The Perfect Wife

Chapter 1

 CHAPTER ONE

Emma was good at pretending. Such as pretending to listen to whatever gibberish Mrs. Bleached Hair Barbie, aka Edie Hamilton was spouting; who had the misfortune, or fortune, depending how one looked at it, to be married to Mr. Rich Pervert. And because Mr. Rich Pervert was a very wealthy business partner of Emma's father, she kept the smile pasted to her face, punctuated with the polite nods and appropriate comments. Her mother, a stickler for etiquette, would have been proud. Not once did Emma roll her eyes. Inwardly, she did. She wanted to high tail it out of the party, with her ridiculously high-heeled shoes. Mundanely, she wondered how Cinderella lasted hours dancing on glass slippers. She had a sneaking suspicion the poor fairy tale princess intentionally meant to ditch, not one but both shoes.

Trying to stay focused with her problem at hand, which was how to politely extricate herself from her father's mind numbingly boring party guests, she used her best practiced smile, then said to no one in particular, "Excuse me, I think my father needs me." An outright lie, because John Westland was nowhere in sight. With just a nod of her botoxed to the brim head, Edie continued to regale the other guests how tragic it was that their apartment in Paris wouldn't be ready in time for some big fashion event. Emma could have sworn Edie would have fake cried if she could move her muscles.

Emma walked away, disgusted at the ridiculous display of wealth and frivolousness. Ignoring two hundred of her father's closest friends, she weaved her way toward the outdoor terrace. A few people milled around, enjoying the ocean breeze. Although most of them knew her, no one approached Emma. She couldn't blame them. She wasn't exactly known for her titillating conversations or her irresistible charm. Instead, she moved to an empty, dark corner of the terrace. She clutched the railing, and leaned against it. Closing her eyes, she tried to mentally shake off the tension from her body.

"A penny for them?"

She whipped at the sound of the voice spoken behind her.

Stefano Costas, one of her father's many business associates. Emma held her breath, trying to steady herself. He moved closer to her. Too close. His hand brushed against her hair, turning his palm toward her, he flipped his hand and produced a coin.

She smiled in spite of herself and took the quarter from him. "Adjusted for inflation?"

"Your thoughts are worth more than that," he said smooth as silk.

Emma laughed, probably the first time in many days. "Do those lines actually work?"

"Most of the time, they do." Stefano smiled back, not the least embarrassed at Emma brushing his not too subtle compliment.

"I bet it does." She shook her head, half perplexed at the women who fell for men and their empty compliments. Or perhaps not, when the compliment came from someone like Stefano. "Where did you learn that trick?"

He moved to stand beside her, his back pressed against the railing. "From a friend, when I was five."

"You mean you weren't born thirty, chasing women, and making money?"

"You wound me, Emma." He gave her a mock frown.

"As if I could."

"Oh, you could. Very easily."

She tilted her head to look at him. He wasn't handsome by any means. At least, not to Emma. Far from it. His cheekbones were too high, a bit too prominent which made his features look harsh. His nose was almost hawkish but then there were his eyes. The clear glassy green that reminded her of the northern lights made up for the severity of his features. Although there were lines around his eyes that betrayed all of his thirty years, and then some, there was a lightness to him, a pleasant demeanor that made his company tolerable to Emma. Unlike others'. "You're wasting all that famous Costas charm on me."