Christmas in the Billionaire's Bed. Janice Maynard

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Five

      By the time Aidan picked up the prescription and made it back to Emma’s place, almost two hours had passed. He had taken her key with him, so he let himself in quietly and placed his packages on the table. Peeking into the bedroom, he saw that she still slept.

      The extra rest was good for her. And besides, the sooner she was stable, the sooner he could leave.

      He shoved the carryout bags he had picked up into the fridge. The greasy burgers and fries came from a mom-and-pop joint down the street. The Silver Shake Shack had been there since he was a kid. While Emma had converted Aidan to drinking proper English tea, he had been the one to teach her the joys of comfort food.

      His immediate mission accomplished, he sprawled in the chair again and scrolled through his email. No big surprises there. Except for the one from his mother that said: Dinner at eight. S.B. dining room. Don’t make me hunt you down.

      He laughed softly, knowing that had been her intention. Everyone wanted Aidan to be in a good mood. To be happy. He understood their concern, but he was fine. He was here, wasn’t he? They couldn’t expect more than that.

      Evidently the smell of his lunch offering permeated the apartment. Emma wandered out of her room wearing stretchy black knit pants and a hip-length cashmere sweater. She had done her hair up in a ponytail, and wore bunny slippers on her feet.

      She gave him a diffident smile. “Hey.”

      “Hey, yourself. Doing any better?”

      “Actually, yes. Was that food I smelled?”

      “Some of the best. I put it in the fridge, but it hasn’t been there long. We can zap it in the microwave. Are you hungry now?’

      She nodded, heading for her small dining table. Her gait was halting, so he knew her leg was bothering her.

      While Emma sat and rested her head in her hands, he managed to rustle up paper plates and condiments. “I ordered you one with mustard, mayo and tomato. I hope that’s still the way you like it.”

      Her expression guarded, she nodded. “Sounds lovely.”

      The silent meal was half-awkward, half-familiar. Emma had changed very little over the years, though he did see a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes. She had always been more serious than he was, conscientious to a fault. The one thing he couldn’t help noticing was that her breasts had filled out. The soft sweater emphasized them and her narrow waist.

      When the food was gone, down to the last crumb, he cleared the table. “Do you feel like sitting up for a little while? I’ll give you the seat by the fire.”

      “That would be nice.”

      So polite. Like a little girl minding her manners. Swallowing his irritation at her meekness, he hovered as she made her way across the room. He wouldn’t touch her unless she showed signs of being lightheaded. When she was settled, he stood in the center of the room, hands in his pockets. “If you have an extra key,” he said, “I can check on you later and you won’t have to get up to answer the door. I have dinner plans, but I’ll bring you something hot to eat before I go.”

      Staring into the fire, she nodded. Her profile, silhouetted against the flames, had the purity of an angel’s. He felt something in his chest wrench and pull. The shaft of pain took his breath away. That wouldn’t do. Not at all. He was way past dancing to Emma Braithwaite’s tune.

      He made a show of glancing at his watch. “Will you be okay for the afternoon on your own?”

      “Of course.” Her chin lifted with all the haughtiness of a duchess.

      For all he knew, she might actually be a duchess. He hadn’t kept up with the details of her life. Anything was possible.

      She pointed. “The spare key is in the top drawer of that desk by the window. I think it’s tied to a bit of green ribbon.”

      He rummaged as directed and found what he was looking for. As he pushed everything back into place, his gaze landed on a familiar-looking piece of paper. When he recognized what it was, he felt a mule-kick to the chest. “Emma?”

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