Chapter Twenty-Three
Asher
At six the next evening, I pulled up to Emma’s place and parked in the short driveway. The cute cottage suited her. I knocked on the door, and it was immediately opened. My mouth dropped open, and I almost forgot to breathe.
“You look…” My mind shorted out. I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. “Fantastic, incredible.”
This vision was way, waaaaaay more than that. I was struck stupid.
Emma’s brown hair had been styled in what my sister called an up-do and pulled back from her face.
The stray soft curls at her neck and around her ears seemed to dance in the draft through the open door.
Her diamond studs flashed in the ambient light.
The gown. Yeah. Perfection. Silver scrollwork and beading on a bodice that looked more like a corset and framed her full breasts perfectly.
The black skirt was made of some kind of fabric that flowed over her curves and moved with her in a way that made my mouth water.
“Thank you. You look very handsome.”
“I’ve been told I clean up well.” I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Lust, desire, and heat roared through my body.
How unfair was that? We were going to an event where her parents would be, and all I wanted to do was strip that dress off and ravish her.
I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that I was wearing a double breasted jacket.
“That makes two of us.” She reached behind her and picked up a small black purse along with a shawl. “I’m ready.” She stepped outside, pulled the door shut, and locked it.
I held my arm out to her. “May I?”
She slipped her arm through mine. “Yes. These heels may not be high, but I’m a little unsteady in them.”
As I helped her into the car and watched her gather the skirt and arrange it over her legs, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for choosing the Beemer instead of the SUV.
Unsteady? Her movements were fluid, graceful, and her dress accentuated them perfectly.
Until tonight, it’d never occurred to me that a woman could make getting into a car look like foreplay.
Well, Ash, now you know.
We hit a little bit of traffic, and it was after seven when we arrived.
The uniformed guard at the gate checked our names against what was probably a guest list on his pad, opened the gate and motioned for us to go on.
The drive was at least a quarter mile, bordered by a perfectly groomed lawn, old growth hardwood trees, and flowering shrubs.
I didn’t see the house until I was almost on it.
I pulled into the circular driveway and whistled.
With the gate, long drive, and incredible grounds, I probably should’ve anticipated the house.
Mansion? No, mansion didn’t quite do it justice.
Maybe the only slightly smaller and a little more conservative cousin to The Biltmore. Yep, The Biltmore.
“Whoa! This place takes 9-figure real estate to a whole new level.”
“Yep.” Emma sounded sad.
I reached for her hand, squeezing gently. “I’ve got you.”
A valet—of course—stepped up to the car and opened the door. “Good evening, sir, ma’am. Name please.”
“Donahue.” I handed the valet the fob as I got out of the car, even more sure I’d made the right choice to use the Beemer.
“Donahue,” the valet repeated as he wrote it on a ticket, accepted the fob, and handed me the stub. “Please go on up.”
I walked around the car and cupped Emma’s elbow. We climbed the elegant granite steps and were met at the top by two people with pads who were dressed like Secret Service agents. I didn’t miss the bulge just under each one’s left arm. Umm…yeah… “Invitation, please.”
Emma pulled up her invitation on her phone. “Thank you, Ms. Palmer, and your guest?”
“Asher Donahue,” Emma said softly.
The man typed on the device. “Thank you. Please, enjoy.”
I guided Emma inside. No metal detectors, but there were two more of the Secret Service types standing on either side of the entryway.
We barely had time to make our way to the middle of the foyer when an older woman rushed over, arms extended.
She was wearing an elegant, obviously custom made evening gown, not a single snow-white hair out of place, jewelry that, while minimal—necklace, bracelet and earrings—was definitely of the Harry Winston variety and probably cost more than my house.
In a voice that was as refined as the woman herself, she cupped Emma’s shoulders.
“Emelina.”