Читать книгу The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal - Karen Toller Whittenburg - Страница 12

Normally, Adam Braddock steered clear of The Torrid Tomato. The restaurant had found its niche market among the trendy young professionals who spilled from the offices of downtown Providence between the hours of twelve and two, seeking food, fun and a temporary release from stress. Menu items catered to the healthfully eclectic palate, the atmosphere always bordered on boisterous, and over the course of the noon hour, the crowd gravitated toward a high-strung pitch of pandemonium. In Adam’s view, the restaurant had just two things going for it on this day in early May: proximity to his office and a noise level that encouraged speedy conclusions to any business, personal or private, being conducted over lunch. As he had no idea why his grandfather had suggested today’s meeting with a heretofore unknown old friend of the family, Adam wanted to devote as little time as necessary to it. Hence, his request to meet Mrs. Fairchild at The Torrid Tomato.

She had yet to arrive, and he glanced at the gold Bulgari watch on his wrist, checking the time—ten minutes to twelve—already impatient to be back in the office. The Wallace deal was percolating nicely and he expected a phone call early this afternoon formally accepting the buyout offer. He had a two o’clock appointment with John Selden, the chief operating officer of Braddock Construction, and a three-thirty scheduled with Vic Luttrell, the corresponding executive for Braddock Architectural Designs. At four-forty, he would go over tomorrow’s schedule with his administrative assistant, Lara Richmond, and at five-thirty, he would play handball at the club with Allen Mason, Braddock Industries’ chief corporate attorney. Tonight he was having dinner with the top two executives of Nation’s Insurance Group regarding the possible relocation of their corporate offices to the new Braddock Properties office complex in Boston. All in all, a fairly light day, although he could have skipped lunch entirely and never missed it. But when his grandfather made a request, which he so seldom did anymore, Adam was hard-pressed to find any decent reason to refuse.

A bubbling brook of throaty laughter flowed somewhere behind him, sparkling and effervescent, a lovely sound rising above the frantic noon-hour gaiety. For all its genuine warmth, Adam judged it as a blatant bid for attention from someone, a look-at-me summons to the whole restaurant, and he firmly declined to turn around. All he wanted was a noisy atmosphere, a sort of homogeneous cacophony, nothing overtly distracting…certainly, not the siren’s song of amusement that echoed out again as if the laugher couldn’t keep it inside. There was something mesmerizing in the lilting tones, something intriguing in the laughter and, despite wanting to ignore the sound altogether, the third time he heard her laugh, he twisted in his chair and craned his neck to see who she might be.

“Adam?”

He whipped back around, chagrined to be caught rubbernecking. “Mrs. Fairchild.” He rose with a smile to greet the tall, attractive woman who had spoken, and moved to pull out a chair for her, assessing her age—mid-to early-fifties—her appearance—understated elegance—and the platinum and pearl necklace—genuine, not costume—at her throat, in an appreciative blink. “I’m so pleased you could join me.”

“The pleasure is mine.” She smiled, extending her hand for a quick clasp of his. The warmth of her greeting held as she took her seat, lifted the folded napkin, and dropped it delicately onto her lap. “Your grandfather speaks so highly of you and your two brothers, I feel I’ve been remiss in not making more of an effort to get acquainted.” She paused, measuring him in a graceful glance. “You are very like James.”

“You know my father?”

She nodded. “We were in school together at Exeter and again for a couple of years at Harvard. Well, truthfully, he was two years ahead of me and doubtless never knew I existed. He was always quite charming, though, even during those somewhat awkward adolescent years.”

That rang with authenticity. While Adam could never imagine his father as an adolescent, awkward or otherwise, charm was James’s calling card, his stock in trade. But Adam was positive his father would have noticed Ilsa Fairchild, no matter what age he might have been at the time. She was very attractive and James Braddock had always had an eye for the ladies. “He would be flattered you remember him, I’m sure.”

Ilsa’s smile was soft with contradiction. “I’m very taken with this restaurant,” she said, neatly shifting the subject. “The atmosphere is always so…energizing. Don’t you find it’s impossible not to enjoy your meal while surrounded by such joie de vivre?”

Adam had thought it not only possible, but a foregone conclusion. “You’ve been here before?”

“Several times, although The Torrid Tomato is a fairly recent discovery for me. The first I knew of the restaurant was three months ago, back in February.” She looked around, obviously not a bit intimidated by the noise. “But since then, I’ve developed a rather alarming craving for the artichoke dip. I’ve been too embarrassed to inquire, but do you suppose they’d sell it by the quart with the reservation of not disclosing the purchaser’s name?”

“I’ll ask our waiter, if he ever shows up.”

Ilsa raised an eyebrow, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge his slight show of impatience. “Archer tells me you were barely twenty-five when you became the CEO of Braddock Industries. You must have been the youngest chief executive on record.”

“Eight years ago, I was touted as something of a Boy Wonder, but that had more to do with our PR department than any real truth. With all the new technology companies that abound these days and the number of whiz-kids who start their own companies while in college or even high school, I’m practically a dinosaur.”

Ilsa laughed, a pleasant sound that was nearly swallowed up by the din surrounding them. “I can’t imagine there are many men of any age who could boast of your accomplishments.”

Adam was unimpressed with his own accomplishments. It was the next challenge, the obstacles ahead he found worthy of discussion. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear from my grandfather, Mrs. Fairchild. He’s nothing if not biased.”

“The facts do seem to support his claims,” she said with a gently argumentative smile. “Graduating from Harvard at nineteen—with honors and an MBA—starting out on construction sites so you’d have a comprehensive knowledge of the company and its employees, turning an already successful, commercial construction company into a multibillion dollar conglomerate…. I’d say, your grandfather has every reason to be proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

There wasn’t much Adam could—or wanted—to say to that. “You sound like a well-informed shareholder, Mrs. Fairchild.”

“And you sound rather modest.”

He wasn’t modest. He just didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy in what he’d done at Braddock Industries. He’d simply updated the good business practices that had guided the family fortunes for over two centuries. “I’m pleased you like what you’ve learned about the company,” he said.

“Hi!” The bright voice bobbed ahead of the slight brunette who dropped into a bouncy squat beside their table. She propped her arms on the table and, with barely a glance at Adam, turned a wide, generous welcome to his companion. “You’re usually not here on Tuesdays, Mrs. If. Did you take my advice and get yourself a hot date?” Her eyes were pure blue-bonnet blue, lit with the light of mischief, and Adam felt a jolt of awareness the instant they cut to him. “Hmm,” she said, making him feel naked, somehow, under her quicksilver assessment. “A younger man. I approve.”

Adam didn’t approve at all, but Ilsa merely laughed. “This is Adam Braddock, Katie. A family friend.”

Her eyes cut to his again without a glimmer of recognition. “Hi,” she repeated, her attention returning instantly to Ilsa. “Guess what? I took your advice.”

Ilsa’s eyebrows went up in pleasant surprise. “Really? How did that work out?”

The waitress straightened with a bounce, as if she had springs on her feet, lifted her hands above her head and did a dainty pirouette…neatly sidestepping a collision with a waiter who had plates of food balanced from fingertip to shoulder. “Oops,” she said, with an unrepentant lift of one shoulder and a flash of smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Charlie.”

The waiter frowned. So did Adam. “Would it be possible to get something to drink?” he asked.

“These are tight quarters, but you get the idea,” Katie said to Ilsa.

“All that from one lesson?”

“Two.”

“I’m impressed. You may become a ballerina, after all.”

“One pirouette after two lessons doesn’t exactly qualify me as the teacher’s pet.”

Ilsa appeared delighted with the exchange and oblivious to the fact that this was a restaurant and this pixie was supposed to be their waitress.

Adam cleared his throat and pitched his voice above the conversational roar in the room…on the generous assumption that the waitress hadn’t heard his original request. “I’d like to order now, if that’s all right with you.”

She looked at him, a wisp of dark hair curling like a wayward ribbon across her cheek, her blue eyes questioning the impatience in his tone. “Well, sure,” she said. “But don’t you want to peruse the menu first?”

“I’ve perused,” he said, thinking there would be serious consequences—and rightly so—if the manager caught her pirouetting and carrying on lengthy conversations with customers instead of getting their orders. “I’ll have the chicken reuben sandwich, no chips, and we’ll start with the artichoke dip appetizer.” He smiled encouragingly at Ilsa. “What would you like, Mrs. Fairchild?”

She looked thoughtfully from him to the waitress. “I’m going to need a couple of minutes to decide,” she said.

“Sure thing,” Katie pronounced brightly. “Take your time. I’ll find John.” Her smile flipped to Adam. Cheeky little thing. He’d have fired her on the spot. “He’s your waiter. My tables are over there.” She tossed her head to indicate the section behind them. “Bye, Mrs. If. Enjoy your…dip.”

She sashayed away, the bounce evident in her light steps, a saucy swing to her hips, a dash of sass in the sway of her long, frizzy ponytail. Halfway through the maze of tables and people, she paused to exchange words with a tall, blond guy—the elusive John, perhaps—and then she laughed, the melodic waterfall of sound drifting back to Adam like the call of the wild.

“She always waits on me when I come in,” Ilsa said.

“Not today, apparently.” Adam realized with a start that he’d been staring after the waitress and brought his gaze firmly back under control. Waitstaff should be unobtrusive, efficient without encroaching, friendly, but never personal. The little elf failed on all accounts. “I take it, she’s an aspiring dancer?”

Ilsa laughed. “She said she was disenchanted with kickboxing and I suggested ballet as an alternative discipline. I’m actually quite astonished she took a class.”

“Two classes,” Adam corrected and wondered why he remembered such trivia since the little brunette was now out of sight and nearly forgotten. He seldom, if ever, paid that much attention to the wait-staff in a restaurant like this one. They were, after all, constantly changing and all too often, more intrusive than helpful. He determinedly put her from his mind. “Tell me about yourself, Mrs. Fairchild. My grandfather says you have a small business. A public relations firm, I believe, called…IF Enterprises?”

She did not seem surprised to discover he’d done his research, but then she undoubtedly knew he had employees who did nothing but ferret out such details for him. It was the way he kept abreast of the hundreds of bits of information he needed to know daily. The only way he could survive in his fast-paced, high-stakes world.

“My business is more personal relations than public, although I like to think my endeavors contribute to the overall good of society, too. Everything is related, you know, regardless of how we try to separate one thing from another. Don’t you agree, Adam?”

“Absolutely.” Adam agreed, his attention already divided. He often tracked two separate and disparate trains of thought at once. It was as natural to him as breathing, and equally essential, in his view. It was a skill he’d learned at an early age by observing his grandfather or perhaps simply by virtue of growing up in an environment where private, public and social lives were so strictly differentiated. He did it without a second thought, he did it extremely well, and he was completely confident Mrs. Fairchild had no idea she wasn’t the exact centered focus of his universe at the moment. “Making connections of one sort or another is a big part of what I do every day.”

Ilsa smiled. “Me, too.”

A waiter arrived. “Hi, my name is John. I’ll be your server today.” He set two glasses of water on the table and took their lunch order without undue interruption. He was, in Adam’s view, a considerable improvement over the ballerina. After that, the conversation drifted into a rather loud, if easy, rundown of mutual acquaintances, society events and who had escorted whom and where. If he hadn’t known Mrs. Fairchild was a widow of long standing and had no children, Adam might have believed she had the ulterior motives of a mother with a marriageable daughter. He had plenty of experience in the art of outmaneuvering debutantes and their, ofttimes, forceful mothers. It came with the territory of being an eligible bachelor. But Ilsa seemed not so much interested in his views on matrimony as in what interested him about his life and the society in which he moved. Time and again, she steered the conversation back to him, answering his questions with questions of her own, eliciting his likes, dislikes and opinions he didn’t often volunteer. She was skillful in the art of conversation, artful in the way she kept the focus on him, and as she never came within a nuance of getting too personal, he remained perfectly at ease with her.

The appetizer came, accompanied by a fresh peal of the distracting laughter and although he felt the delight of it like the first taste of a good wine, Adam pretended to notice nothing out of the ordinary.

“She has the best laugh in the world.” Ilsa said, as if anyone would dare dispute it.

“The pirouetting waitress?” Adam instantly regretted the admission that he’d not only noticed, but had connected the glorious laughter to the bobbing brunette.

Ilsa nodded. “She’s a very interesting young woman.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” He didn’t doubt Ilsa’s assessment, even if he did think it odd for her to take such an interest in a waitress at The Torrid Tomato. Not that there was anything wrong with being a waitress, of course. It was just an unusual friendship for any close family friend of his grandfather’s. Certainly not one he, himself, would be inclined to pursue. “Are you on the library’s fund-raising committee again this year?” he asked, showing that he could turn the topic as adroitly as she.

“It seems to, again, be my turn to chair,” she said and from there, the conversation resumed a cadence and content Adam could follow without half trying. At one point, it occurred to him to wonder if Ilsa might be more than just a friend of the family, if she might, in fact, be in the lineup as a future stepmother. But Adam and his brothers had long since given up making predictions about the women who came and went in their father’s life and, at the moment, there was already a new fiancée in the picture. Which was not to say Ilsa might not make the running next time around, but if Archer had hopes of introducing her as a potential daughter-in-law, he hadn’t expressed that wish to his grandsons. Unless that’s what this lunch date had been set up to accomplish. James had never asked his father or his sons for an opinion about his future brides though, so Adam dismissed the speculation from his mind and simply enjoyed the somewhat maternal warmth in Ilsa’s smiles and the artichoke dip, which was surprisingly good. He ordered a to-go quart for Ilsa, despite her protests, and wondered aloud if he should check into getting some for Archer’s seventy-ninth birthday party.

“You’re having a party for him?” Ilsa asked. “Is it a surprise?”

“Only to me,” Adam answered with a rueful smile. “Bryce loves parties and one excuse is as good as another to host one as far as he’s concerned. He decided that since Grandfather wouldn’t hear of having a party the last two years, we’d celebrate twice as hard this year. Bryce set the day, the time and the magnitude, but working out the details was, as usual, left to me. Peter, my youngest brother, offered to step in and help me out, but he’s spending quite a bit of time out of pocket these days, on site at the construction of the Braddock Properties’ Atlanta-based operations. Peter’s an architect, you know.”

She nodded. “I read about him…and the Atlanta project…just recently in the Providence Journal.”

“I’m very proud of Peter. We all are.”

Her smile was warm and genuine. “So the planning of your grandfather’s birthday party falls to you, by default.”

“Actually, to the party planner of my choosing. Unfortunately, the events coordinator we’ve used in the past has now officially retired…a direct result, in my opinion, of our last party, when Bryce decided he would handle everything.” Adam shook his head, wishing as he always did that his brother would pay a token regard to the small details that comprised a meaningful life. “I keep intending to speak to my secretary about finding someone, but social events have never been high on my priority list and so far, I’ve forgotten to mention it.”

He sipped his water and contemplated whether there was a polite way to make a grab for the last bit of artichoke dip. He decided not to be greedy and realized in the same breath a countermeasure for any hesitancy Wallace might have for accepting the initial offer for his manufacturing company. Despite the noise—unusually rowdy, even for The Torrid Tomato—Adam realized he was enjoying his lunch with Ilsa Fairchild.

“I know an events planner,” Ilsa said. “I think you’d like her and she’s very dependable. I’ll warn you, though, she’s extravagantly expensive, but worth every penny. I’ll get her name and number for you, if you’d like.”

“Great.” Adam couldn’t help himself. He spread the last of the artichoke dip across the last triangle of toasted bread and popped it into his mouth. Delicious. Maybe he’d been too hasty in his assessment of this restaurant.

“Hi, again.” The waitress with the frizzy ponytail returned, dropping into her bouncy squat as if she’d only just vacated the spot. “I just remembered something,” she said. To Ilsa. She seemed barely aware Adam was even present at the same table. “The Tai Chi class starts next Monday and you really should call if you’re interested. I don’t have the phone number with me, but I could bring it to work Thursday, if you’re going to be in for lunch.”

Ilsa reached for her purse. “Why don’t you give me your phone number and I’ll call you later to get the information. I’d hate to miss out because the class filled up before I had a chance to call. Would you mind?”

“Not a bit,” the waitress said as if the answer was so obvious as to be unnecessary. Then, unexpectedly, her blue eyes came to rest with an unsettling clarity on Adam. “What about you? Any interest in Tai Chi? It’s supposed to be remarkably beneficial for anyone with arthritis or a stiff neck.”

“No, thanks,” he said coolly, willing the manager to appear and make her go away, wondering if she thought he looked like he needed more exercise. His hand automatically lifted to press against the tense muscles in his neck, then catching himself, he straightened his tie, as if that had been his intent all along. “I prefer more energetic and competitive forms of exercise.”

She shrugged, a dainty lift of one slender shoulder, and shifted her attention back to Ilsa. “Got a pencil and paper?” she asked, as if she wasn’t a waitress, on duty, and presumably expected to write down customer’s orders from time to time.

Ilsa drew a stylized, misty pink business card from her purse and turned it, blank side up, on the table. “Just write on that. And thanks so much for reminding me about the class. I’m looking forward to it.”

The little brunette jotted down a phone number and handed back the card. “I think you’ll really enjoy the class. Harry is a wonderful instructor and you won’t believe how old he is!” Her bluebell glance flicked from Ilsa to Adam and back again, challenging them to guess the instructor’s age. “Seventy-four!” she supplied before any guessing could take place. “He’s a perfect example of why Tai Chi is the very best form of exercise.”

Better than ballet and kickboxing? Adam wanted to ask, but kept his counsel and, instead, took her thinly veiled challenge in stride. He didn’t know why he felt anything other than annoyance when he looked at her—she was, after all, a silly little waitress, and not much of one at that—but, however unsettling, he recognized the sparks for the base attraction they were. Not that he could imagine any circumstances under which he would pursue such an attraction. And as he felt certain she’d do something to get herself fired long before he scheduled another lunch at The Torrid Tomato, it was highly unlikely he’d ever see her again.

There was a crescendo of noise, the clink and clatter of silverware on glass, and she straightened with the innate grace of an athlete. “The natives are getting restless,” she said, her lips curving with a rueful smile. “I’m off to assuage their hunger. See you Monday, if not sooner,” she said to Ilsa and moved past Adam with only a glance to indicate her goodbye. In a moment, the noise died back to a satisfied chorus of teasing calls and answering laughter…and Adam experienced a fleeting wish that he were sitting at a table in the midst of it all, where he could watch the sparkle in her eyes as she laughed.

“…and the caterer was fit to be tied,” Ilsa was saying, continuing a conversation that Adam had completely lost the gist of, so absorbed had he been in the imagined scene going on behind him. He brought his attention to heel and made sure he didn’t lose focus again.

Outside the restaurant, after they’d finished lunch, Adam and Ilsa shook hands and exchanged a thank-you for the meal and the conversation. “I hope to see you at Grandfather’s party,” he said. “I can’t promise it will be the best gathering the Braddocks have ever put together, but if I can get my hands on an events planner, I intend to make sure she orders plenty of that artichoke dip.”

“In that case, I’ll definitely be there,” Ilsa said with a laugh. “And I will get you the name of that events planner.”

“That would be a help.” Adam’s thoughts were halfway to the office already. “I’ll ask my secretary to call you for the information.”

“Or I’ll call you. Thanks, again, for lunch. I loved getting to know you a little in person.”

“I enjoyed it tremendously. Take care.” He waited for her to turn away, which she did, but before he made his own turn in the opposite direction, she was back, extending her hand toward him.

“You might need this,” she said.

He took it without a glance and slipped it into his suit pocket. “I’ll be sure you get an invitation to the party.”

“Perhaps we’ll run into each other again in the meantime.” Then, she walked off at a brisk clip and Adam didn’t give her—or the business card she’d given him—another thought.

WHEN THE CARD turned up, Adam barely recalled how he’d come to have it. For nearly two weeks, he’d been immersed in salvaging Braddock Industries’ purchase of The Wallace Company and had thought of little else. The deal teetered on the brink of collapse from one day to the next, coming close to agreement and then falling apart all over again. Adam had spent long hours investigating how a “sure thing” had gone awry, trying unsuccessfully to get Richard Wallace to meet with him, one on one. So far, Wallace was holding firmly in the negotiations-are-over camp and finally, Adam had sent his corporate team home for the weekend, telling them to rest, relax and return with new energy and the enthusiasm to get this buyout completed, one way or another.

Adam planned to spend the entire weekend in the office, coming up with a compromise. For some months now, Braddock Industries had been quietly buying up a large chunk of Wallace stock as a negotiating tool but, while Adam had issued the buy order, he didn’t want to initiate a hostile takeover. Not if there was any other way to get what he wanted. He admired Richard Wallace tremendously for building a company out of nothing and, it was true, Adam’s one business failing was his soft spot for family-run concerns. After all, where would the Braddock family be if some upstart had decided to take over the construction business back when it was vulnerable to such an unwelcome attack? On the other hand, the offer was a fair one and Adam had a gut feeling that Richard Wallace had dug in his heels only because he wanted to walk away with a little more dignity and considerably more cash than was first offered.

IF Enterprises, read the raised gold lettering across the pink card stock. Ilsa Fairchild, 555-5683.

Adam continued to frown at the business card, newly discovered under piles of reports on his desk. He recalled his lunch with Ilsa as pleasant, nothing out of the ordinary, but was still unsure as to why his grandfather had asked him to meet with her in the first place. No request for a contribution had been forthcoming. He hadn’t been asked to head up a new fund-raiser for a worthwhile cause. His father’s wedding plans were going along apace, and Archer hadn’t even asked how the luncheon went or mentioned this old friend of the family since. But then, Adam hadn’t been home in the past week and a half, preferring to stay at the Providence apartment and remain focused on the Wallace deal. But now it was Friday night, the staff had long since left for the weekend, and he was staring at a backlog of paperwork…and a misty pink business card.

Turning the card over in his hands, he read the name and phone number written in scrunched and scribbled letters of black ink across the back. Kate—or was it Katie? He couldn’t quite make out the letters—Canton. The name meant nothing to him and he wondered why Ilsa Fairchild would have given it to him. But…wait. The birthday party. They’d talked about the birthday party. The one he’d given not a single thought since. Adam vaguely recalled asking Ilsa if she could recommend an events planner. And she’d said…yes? Yes, she did know someone. That must be the reason he’d tucked her card into his pocket and tossed it onto his desk upon his return to the office. She’d written down the name on the back of her business card. He’d intended to give it to Lara, who would have passed it on to Nell, his personal secretary, who would have called this Kate Canton and gotten the party plans underway. But other concerns had pushed the information—and the need for it—out of his mind. Parties were never top priority for him under the best of circumstances.

And now, it was six weeks and counting until Archer’s birthday. Adam realized he’d better take some action…and quickly. A glance at his watch brought a frown. Nine-thirty. Too late to call? Probably he’d get an answering machine, which would be perfect. He could leave a message to call his office Monday morning. Nell would handle everything from there and he wouldn’t have to give the matter another thought. Good idea. He dialed the number then began going over yet another financial report on the Wallace Company as he waited for Kate Canton’s machine to pick up.

“Hello?”

A person. Adam put down the report, momentarily taken aback. “Kate Canton?” he asked.

“Yes?” Her tone turned cool, cautious.

“This is Adam Braddock.”

“Who?”

“Adam Braddock,” he repeated. “Ilsa Fairchild gave me your name.”

“Why would she do that?”

Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have called after office hours. He warmed his tone to compensate for the suspicious note in her voice. “She thought you might be able to help me. I’m sorry to phone so late in the evening, but I’m in desperate need of a party planner.”

“A what?”

Maybe Ms. Canton was a trifle hard of hearing. “A party planner. I need someone to put together a party for me.”

“You have the wrong number.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, infusing his tone with the old Braddock charm as he repeated the phone number written on the card, waited for her confirmation, then added, “And you are Kate Canton?”

“Yes, but I’m not a party planner.”

Women were so touchy about job titles these days. “Coordinator, then,” he said. “Events coordinator. And I mean for this to be quite an event. It’s in honor of my grandfather’s seventy-ninth birthday at the end of June. There’ll be somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred guests, and—”

“Two hundred,” she repeated. “That’s a lot of party hats.”

She was already calculating expenses. That was a good sign. “I’m sure you’re up to the challenge, Ms. Canton. You came highly recommended.”

“Someone recommended me to plan your birthday party?”

Hard of hearing and a little thick, too, perhaps. Or falsely modest. Or clever enough to string him along, playing hard to get. Of course, it was also just possible she was simply intimidated by the Braddock name. He’d experienced some strange reactions from people when they realized who he was and the powerful family and fortune he represented. He’d had women hang up on him from sheer nervousness. He’d known some men—and women—to pretend not to recognize the name, as if that somehow put them all on a more level playing field. Whatever Ms. Canton was experiencing, Adam was determined not to lose patience with her. He cleared his throat, dispatching any hint of impatience. “Ilsa Fairchild gave me your name and number and a favorable recommendation.”

“Mr. Braddock, you have the wrong number. I don’t know why Mrs. Fairchild gave you my number, but I’m not the person you want.”

Adam frowned. He didn’t normally have this much trouble convincing someone to work for him. “You’ll have a free hand with the plans,” he said persuasively. “And a very generous budget.”

“Money is not the point,” she responded quickly.

Money was always the point. “I realize you must be very busy and may prefer to keep your business centered in Providence, but I can assure you, Ms. Canton, that my family is not without influence in this area, and we do host a number of social events every year. I can’t guarantee your business will increase overnight because you do this one party for us, but I believe it is a great opportunity for you. Sea Change is barely a half-hour drive and I’m quite willing to compensate you for any inconvenience. I’ll make it well worth your while.”

There was a pause, a considering silence, and Adam relaxed. The tide, he suspected, was turning. “You’re offering me a great opportunity?” she repeated, a note of humor, a softer touch in her words. “To plan a party?”

“Yes.” Ms. Canton was on the hook, ready to make a deal, and Adam was suddenly, resolutely eager to cinch this one. “I haven’t much time and I understand that this is very last minute for you,” he said. “So let’s cut to the chase. What will it take to get you?”

KATIE COULDN’T DECIDE if she was more offended or flattered that Adam Braddock was so eager to get her. She remembered him from that day at the restaurant, of course, although clearly he didn’t remember her. She’d thought he was quite seriously handsome…and quite seriously underimpressed with her. He’d been a bit arrogant for her tastes, way too sure of himself to allow any woman equal footing. Something of a stuffed shirt, actually, and when a smile might have changed her mind, he’d seemed determined to keep frowning. She’d wondered at the time how—and why—the vibrant Mrs. Fairchild had hooked up with him. A family friend, she’d said, which could cover a multitude of sins. People couldn’t be held responsible for the friends someone else in their family made. But none of that explained how he’d come to have her phone number. Katie guarded the number of her cell phone—her only concession to practicality and convenience—with a religious zeal and had given it to only a handful of people in the six months she’d been living in Providence. Ilsa Fairchild might have given it out by mistake, but she wouldn’t have done so on purpose…not without clearing it with Katie first. And she definitely wouldn’t have given her a recommendation as a party planner. No one who knew Katie at all would have done that.

“There’s been a mistake, Mr. Braddock,” she began. “I’m not the person you meant to call.”

“Please, Ms. Canton, don’t be coy. I’m a busy man. The party’s only six weeks away and I don’t have the time or the inclination to track down another coordinator. Name your price and let’s get this settled.”

His tone was so serious, his manner so “Let’s Make a Deal” that Katie wanted to laugh. What kind of man got so worked up over a birthday party? A busy man. A man who made lists and marked off items with a superior sense of self-satisfaction. A man with a singular mind-set, who was completely determined to refute her every denial. “Five thousand dollars,” she said, positive he’d hang up on her faster than she could say…just kidding.

“Done.”

Katie swallowed her laughter like a big wad of chewing gum. “What?” she choked out.

“You said five thousand. I agreed.”

She thought fast. “You didn’t let me finish. It’s five thousand now and another five thousand later.” There, that should fix his wagon.

He did hesitate. “You must be very good, Ms. Canton. For that price, I’ll expect you to plan a beautiful June day into the bargain. Phone my secretary tomorrow…no, Monday morning, and she’ll make arrangements to get a deposit check to you. You’ll want to make a preliminary visit to Braddock Hall and look over the estate. Nell—my secretary—will make those arrangements as well. Just tell her when you’ll be driving down and she’ll take care of everything. Any questions?”

Are you crazy? But when Katie found her voice, she just managed to squeeze out a croaky, “I don’t drive.”

That seemed to slow him down. For about two seconds. “Then I’ll send the Rolls for you. Nell will work out the day and time with you.”

The Rolls. He would send “The Rolls” for her. Over the span of her twenty-six years, Katie had been the recipient of bus tickets, cab fares, carriage rides, even a first-class plane ticket once. But no one had ever before said, “I’ll send The Rolls for you,” as if it was the obvious, only thing to be done. “The Rolls?” she repeated.

“The chauffeur is Benson. He’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Within reason, of course.”

A Rolls-Royce with a chauffeur. Benson, the chauffeur. Anywhere she wanted to go. Within reason, of course. Of course. But it was tempting—more than tempting—to say, “hey, sure thing, send it on.” How often did a person get offered such an adventure? On the other hand, she wasn’t crazy enough to think any of this would happen. “Well,” she said. I’ll certainly look forward to that.”

“Good. I’ll tell Nell to expect your call.”

Katie sighed, wishing for the first time that Adam Braddock hadn’t gotten her number by mistake. “Yes, well, thanks for calling. Bye, now.”

“Ms. Canton?”

The authority in his voice caught her before she could hang up. “Yes?”

“You’ll need my office number.”

“Oh, right.”

He gave it to her in clipped, no-nonsense terms. “Got that?”

Right. “Sure thing,” she said.

“You’ll call Monday, and ask for Nell.”

“Nell.” Katie wrote the name in the air beside the phone number and watched it disappear. “Got it.”

“Good. Nell will get the particulars to you…date, time, guest list.” He paused.

Katie thought he must be realizing his mistake. “Having second thoughts?” she asked cheerfully.

“No. I was wondering if I should arrange to meet with you myself.”

“I know a great little restaurant downtown. The Torrid Tomato.” Her smile curved in delightful anticipation of that meeting. “I could meet you there practically any day at noon.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he said hastily. “I’m sure you’ll work out just fine.”

Okay, now she was offended. “Mr. Braddock,” she began in earnest…and was immediately interrupted.

“Adam,” he corrected. “And shall I call you Kate?”

“I prefer Katie.” No one but her dad had ever called her Kate, and she’d just as soon keep it that way. Not that Adam Braddock was apt to be calling her anything close to her name once he realized he’d offered a waitress ten thousand dollars—and the use of his Rolls-Royce—to plan a birthday party. “And we should probably stick with Mr. Braddock and Ms. Canton. Keep things strictly business, you know.”

She could imagine his frown. Adam Braddock was accustomed to getting his way. “Whatever you think, Ms. Canton. I’ll tell Nell to expect your call, first thing Monday morning.”

Katie let her widening smile carry over into her voice, coloring her words with the good humor that invariably accompanied her sense of the ridiculous. “Sure thing, Mr. Braddock. And, really, thanks a million for calling. Yours is the best offer I’ve received in months.”

Then she clicked off the cell phone, certain that was the last she’d be hearing from Adam Braddock.