Читать книгу The Wedding Planner - Millie Criswell - Страница 8

Adam Morgan was certifiable, totally irrational and just plain-old nuts.

Money couldn’t buy happiness. Well, it obviously couldn’t buy sanity, either. For all his money, good looks and breeding, the man seated across the round mahogany table from Meredith, looking so earnest in his two-thousand-dollar Armani suit and three-hundred-dollar white shirt, while he tossed sunflower seed remains all over her new carpet, was a few slices short of a two-dollar loaf of white bread.

She continued to stare at him in disbelief, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. When he repeated himself, there was no doubt in her mind that a large vacuum existed between those well-shaped ears.

“I need a wife, Miss Baxter. I’d like you to find me one as soon as possible. I’m on a tight deadline, and I’m willing to pay handsomely for your effort.” He cracked another sunflower seed between his flashing white, oh-so-very-straight teeth. It was obvious he flossed regularly. Another reason to dislike him.

Gazing at the checkbook now being waved in her direction, her toe started tapping against the mauve carpeting. When nervous, some people chewed their nails, toyed with the ends of their hair or gnawed the inside of their cheek. Meredith tapped. In fact, she was tapping so fast at the moment she could probably qualify for a job at Radio City dancing with the Rockettes. Her right knee knocked against the underbelly of the table, and she pressed it with her palm to stop the motion.

She was an excellent wedding planner and took pride in making her customers’ special day the most perfect it could be. But she wasn’t a magician or a marriage broker.

Adam Morgan didn’t need a wife. He needed a shrink. And with his millions, he could afford the best psychiatrist Morgantown had to offer.

“Perhaps you don’t understand what it is I do, Mr. Morgan. I’m a wedding consultant, not a matchmaker. Best Laid Plans will be happy to arrange for a church, rent a banquet hall for the reception, take care of the flowers, music and catering. But we don’t enter into bridal selection—unless, of course, you’re talking about bridal gowns. Those we can find.”

Flicking an imaginary speck of dust off his expertly tailored navy-blue jacket, Adam Morgan drummed manicured fingers on the table. Everything about the man was manicured, from his perfectly coifed dark, wavy hair, to his highly polished cordovan wing tips. Meredith was pretty certain that if she were to take a peek at his boxers, there would be a crease in the silk material. He was definitely the silk-boxer type.

“Is there a problem with my attire, Miss Baxter? You keep staring at my lap.” Adam’s brow lifted, as if in challenge, though his expression remained bland. He suppressed the urge to laugh at the woman’s obvious embarrassment. With her red hair and milky complexion, he suspected the lovely Miss Baxter couldn’t hide much of what she was thinking. And what she was apparently thinking at the moment was quite intriguing. If his situation wasn’t quite so dire, he’d be tempted to investigate further.

“Ah, no. There’s no problem.” Hoping her face wasn’t the color of a cooked lobster—she hated her fair complexion—Meredith entwined her fingers and set them before her, trying to look businesslike, and doing her damnedest to keep her disappointment from showing.

When Morgan had strolled into her store thirty minutes before, she had recognized him immediately. His photo was constantly in the newspaper, either in the business pages or society section. When he’d announced that he wanted her to plan his wedding—a rather extravagant affair for a thousand people—she’d nearly passed out. The dollar signs flashing behind her eyelids had rendered her dizzy. But when he’d added the crazy stipulation about the bride…Well, she knew he was having a good laugh at her expense. Because if it wasn’t a joke, than it meant that Adam Morgan, heir to the Morgan Coal Mining and Manufacturing fortune, was a deranged lunatic. The pile of seeds on her carpet was growing, making that seem a likely possibility.

The wealthy bachelor didn’t bother to hide his frustration. The adoption deadline was closing in on him, and he didn’t have the time to explain his motives, nor was he in the habit of doing so. Most who worked for Adam followed his instructions to the letter. Obviously the redhead had a mind of her own.

“I am well aware of the functions of a wedding planner, Miss Baxter. I came to you because my time is extremely limited. I have three months to find a bride, plan a wedding and get married. Which is why I’m willing to pay you a considerable amount of money for your trouble. I realize that finding a bridal candidate is not in your usual job description, and you will be compensated accordingly.”

Meredith’s greedy little heart was beating faster than a KitchenAid mixer. Money really was the root of all evil, and she could certainly use some. And, well, even if Morgan was a little bit nuts, what harm could it do? After all, it was his money, his decision, if he wanted to buy himself a wife. All she had to do was find the unfortunate female.

Answer: If she pulled off Morgan’s wedding, which was sure to be the wedding of the decade, she’d have more business than she could handle.

Society types tended to follow each other’s lead like sheep. Trends were set, fashion dictated and accepted, because they didn’t have the guts to exert their individuality.

Except for Adam Morgan. Planning a wedding without a bride was definitely a novel idea.

“I assume you have some criteria for your future bride,” she asked, unable to believe she was actually discussing the possibility with him. Now who was nuts?

Reaching into his inside coat pocket, the fastidious businessman extracted an envelope and placed it on the table, pushing it toward her. “Here’s a list I’ve put together. Intelligence being the most important quality, of course.”

Meredith’s green eyes widened. She would have guessed big breasts. Wealthy men like Adam Morgan usually went for flash not substance. Trophy wives. Although he probably wasn’t old enough to have a sweet young thing dripping from his arm. She guessed him to be about thirty-four or -five. He needed another ten, fifteen years for that.

Meredith had read in the newspaper about his struggle to adopt his dead sister’s two children. Marriage was probably a stipulation of the adoption procedure. Single parents were not usually successful candidates. After studying Adam Morgan, it was easy to see why he needed a wife to bring some normalcy to the proceedings.

“Do you make it a habit to woolgather, Miss Baxter?” Her cheeks blossomed again, and Adam swallowed his smile. Meredith Baxter would never win a game of strip poker.

Glancing at his gold Rolex, he frowned at the likely possibility that he was going to be late. He never allowed himself to be late for an engagement. Punctuality was the mark of an organized mind. “I have an appointment with my attorney in twenty-five minutes. I’m afraid I need an answer or I shall be forced to go to your competitor.”

She looked into eyes as gray as the rain-laden clouds outside, at the long fingers toying with the red Windsor knot at his throat, at the impressive width of his shoulders, the swarthy tint to his complexion, and she wondered if he was as businesslike and controlling in bed.

“Miss Baxter?”

Meredith forced her attention back, then smiled, somewhat hesitantly. “Though your request is unusual and not something I’m usually confronted with—most grooms already have a bride when they come to me—I accept the job, Mr. Morgan. I require a deposit of ten thousand dollars, due to the magnitude of the wedding you have in mind.” And due to the stack of old bills she’d yet to pay.

“Excellent.” Without batting an eyelash or breaking a smile, he wrote out the check, scribbled his signature, which was totally illegible, and stood, handing it to her. “Be at my house at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, and we’ll get started on the media coverage.”

Her eyes widened, and her voice grew small. “Media coverage?”

“The quickest way to find a bride, Miss Baxter, is to use the media. Once the story gets out that I’m looking for a bride, the newspapers and television stations will be only too happy to aid us in our search. I intend to use them shamelessly. As will you.”

“I will?” She swallowed with some trepidation.

“You’re darn right, you will. Those vultures have hounded and exploited my family for years. I think some payback is in order. And I am very good at paying back, make no mistake about that.”

The feral glint in his eyes made Meredith a believer. Adam Morgan was a man used to getting his own way.

“Weddings are supposed to be joyous occasions, Mr. Morgan. Some people wait their whole lives to find the right person, fall in love and get married. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? I mean—what about love?”

He didn’t bother to hide his disdain at the question or at her impertinence in asking it. “You’re beginning to sound like a poorly written romance novel, Miss Baxter.”

She stiffened, her chin lifting a notch. “I happen to love romance novels, Mr. Morgan.”

He started to say something—sarcastic, no doubt!—then thought better of it and said instead, “I’m not the romantic type. I don’t have time for hearts and flowers and happily ever after. In my opinion what I’m doing can be likened to a business merger. Two sides with similar views and interests coming together to form a successful union for the good of the company or, in this case, the good of the family unit.”

“So, in the immortal words of Tina Turner— ‘What’s Love Got To Do with It?’ I think I understand.” The man was cold, heartless. She pitied the poor woman who was foolish enough to marry him.

He looked at her strangely. “Who is Tina Turner?”

Meredith held out her hand. “An old family friend, Mr. Morgan. Don’t worry about a thing. Your upcoming nuptials are in excellent hands.”

Gazing down at those excellent hands, he said before releasing hers, “Your polish is chipped, Miss Baxter. And you have a run in your left stocking.”

Her mouth dropped open at the man’s audacity, her eyes clouding in anger, and she didn’t notice how the corners of his mouth had tilted. “Thank you very much, cretin, Neanderthal, arrogant meathead,” she said between gritted teeth, but he was already out the door and didn’t hear her.

“Anyone I know, sweetie?” her assistant, Randall, asked, emerging from the back room in time to catch a glimpse of the man through the plate-glass window. He’d just returned from delivering six candelabras to the First Baptist Church, where the Sanders wedding would take place on Saturday morning.

Meredith forced down her anger. “Adam Morgan, our new client.” She explained the details of the unorthodox wedding arrangement and the man’s obnoxious observations, making Randall grin.

With his bleached-blond hair, tanned complexion, and brilliant blue eyes, Randall Cosby looked like a California beach boy. He was slight of build, but muscular, and had no difficulty performing the arduous tasks of lifting and hauling necessary to his position. He worked for Meredith part-time while attending law classes at West Virginia University.

“The man’s obviously got good taste in women.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he noticed the run in your stocking, sweetie, then he was staring at your legs. And your legs are one of your best features.” He looked down at his own and pulled a face. “Mine are just too skinny and straight. No curvature at all to them. I’ve been cursed with brains and no body.”

Meredith laughed. One of the things she liked best about Randall was his honesty. He was going to make a wonderful lawyer. “Thank you, I think. But I don’t believe Mr. Morgan was looking at my legs for any reason other than to find fault. He’s a stickler for details. And he’s going to be a royal pain in the butt to work with.”

Randall began straightening the bridal magazines on the long glass display counter. “Handsome, though. From what I saw of him, he’s a very good-looking man, and quite a natty dresser.” Randall was into clothing in a big way.

“Yes, he is that,” Meredith agreed, a sigh escaping her lips. “But he’s too arrogant and structured to suit me. I prefer someone a bit more animated. Adam Morgan is definitely not my type.”

Randall arched a disbelieving brow. “Mickey Mouse, he’s not.” He shook his head. “Sweetie, you are way too picky. I used to think I was choosy, but you are much worse. I don’t think there’s a man alive who could live up to your expectations. The Prince Charmings of the world are few and far between. You’re going to have to settle for a mere mortal if we’re ever going to plan one of these fabulous weddings for you.”

“I’m not in any rush to get married.” She intended to wait for her knight in shining armor, no matter how long it took. There was someone special out there for her; she just knew it.

“Well, your mother is. Last time I visited Louise at the nursing home—we shared the loveliest boxed lunch from Grabber’s Deli—she asked if you and I were dating. I told her that you weren’t my type.” He rolled his eyes, making Meredith laugh again.

“Mom’s worried she’s going to die before I can produce grandchildren for her to dote on. She’s always trying to fix me up with the male nurses who work at Pleasant Acres. I guess she doesn’t think I can get a date.”

“She worries about you, sweetie. We all do.”

Meredith smiled at her employee. “That’s good, because that leaves me to worry about more important things. Speaking of which, we’d better get back to work. I’ve got to prepare myself for my meeting with Morgan tomorrow. I’m bearding the lion at ten.”

He arched a brow. “Hmm. Sounds interesting.”

“Interesting isn’t the word for it, Randall. Nauseating, aggravating, but definitely not interesting.”

ATTORNEY PETER WEBBER leaned back in his tufted, red-leather swivel chair and noted the unusually high color on Adam Morgan’s cheeks. As his lawyer for the past ten years, and best friend long before that, Peter was quite attuned to the man’s shifting and often foul moods. Adam was displeased or distracted about something, and he would no doubt let him know soon enough what it was that was bothering him.

“As you suggested, I hired the wedding planner. We’ll be meeting tomorrow morning to iron out the specifics of the upcoming wedding.”

“What’s he like?” Peter began making notes on a yellow legal pad. Adam was a stickler for recording even the most mundane details of every conversation.

“He is a she. Meredith Baxter from Best Laid Plans.”

“Cute.”

“She’s attractive enough, I guess.” Adam had always been intrigued by redheads. And she had the best-looking legs he’d seen in a very long time. Well-defined calves, shapely ankles. He adored the way her cheeks filled with color whenever she became embarrassed, which, judging by what he’d already observed, was often.

“I meant the name of her business.”

“Oh.”

Adam squirmed restlessly in his seat, and Peter swallowed his smile. He hadn’t seen the man this distracted in a while. “What does Miss Baxter think of your plan to wed?”

“From the peculiar way she was staring at me, my guess is she thinks I’m a first-class nut.”

“You are known for your eccentricities, Adam. The woman sounds astute. And did you litter her floor with sunflower seeds, as is your usual habit?”

Taking the handful of seed husks he was about to toss on the floor, Adam shoved them into his suit pocket and ignored the question. “Meredith Baxter is young and hopefully malleable. I don’t want someone who’s going to question my every decision. The most important thing is for me to gain permanent custody of Allison’s children. I don’t care if the whole world thinks I’m nuts. I’ll do whatever it takes, spend however much money is necessary, to adopt Andrew and Megan. I promised Allison I would.”

And Adam never went back on a promise. The attorney was living proof of that. At fourteen, Peter’s parents had been killed in a car accident, leaving the young man virtually penniless. The Webbers’ lavish lifestyle and opulent house on the hill had been a facade for a mountain of debt and unpaid bills.

Adam had convinced his father to take custody of Peter and see to his welfare and schooling. Allistair Morgan had never been a substitute father to Peter—he’d barely been a real one to Adam—but he had provided the monetary means for him to obtain a law degree. With the stipulation, of course, that upon passing the bar exam he would become the Morgans’ family attorney.

The Morgans had a slew of business lawyers and financial advisors, but the shrewd old man wanted someone he could trust implicitly, someone who would look out for his children’s interests after he was gone. That someone had been Peter, and it was a role he performed with dedication and devotion.

“I’m sure once Miss Baxter is apprised of the seriousness of your situation,” Peter said finally, “she will view you in a different light.”

Staring out the window, Adam watched the bustling traffic below. Thinking another light needed to be installed in the intersection, he made a mental note to suggest it at the next meeting of the Morgantown Planning Commission.

Frowning, he turned back to answer Peter’s question. “The woman’s a dreamer, a romantic. Besides, I don’t care if she approves of what I’m doing or not. I’m paying her to plan and perform, not to ponder and pontificate.”

The attorney’s interest was piqued. Adam was usually nonplussed about most things. “Perhaps I’ll stop by your house tomorrow morning and take a look at this wedding planner firsthand. She sounds intriguing.”

“Meredith Baxter is not your type, Webb. She’s a redhead, not a blonde.”

“A redhead!” Peter’s smile turned mischievous. “I’ve always been a sucker for redheads. They blush so charmingly, don’t you think?”

Adam didn’t know why, but for some reason Peter’s comment grated on him. “I don’t have time to discuss your taste in women. I’ve got more pressing problems at the moment.”

Adam’s mood had been foul and erratic of late, which worried Peter. The man hadn’t had a date in six months; his sister’s recent death had only complicated matters. Aside from business meetings and obligatory social engagements relating to the charities he funded, and that damned model train set he fiddled with, he didn’t have much of a life.

“Maybe your problems and your attitude would improve if you went out with a woman. How long’s it been since you’ve had sex? You live like a damn monk up there in that monastery you call a house. Engineer Adam must be running low on steam by now.”

The gray eyes flashed annoyance. Adam hated being teased about his passion for model trains. His father had tormented him most of his adult life about his hobby. And he sure as heck didn’t like being quizzed about his nonexistent sex life. “My sexual needs are not a topic of discussion, not even with you, Webb.” Adam lowered himself onto a nearby chair. “So let’s drop it. Maybe if you channeled your sexual desire into your work, you’d get more of it done.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Using your work and your business as a substitute? Because let me tell you, Adam, old buddy, that’s not going to work. One of these days when you’re least expecting it—boom! You’re going to explode like a damn volcano.”

Adam smiled condescendingly. “My, my, that is an interesting metaphor. It seems you and Miss Baxter have something in common. She likes to read torrid romance novels. I’m sure the eruption of a volcano has been used countless times to describe sexual climax in one or more of those lurid tales.”

“Sounds to me like you’re the one who should be reading them, Adam. You might learn something. And you might be able to experience love and romance vicariously through the pages of a book, since you’re not performing it for real.”

“You’re starting to sound like my mother, Peter, and that’s the deadliest of mistakes.”

Peter was wise enough to know when he’d pushed too far, and from the dangerous expression on his best friend’s face, that time had come. “How is Lilah? Still exploring the mysteries of India?”

Adam’s mother had left West Virginia shortly after her husband’s death six years ago to travel the continent. She had not seen fit to return, not even for her only daughter’s funeral, which was in keeping with Lilah Morgan’s personality. She’d always loved herself more than anyone else.

Bitter at the slight she had shown his sister, Adam had also been relieved. He had no desire to see his mother, who would likely muck up the adoption proceedings with her histrionics, at any rate.

“Yes, thank God! She’s still there. I just hope she stays away for the next three months, until we can get everything finalized.”

Peter hesitated before bringing up the next subject, which he knew would bring pain to his friend. But he also knew there was no getting around it. Adam wanted to be apprised of any and all developments concerning the murder of his sister. “There’s been no word on Curtis Tremayne. The district attorney’s office doesn’t have any new leads as to his whereabouts, and the private investigator we hired hasn’t turned up anything yet. It’s as if he’s fallen off the face of the earth.”

At the mention of his former brother-in-law, Adam’s eyes flashed quicksilver. He had warned Allison about marrying the handsome gold digger, but she’d fancied herself in love with Tremayne and hadn’t listened.

Now she was dead.

The bastard had strangled the sweet, lovely woman with his bare hands after beating her viciously beforehand. The sight of Allison’s battered body, when she was dying, had sickened Adam’s stomach and his mind. He would never forget what his sister had endured for the sake of love.

The only good that had come out of Allison’s relationship with Curtis Tremayne had been their daughter, Megan, and son, Andrew. Adam had promised Allison on her deathbed that he would keep the children from Tremayne and adopt them as his own.

“Hire more investigators. I want that guy found. It’s been three months since my sister’s murder, and we’ve had no justice, no closure. I want him to pay for what he’s done.”

Peter scribbled on his notepad. “I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”

“I want the media contacted about my plans to marry. You can coordinate your efforts with Miss Baxter. You’ve probably had more experience in dealing with the press than she has. Though she looks a damn sight better than you.”

The good-natured lawyer grinned. “You want national coverage—Good Morning America, the Today Show?”

Adam nodded. “I want the world to know that Adam Morgan is looking for a wife.”

“You’re going to make yourself a target for those who won’t agree with what you’re doing.”

The tall man shrugged. “It’s a small enough price to pay to honor my sister’s last request, don’t you think? And I’ve got you and Miss Baxter to run interference for me.” Adam finally smiled. “I think the woman is up for the challenge. How about you?”