An Enchanted Spring: Mists of Fate - Book Two Read Online Free PDF Page B

bring the temper down. I’ve got myself an important meeting, and I would appreciate it if you could turn on the charm. I know you have it in there somewhere.”
    “She best be a looker,” Cian grumbled.
    Surprised by the small jolt of possessiveness he felt, Aidan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Doesn’t matter much, mate.” They walked toward the nondescript gray sedan with a neon orange ticket on the windshield. “This is business, not pleasure.”
    Cian spat out an obscenity as he slid the ticket from under the wiper. “I’m in sore need of some pleasure.”
    Aidan rolled his eyes as he pulled open the door. “You can have your fun when we get home. Let’s get going already.”
    Cian started the car. “I’ve been waiting eight long years to get home. Another twenty seconds isn’t going to change anything.”
    Aidan pulled out some papers from his satchel. “It will if you don’t pay attention to the road. Drive on, Cian.”
    Cian’s sigh was deep, but he acquiesced. “Aye, my laird.”
    • • •
    At seven o’clock precisely, Aidan stepped into another world. He was damn proud of this restaurant; he had designed it himself and handpicked the chef from his home country. He hated all the fuss that went with opening a restaurant, so his chef, Paddy, took all the recognition. It was part of their agreement—Aidan remained a silent partner, fronting the money and vision while Paddy created the delicious fare and became the face of the establishment. Aidan preferred it that way. His privacy was worth much more than what the restaurant brought in.
    Gregory, the efficient (if stodgy) host, led him through the public dining room, which was anchored to the left of the entrance by a wall-to-wall hearth. The back of it was blackened with soot, and the logs inside it were charred. A stack of logs and peat moss leaned haphazardly against the surround, drawing the eye to the stonework on the walls that looked as though they had stood in place for hundreds of years. The arches that broke the space into clustered areas looked smooth from time instead of a builder’s tools. The tables were crammed together in typical New York style, and the patrons clamored to be heard over the sounds of the open kitchen and bartenders slinging drinks. It was stunning in its authenticity—and if there was anything Aidan was a full expert on, it was medieval taverns.
    Gregory led him through a heavy curtain, and when it fell closed behind him, the noise lessened considerably. Emma sat at the table, her golden hair piled atop her head in a haphazard knot, secured with two sticks that looked as though they’d be useful in a fight. Her face glowed in the candlelight, and her eyes brightened when she saw him.
    “Mr. MacWilliam, hello,” she said warmly, standing as he came closer. He took her hand again and kissed the back of her knuckles, careful to linger a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He caught her blush.
    “Thank you for meeting me here,” he said. He handed his jacket to Gregory and said, “We’ll have whatever the special is tonight. Send back a bottle of Jameson and one of pinot noir”—he looked to Emma, who nodded her assent—“then we’re not to be bothered except by Cian, who will tell the staff of any needs we may have.”
    “Very good, sir.” Gregory waited for Emma to sit, then fanned her napkin over her lap. Aidan waved him away, and as soon as the curtain dropped, she sat back and admired the room.
    “This is a beautiful restaurant,” Emma said, smoothing the napkin over her lap. She glanced closer at it, then held it up. “Look! This is the same design as the front door!”
    He’d been very specific in the creation of that door. The stained glass was thicker than regulation, and looked as though it had been pulled from the Book of Kells—intricately designed images surrounded a capital C . Throughout many of the details, smaller instances of the letter M were interwoven, with leaves