Chapter 4
M arcus
Gripping the edge of the table, I watch the little redhead fly out of the restaurant, her curvy ass swaying from side to side.
Even in the shapeless woolen coat, her small, lush figure is unmistakably feminine…
and bizarrely sexy. I’ve never particularly liked curvy women, but the moment Emma came up to me, my hormones shot into overdrive and my cock turned rock hard.
If I hadn’t been wearing a suit, it would’ve been downright embarrassing.
As it was, all of my social graces deserted me as soon as I laid eyes on her.
With her wild red curls and Salvation Army sense of style, Emma was so unlike the images in my mind—and so strangely appealing despite that fact—that I straight up told her she wasn’t what I’d expected.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back, but it was too late.
Her clear gray eyes narrowed, her rosebud mouth tightened, and her flame-bright hair seemed to puff up, each curl quivering with indignation.
Then she retorted that I looked different from my pictures, and things escalated from there.
I don’t remember the last time I’ve been less than polite with a woman, but with Emma, it was as if I’d turned into a caveman.
I all but ordered her to join me, going so far as to use my size to intimidate her into complying.
Why did Victoria send her to me—if she did, that is? Now that all the blood isn’t rushing to my groin, the redhead’s behavior strikes me as extremely odd. Her accusations and ramblings about cats make zero sense… unless there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.
Shit.
I slide out of the booth to follow the woman, but before I can take two steps, a tall, elegant brunette steps into my path. “Hi, Marcus,” she says with a cool, graceful smile. “I’m Emmeline Sommers. Sorry I’m late.”
Even before she says her name, I know who she is—and I know I fucked up big.
This is the woman Victoria was talking about, the one whose file I didn’t have a chance to download before getting called into an emergency meeting with my portfolio managers.
Victoria sent Emmeline’s pictures and bio to me this afternoon, and between the meeting and taking the subway to avoid rush-hour traffic, I showed up at the café completely unprepared—something I’d normally never do.
I figured it wasn’t a big deal—I’d just confess my unpreparedness to Emmeline, and we’d have a good time getting to know one another—but I didn’t count on a similarly named woman who, by some bizarre coincidence, must’ve also come to the café on a blind date with a guy who shares my name. What were the fucking odds of that ?
Staring at the brunette in front of me, I can’t believe I mistook Emma for her.
No two women could be more different. Emmeline is Princess Diana, Jackie Kennedy, and Gisele all rolled up into one stunning package.
I can easily picture her at the social functions and political events that are increasingly a part of my life.
She’d know which fork to use and how to make small talk with senators and waiters alike, while Emma…
Well, I can see her bouncing on my dick, and that’s about it.
Pushing the pornographic images out of my mind, I smile at the tall brunette. “No problem,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. “I only got here a few minutes ago myself. It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Emmeline’s fingers are long and slim, her skin cool and dry to the touch.
“Same here,” she says, squeezing my hand with just the right amount of pressure before gracefully lowering her arm.
“Thank you for coming all the way out here to meet with me. My sister is a student at the Brooklyn Conservatory of Music, so I’m staying in the area until my flight tomorrow morning. ”
“Of course. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” I say as we sit down at the table.
For the next few minutes, we make small talk and get to know one another.
I don’t say anything about the mix-up with Emma—I don’t need Emmeline thinking I’m a total idiot—but I do explain that I didn’t have a chance to review the file Victoria sent me.
As I’d hoped, Emmeline waves away my apologies, saying that it’s just as well that we can get to know each other without preconceived notions.
It’s obvious, however, that she’s gone through her file on me.
She knows everything about me, from my Wharton MBA to my current role as the head of one of the most successful hedge funds in New York City.
After we place our order with the waiter, I learn that Emmeline is thirty-one years old and a graduate of Harvard Law.
For the past three years, she’s headed a nonprofit foundation providing legal services for abused women and children.
She’s passionate about her work and spends over eighty hours a week on the foundation; it’s not just a hobby for her, though her family is wealthy enough that she could’ve done absolutely anything career-wise—or nothing.
“My great-great-grandfather made a fortune in railroads way back when,” she says, smiling.
“And my family has somehow managed to retain and grow it over the past century and a half. So yes, I’m one of those trust fund babies.
” Her smile holds a self-deprecating charm that softens the aristocratic lines of her face, and I find myself genuinely liking her.
Emmeline is the real deal, the woman I’ve been hoping to meet ever since I decided to set my sights on yet another marker of success: the ultimate trophy wife.
As the waiter brings out our food, we discuss everything from world events to the recent volatility in the market, and I find that Emmeline’s views closely align with my own.
She’s knowledgeable and thoughtful in her opinions, her legal training evident in her well-reasoned approach to most issues.
I enjoy listening to her, and she seems interested in what I have to say as well.
It also doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful to look at, in a sleek, thoroughbred kind of way. Her long-sleeved sweater dress is stylish without being trendy, her accessories are expensive but understated, and her smooth dark hair is cut in flattering layers around her perfectly oval face.
She’s a strikingly attractive woman, yet as I observe the graceful way she holds her fork, it suddenly dawns on me that I’m not attracted to her.
I like the way she looks, but it’s the same kind of appreciation I might have for a visually pleasing piece of art or sculpture—a purely intellectual pleasure that’s the complete opposite of my visceral reaction to the redhead.
No. Stop. Before my mind can travel further down that path, I force all thoughts of Emma away. Emmeline is the woman I’ve always wanted, and I can’t fuck it up by following the urgings of my suddenly unruly cock.
For a while, I succeed in focusing solely on Emmeline.
She’s a good conversationalist, and as we eat, we exchange amusing stories about school and work.
I tell her about the trader in my fund who wears orange sneakers as a good-luck charm, and she tells me about her sister’s penchant for dating long-haired hipster boys.
Midway through the meal, I have to excuse myself to take an important call from work, and she doesn’t bat an eye at that.
Nor does she look the least bit put off when I have to fire off a few urgent emails upon returning to the table.
It’s obvious she understands the demands of a high-pressure job like mine.
Still, I apologize, and she laughs it off, explaining that her father, a high-powered corporate attorney, hadn’t gotten through a single dinner during her childhood without a work emergency of some kind.
We chat about her family for a while—they’re all as successful as she is—and then we return to more serious topics, like the political climate and what it means for the global economy.
It’s when we’re in the middle of discussing the new mayor—whom Emmeline knows personally—that she glances at the corner of the booth and says, “Oh, look. Someone forgot a phone here.”
My pulse leaps with inexplicable excitement. “A phone?”
Emmeline nods and holds up a smartphone in a battered pink case. “I found it in the corner of the seat. Here, let me go give it to our waiter…” She moves to slide out of her seat, but before she can get up, I reach over and snatch the phone from her hand.
“No need.” I fight to keep my voice even as I pocket the device. “I know who this belongs to. There was a woman sitting here before us; it must’ve fallen out of her bag. I’ll make sure it gets back to her.”
“You will?” A frown creases Emmeline’s smooth brow. She’s confused by my behavior, and she’s not the only one.
“I’ll have my assistant take care of it,” I lie. “She’s good at stuff like that.” That last part is true—Lynette is highly resourceful—but there’s no way I’m getting her involved.
I want to return this phone personally. No, I need to return it. The urge is practically a compulsion. I have to see the redhead again—if only so I can confirm that my insane attraction to her was a fluke, and she’s not nearly as appealing as my dick remembers.
“Okay, if you’re sure…” Emmeline is still looking at me like I lost my mind, so I give her my most engaging smile and shift the conversation back to the mayor. My pulse is hammering with anticipation at the thought of tracking down Emma, but I’m not about to fuck things up with Emmeline.
Once I return this phone, Emma will be off my mind, and I’ll be able to focus on what I really want: a wife who’ll be as big of an achievement as the billions in my bank account.