Chapter 3

Three

Moore

One week later

I strode purposely across the old oak floor, passing desks full of busy workers. Two of my assistants trailed behind and peppered me with questions along the way. Emerson Holdings catered to most of the Fifth Avenue families, our fingerprints all over the wealth accumulated in this city. The Knickerbockers entrusted me with their meager stockpiles of cash that I turned into massive holdings for generations to come. Exactly as my father had.

As I approached my office, Mrs. Williams, my secretary, shot to her feet, hands wringing. Never had I seen her so flustered. The woman served as a Union spy in '64, for god's sake.

I stopped by her desk. "What is it?"

"Sir, there is a woman. Inside your office. I tried to stop her . . . ."

A woman? My mother would rather travel to Brooklyn than come here. And no one else would dare enter my office without my approval. "Who is it?"

"She wouldn't give me her name, Mr. Emerson. But some of the boys in the office seemed to recognize her, I think. They were whispering something fierce as she walked over from the elevator."

Irritation pulled at my muscles. "I'll see to it. Thank you, Mrs. Williams. In the meantime, we have several cables to send." I motioned to my assistants and instructed them to confer with my secretary.

Then I threw open my office door, ready to battle—and stopped in my tracks.

Rose .

Rose O'Donahue, in my office. Here, at Emerson Holdings. Sitting boldly in a chair, every bit as beautiful as I remembered.

Fuck.

Her glorious red hair was tucked under a simple hat, her wide smile a siren's call to each filthy thought in my head. No cosmetics, so her pale fresh skin practically glowed with youth. Forbidden, practically a babe, yet I couldn't tear my eyes off her.

Ignoring the jolt of heat that settled in my groin, I closed the door behind me. Thoughts of turning the lock went through my head, but the indignity of it wasn't to be considered. This was not that sort of meeting.

"Miss O'Donahue," I said mildly, attempting to quell the riot in my bloodstream. "I believe I made myself clear during our last exchange."

"Hello, Moore. You haven't been at the theater all week. I grew alarmed."

I strode toward my desk and sat behind it, the expanse of wood a much-needed fortification. "As you can see, I am perfectly well. You may return to your business."

"I don't think so," was her answer as she removed her gloves. Then she reached to the floor and produced a wicker basket. "Have you eaten? I'm famished."

Eaten? Basket? What in the goddamned hell?

I tapped my fingers on the century-old oak desk that once belonged to my great-great-grandfather. "Miss O'Donahue, I insist that you leave. This is highly inappropriate."

"I knew you would say as much." She reached inside the basket and produced a neatly wrapped parcel, which she set on the desk. Then she rummaged in the recesses of the wicker again. "You see, I feel it is only fair to linger at your place of business, considering that you lingered at mine for over three weeks."

Was she daft? "It's hardly the same. Yours was a public performance for which I purchased a ticket."

Another parcel. Then a tea cup. "This is a publicly traded company, for which I have recently purchased one share of stock. I am now your shareholder, Mr. Alfred Moore Emerson III. Is this how you treat your shareholders?"

"If they arrived unannounced? I'd have them tossed."

"Then toss me." She peeked at me through her long lashes and placed another tea cup on my desk. "But I won't go quietly."

"This is blackmail." I scowled at her. "And unless you have a kettle and gas stove in there, we won't be having tea together."

With a dramatic sweep of her arm, she produced a bottle of wine. "I much prefer wine, don't you?"

Drinking wine? With a famous young actress in the middle of the day? I could only imagine what my staff would say, if it were discovered. Her presence here was bad enough. "No wine. And I don't have time for visits."

"That is probably true," she said as she uncorked the wine. "You see, I've learned quite a bit about you in seven days' time."

A pit of uneasiness bloomed in my stomach. No doubt she'd heard the worst, as the disgrace attached to my name never quite dissipated. "Good. Then you know all the reasons you should leave."

"Do you think your past scares me?"

"It should."

"Your wife divorced you for infidelity. That is hardly first-degree murder, Moore."

"In some circles of Fifth Avenue, murder would be far more acceptable," I said dryly.

She poured a splash of red wine into each tea cup. "Were you unfaithful?"

I hardly ever talked about my failed marriage. It was a subject best avoided for my peace of mind. Which didn't explain why I said, "No, but?—"

I closed my mouth.

When I didn't finish, Rose pushed a tea cup of wine across the desk to me. "But a divorce cannot be granted in New York without a claim of infidelity on one spouse's part. So you fell on that particular sword. Have I gotten it right?"

Yes, she had.

Needing to wash the surprise and embarrassment from my mouth, I reached for the tea cup. After a long swallow of wine, I stared down my nose at her. "Why are you here, Rose?"

She cradled her tea cup in both hands. "Curiosity. After our meeting in the carriage, I couldn't help but wonder about you."As she sipped, she kept her green eyes fixed on me across the porcelain rim in a clear challenge. "Aren't you curious, Moore?"

The meaning behind her words couldn't be clearer, and my heart began pounding an unsteady rhythm.

God, yes, I was curious. Too curious.

But I was also too old.

There was a group of men, all members of a certain gentlemen's club, who engaged in improper activities with young women, girls really, and I found it utterly deplorable. Though Rose was nineteen, not fifteen or sixteen, our circumstances weren't much different, considering I was almost twenty years her senior.

"It hardly matters," I forced out. "I never intended to pursue a friendship with you. I was content to watch you from afar, in my seat. Nothing more."

"And yet here we are, sharing a drink together in your office."

I set my tea cup on the desk with a decisive thump. "You've had your fun. It's time to go."

"Interesting choice of words, Moore. Because I hear that is the one thing sorely lacking in your life: fun ."

I bristled. Did she believe me to be sexless? A eunuch? That I stalked the aisles of Broadway theaters because I couldn't find a woman elsewhere?

If so, she needed to be disillusioned immediately. And perhaps if I spoke plainly enough, crudely enough, then the truth would scare her into leaving.

I sat forward, my voice low and harsh. "Do you think I'm incapable of finding a woman? That I'm not presented with a willing pussy every time I walk around this city? If so, then let me assure you that within minutes I can step outside these doors and bury my cock inside a woman. I hardly need a girl half my age offering me a pity fuck to bolster my confidence."

She said nothing, leaving me to assume my words had the desired effect in shocking her.

But then her lips parted and her breathing picked up. There was a slight tremble to her hands and her eyes were considerably darker. She shifted in her chair.

Oh, Christ. Had I aroused her?

It seemed incomprehensible. Improbable. Inconceivable. My thoughts scrambled, and the words capable of cleaning up such a debacle caught in my throat.

Breaking our stare, Rose set her tea cup on the desk very carefully. Then she stood up—and my muscles relaxed. Excellent. She was leaving, then.

I nearly exhaled in relief. At least, I assumed this feeling coursing through me was relief. Because anything else was unacceptable.

Except she didn't walk in the direction of the door.

Instead, she wound her way around the desk and came toward me, causing every part of me to tighten again. What was she about? I couldn't move, my body frozen in place, the air growing thick with each of her steps. A surge of longing tightened every muscle in my body as she drew near.

Please, no. I am not strong enough for this.

She made her way to my side, the gentle rustle of skirts increasing in volume until they stopped altogether. I was hyper-aware of her proximity and the simple task of breathing eluded me, while my skin crawled with a hunger I barely understood. I was a watch spring, pulled taut, my insides spinning and twisting with both dread and anticipation.

One hand came to rest on my desk and the other slid onto the back of my chair. She leaned in and the sweet smell of her enveloped me—roses, naturally. I held the scent in my lungs, and my fingers dug into the armrests of my chair as if I were a sailor clinging to a rope in a typhoon. I was afraid to let go of the wood for fear I would do something idiotic.

She angled closer and I could feel her warm breath on my cheek. "It would not be pity, Mr. Emerson," she whispered in my ear. "Not even close."

I was out of my chair without even realizing it, lunging at her. My hands captured her face and I held her there, our eyes locked together. "Why are you doing this?" I rasped, one last valiant attempt at sanity.

"Because I haven't been so drawn to a man before. I have to know what it would be like." And she eased forward to close the distance between us, her mouth sealing to mine.

The first touch of her lips was awkward, but magnificent. Soft yet firm, the plump edges brushed over mine, moving gently, and I savored each sweep and press. I savored her like a drunk with his last sip of wine, memorizing every detail.

Unable to help myself, I began kissing her back. There was only pure instinct, the need to get as close to her as possible. She moaned into my mouth, and I'd never heard a sweeter sound in all my days. When her fingers slid into my hair, clutching, I wrapped one arm around her back, securing her.

Yet it wasn't enough.

I pushed her lips wide with my tongue, invading to find hers. She was wet and warm and— Christ —so eager that it turned my cock stiff as stone. There was no shyness, no hesitation. No concern for the fact that we were in my office in the middle of the day, almost twenty years between us. There were only panting breaths and tiny gasps as our tongues dueled for dominance.

For a man accustomed to numbers, I had no idea how many seconds or minutes passed. I only knew I wasn't ready for this to end. Flares of desire raced through my blood, my balls growing heavy with my need for her. I wanted to lick her creamy skin, bite the heavy mounds of her breasts. I longed to undress her and discover all of her soft secrets right here with little thought to the consequences.

Madness. Utter madness.

Immoral .

Adulterer .

Scoundrel .

I broke off and tried to catch my breath, as well as my rapidly dwindling sanity. Despite what the newspapers said about me during the divorce proceedings, I did possess scruples.

But then I saw the lust-drunk expression on Rose's face, her bee-stung lips. Green eyes that pleaded for me to keep going. And I paused, indecision gnawing at me.

Damn it. Pull yourself together, man.

"Moore?" she asked, confused, and the sound of my name in her low, husky tone was my undoing.

I was lost. Defenseless to her charms because I wanted her too badly. So many nights I'd watched her, wondered about her, about us . Wondered what I would do if I ever had her alone.

And now I did.

I wasn't about to squander this opportunity.

My fingers pressed into her skin, holding her tight. "Do you truly wish to know what it would be like?"

Her eyes cut to the room around us. "Here?"

"It's your one chance, Rose."

"Then absolutely. Yes," she breathed, no hesitation whatsoever.

"Clever girl. Now, climb onto my desk," I ordered. "And lift your skirts."