of her again, Aidan MacWilliam seemed to fit into that category.

  “Perhaps he knows your work,” Mr. Price concluded, interrupting her thoughts.

  Emma doubted it, but didn’t say it aloud. Publicly, her name wasn’t attached to anyone—clients rarely told each other about a great publicity manager, for fear the attention would be taken from them and placed onto the newer, bigger client. Plus, according to Mr. Price, this client was from Ireland. Price Publicity, LLC’s entire client base was mostly American, with some Asian companies.

  Mr. Price heaved a great sigh, as though he had finally thought his last thought on the subject, but ruined the effect when he added, “MacWilliam wants you. He stated very clearly that his situation is a private one, and that he wouldn’t discuss it with anyone but you. So.” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “You’ll accept him as your new client, but I want daily updates as to what he wants, how you’re going to provide it to him, and how we can use this to promote the company in the public eye.” He dismissed them both with a wave of his hand, and Emma quickly followed Josh out of the intimidating office.

  In the kitchen area, as she stirred the sugar into her cup of coffee, Emma leveled a stare at Josh. “So you’re telling me that this guy—MacWilliam—calls up the biggest publicity name in New York City on his home phone and simply demands that he wants me as his PR manager?” She tilted her head skeptically.

  Josh casually leaned against the counter, sipping his own cup. “You heard Price. MacWilliam is a wealthy, reclusive man.” He picked up the folder and pulled out the dossier. “He wants what he wants, when he wants it—not unlike the majority of our clients. Hmm. No online presence, no paper trails, no reputation smears, not even an angry ex.” He looked at her soberly. “After what happened with Kincaid, this should be a walk in the park. Maybe it’s just what you need to get your mojo back.”

  Emma blinked back the sudden prick of tears, humiliation swamping her; Josh was the only one who knew of her situation, as she’d put the paperwork in months ago to be removed from the Kincaid account. “I’m sorry. My personal life shouldn’t affect my professional one.”

  Josh smiled sympathetically. “I know you’re suffering. A broken heart is—”

  Emma threw her hand up. “Whoa. Let’s get one thing straight. I am not brokenhearted over losing that cheating, lying jackass. Absolutely not. I’m upset that I didn’t see it coming. But I am not upset that I am free from a loveless waste of a relationship.”

  Josh blinked. “Okay then.”

  “Now. Back to MacWilliam. You agree that this doesn’t add up, right?”

  “There are plenty of eccentric folks out there,” Josh replied, clearly relieved that her outburst was over. “And he specifically requested that you be the one to assist him. And, as you know, the wealthiest clients get what they want. We deliver it.”

  “So you want me to meet with him tonight, take him to dinner, see what this is all about?”

  Josh shook his head. “No. Well, maybe. First, you’ll meet with him here, this afternoon. I want him to be well aware that we have a face to his name. Safety first.”

  Josh was a good guy, and he was always ensuring his team’s security. No one could have meetings outside the office without documenting them first—and in such a large city, Emma was grateful for it.

  Josh continued to pore over the paper in front of him. “Oh. Here’s something. Looks like he plans to check out the auction that we’re handling.”

  Christie’s was having a special auction that the publicity firm had been hired to promote. A collection of pristine, rare, and expensive medieval artifacts had been placed for auction by an anonymous source, an
d it promised to be one of the most glamorous events of the year in New York City. Tickets just for the chance to view the artifacts were priced in the thousands. Emma was dying to see pictures, but all items and descriptions were under lock and key. No one was allowed a sneak peek until twenty-four hours prior to the event. And even then, you had to present a cashier’s check in excess of ten thousand dollars at the auction house for access to the artifacts.

  She wouldn’t be seeing those anytime soon.

  “Emma!”

  “Sorry,” she replied automatically, once again caught lost in her thoughts.

  Josh sighed. “You need to shake this funk. Maybe MacWilliam is the client to do that.”

  “Well,” Emma capitulated with a small smile, taking the folder labeled Aidan MacWilliam from his outstretched hand. “I don’t have any Irish clients.”

  “You do now.”

  • • •

  Emma straightened her skirt and smoothed her hair. Mr. MacWilliam was waiting for her in Mr. Price’s office.

  “Dibs,” Heinous Heidi murmured as Emma passed by her cube.

  Emma paused despite her better judgment. “Excuse me?”

  Heidi smirked. “After Mr. MacWilliam meets you and realizes his mistake, I call dibs on his account. Price already signed off.”

  Two interns popped their heads up from their cubes.

  “Holy hell, Emma. Did you see him? I know we get lookers in here all the time…but whoa.”

  “He is so unbelievably hot!” the other chimed in breathlessly.

  “Down, girls,” Emma replied with a slight smile. Her expression became frosty as she turned back to Heidi. “Looks like you’ll have to fight for him.”

  Heidi gracefully crossed her endless legs and sat back slightly, giving Emma a perfect view straight into perfect cleavage. She gave Emma a Cheshire Cat smile and almost purred when she replied, “Oh, Emma. I don’t fight for men. They fight for me. I’m sure you can relate…oh. That’s right. You’ve never had anyone fight for you. In fact, if memory serves, you don’t have anyone anymore.” She snickered.

  Emma felt the blow exactly where Heidi wanted it to land, but she struggled not to let it show.

  Intern One’s eyes were enormous, and she slunk back down to her desk, but Intern Two seemed not to realize the viper’s den into which she was staring. Heidi glanced up at her and raised an imperial, elegantly threaded brow. “Get me a grande cafe mocha, no sugar, no whipped cream, extra dry, with half skim, half 2 percent milk. Extra hot. Now, Thing Two.”

  The girl scrambled off her chair amid loud crashes and a few gasps as she rushed to do Heidi’s bidding. Heidi gave a last look to Emma before turning around, effectively dismissing her.

  Emma bit her tongue, her ears steaming, and continued on. No matter how many times she told herself she was a better person than Heidi, it really didn’t matter. When you sleep with the boss, you get the best contracts. And Emma refused to sleep with her boss.

  At least she doesn’t have a corner office, Emma consoled herself. Heidi’s cube was just as small as her own.

  Gayle, Mr. Price’s sixty-something personal assistant, gave her a wink as Emma approached the office. “The heavens are smiling on you today,” she whispered as she pressed a button. Mr. Price’s door unlocked, and Gayle waved her in. “If you do nothing else today, enjoy that eye candy. We’re all jealous you get to spend time with him in close quarters!”

  Emma’s mouth dropped open. Where had all the professionalism of the world gone? First the interns, now Gayle? Well, on second thought…the interns were college girls. Emma expected that kind of behavior from them. But Gayle? She was a grandmother, for heaven’s sake! Emma gave her a bemused look, then took a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, Emma breezed into Mr. Price’s office as though she met with high-profile clients on a daily basis.

  “Ms. Perkins?” The lovely accent changed her name to pair-kins, his deep voice resounding in her chest. She saw him sitting at the same table she spent her morning at, the view of Central Park in the distance behind him.

  And her mind went completely, utterly blank.

  Aidan MacWilliam stood with an easy grace, and her eyes went wide.

  The man was her darkest fantasy, all dressed up in a tailored Armani suit and tie. Searing green eyes, framed by unfairly dark lashes, stared back at her, and a slight smile played at the corners of his lips. His jaw and cheeks looked to be carved from granite—hard, smooth, perfect. His nose had a slight crook in it, as though it had been broken before. His shoulders were enormous; she dimly wondered if he played football. She simply stared up at him, her mouth dry, before realizing he was holding out his hand.

  She dumbly grasped it, her eyes refusing to blink as if they didn’t want to miss out on a second of the raw masculine beauty before her.

  “Hello,” she managed. “I’m Emmaline Perkins. From Price Publicity.”

  She mentally slapped herself. Of course she was from Price Publicity! They were standing in Mr. Price’s office, for crying out loud. Emma felt the heat creep up her neck; she wouldn’t blame him if he walked out, told Gayle he’d changed his mind due to her utter lack of intelligence and sweaty hands.

  Instead, he smiled at her, his white teeth flashing as her knees went weak. “Aidan MacWilliam. Pleasure, Ms. Perkins.” He raised her hand to his lips and, very chastely, kissed her knuckles.

  She swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure if it was the way he said her name, the way he kissed her hand, or the intoxicating combination of both.

  Apparently taking pity on her scattered wits, he waved her over to the table and waited for her to sit before folding himself into what had moments before appeared to be a normal-sized office chair. Now it resembled something closer to a child’s toy. He leaned back, crossed an ankle over a knee, and nodded to the large white binder sitting on the table in front of her.

  Emma glanced at it, then back at Mr. MacWilliam. It almost hurt to look at him. Gayle’s advice popped into her head—eye candy overload.

  “I’d like to get to know you a bit, see if we can work together,” he said.

  Emma’s brows knit. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from this meeting, but an interview was not it.

  He stood and offered her a bottle of water from the small cooler against the wall. She shook her head, and he helped himself to one. His lips wrapped around the opening of the bottle. When he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, Emma mentally shook herself out of her daze and bit the inside of her own lip, hard.

  Stop! she chastised herself. He is a client. And you are committed to being single for…she paused in her thinking, then mentally shrugged. You’re committed to being single for a while. Sure, he’s sexy, but he’d be a rebound.

  That was all this was—a healthy reaction to another male. A wave of relief washed over her. She could corral her rampaging hormones; all she needed to remember was that he was a client, nothing more.

  “Have you ever seen a léine?” he asked, returning to his seat.

  Emma blinked, thrown by the question. “As in an Irish kilt?” Whatever happened to questions like, “Tell me about a time you excelled”?

  He grinned. “I’ll forgive you that because you’re an American. For reference, the Irish don’t wear kilts; those would be the Scots.”

  She placed her elbows on the table and folded her hands together, her hackles rising. If there was one thing she was not, it was uneducated in Irish history. “I’m aware that the Irish do not wear kilts, Mr. MacWilliam. However, there is no word in the English language that would properly convey what a léine is, which is why I drew a comparison to something similarly worn by a well-known people.”

  His smile grew. “Duly noted. Language barriers are difficult. It would be easier if the world spoke in Gaelic.”

  She tried not to snort. “Gaelic is no cakewalk.”

  “Are you familiar with it?” he asked. In Gaelic.

  “A bit,” she replied, also in Gaelic.

  He raised a
brow, impressed. He reached down next to his chair and pulled a large leather satchel onto the table. Carefully, he withdrew a léine—holy moly, that looks authentic! she thought wildly—then slid it over to her.

  “Have you ever seen one of these, Ms. Perkins?” he asked again.

  Reverentially, she held the blue cloth in front of her. Silver threads shot through it in a checked pattern; the material was thick, soft, and warm. She carefully studied the thread and the weave, then stood and carefully shook it out. She spread it on the table, assessed, then turned it around and assessed again. It looked like a long tunic with flaps of fabric at the shoulders. She wrinkled her forehead in concentration; she couldn’t figure out how those pieces fit into the overall purpose of the garment.

  “I have, but only in pictures.” She met his eyes. “Do you know how this particular léine would’ve been worn?”

  Mr. MacWilliam watched her, his thumb and forefinger playing with his bottom lip as though he were deep in thought. Without answering, he stood and shed his jacket. He placed the léine over his head and wrapped the extra fabric around himself. The complicated knots he tied at the front and even the back puzzled her, but once she saw it on him she almost clapped with glee.

  That was most definitely a medieval style of dress.

  Aidan stood, completely at ease in a medieval piece of cloth and a modern-day suit. The dichotomy was jarring; if his hair were longer and he shed his trousers, Emma could almost picture him riding across a forest, low on horseback, sword strapped to his back…

  “It looks as though it’s from the 1400s, maybe the 1500s, I would guess,” she said without hesitation, erasing the image from her mind. She was a sucker for anything of medieval or Celtic history, and as such they were usually the subjects of her articles. Although it was nice to fantasize about it, college courses were about as close as she could—and wanted to—get to the Middle Ages.

  “Very impressive, Ms. Perkins,” Aidan said, approval written all over his features. “Mid-1400s.”