Читать книгу The Wedding Planner - Millie Criswell - Страница 10

“I quit!”

Meredith threw her purse down on the counter, knocking several bridal magazines onto the floor in the process, dropped her portfolio at her feet and dared Randall, who was staring wide-eyed at her, to object to her decision. Which, of course, he did.

“You can’t quit, sweetie. You own the place.” He came around from behind the counter and shoved a mug of coffee in her face. It was warm and steaming and smelled utterly delicious. “Here, drink this. It’s mocha almond fudge and it’s guaranteed to make even the most hideous problem dissolve straight away.”

“Thanks.” The chocolate aroma soothed her immediately. Why did anyone need tranquilizers when chocolate was so readily available? “I know I’m being childish,” Meredith admitted, taking a sip and murmuring her approval. “But that—that man makes me nuts. He’s so damn arrogant, so damn…rich.”

She’d thought after last night that maybe he had some semblance of common decency and, well…normalcy about him. Granted their phone conversation had been strange and disjointed, and she’d never truly figured out why he’d called—the lame excuse he’d given about the interview just didn’t wash—but she’d enjoyed their brief talk, even though he’d rudely slammed the phone in her ear. But every time she formed the opinion that maybe there was more to Adam Morgan than just a large bank account and an overabundance of arrogance, he went and did something stupid.

Guiding Meredith to the consultation area, usually reserved for prospective clients, Randall took a seat on the green-and-rose-flowered-chintz love seat and urged his distraught employer to do the same.

“At least he can pay the exorbitant bill we’re going to charge him, right?” His grin was infectious, and Meredith finally smiled.

“I’m gonna stick it to him, Randall. You’d better believe it. I’m gonna nail that arrogant piece of pomposity for every grain of rice, every inch of ribbon, every damn candle that illuminates his glorious day.”

“So, what’d he do? Make a pass? Try and molest you while you were strolling the sacred grounds of the Morgantown Country Club?”

Meredith pulled a face. “Hardly. I doubt Morgan has enough animal instinct to recognize that I’m of the opposite sex.” Though she’d certainly recognized his gender right off, especially after a whiff of the heady musk aftershave he’d worn to their appointment. A fact that had made his rude comments seem all the worse.

With a disappointed sigh she explained, “We met in the grand ballroom of the country club, where the reception will most likely take place. It’s a lovely room with huge crystal chandeliers, delicate French wallpaper and an oak parquet dance floor. Anyway, I wasn’t there fifteen minutes when he looked me over from top to bottom in the most insulting way possible, mind you, and suggested in that superior way he has that I might want to wear something different to our next appointment.”

She looked down at her royal-blue suit. “What’s wrong with this? I know it’s the same suit I wore last time we met, but my green one’s at the cleaners, and I don’t have the money right now to buy another.”

Randall patted her hand in a consoling fashion, his aggrieved expression clearly stating that Adam Morgan had overstepped his bounds and committed the cardinal sin: criticizing one’s wearing apparel. “What is he, the fashion police or something?”

“What he is, is a rich, snooty society snob who expects everyone to have had the same advantages as he. Well, I told Daddy Warbucks what he could do with his arrogant, rude and unwanted opinion. Then I did the only sensible thing I could think of.”

“Uh-oh.” Shutting his eyes, Meredith’s assistant braced for the worst, knowing the woman, as sweet as she was, had a wicked temper when pushed. “Which was?”

“I dumped a pitcher of water onto his lap, told him to get over himself and stalked out.”

“Sacrebleu!” Randall, who was taking French lessons, liked interjecting new words he’d learned into the conversation whenever he could. Sacrebleu and mon dieu were at the top of his list at the moment.

“Sacrebleu, is right! I think I just blew our ten thousand dollar deposit and the future of this business.”

“I don’t suppose you’d consider apologizing.”

Meredith jumped to her feet. “Apologize? To him? Absolutely not! Are you crazy? The man is a Neanderthal. He has no social graces whatsoever, despite his privileged upbringing and fat bank account. I’m sorry I ever accepted the job in the first place.”

Meredith’s adamant feelings were reinforced a few hours later while seated at the mahogany table with one of her most important clients, who’d come into the store to discuss possibilities for a mother-of-the-groom dress for her son’s upcoming wedding.

The door flung open and a blast of cold air entered, along with Adam Morgan.

The wedding consultant gasped at the sight of the man, her face paling slightly, making Joan O’Connor turn her head to see what had caused such an overt reaction.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he said, as if that would make up for his insufferable behavior.

He was wearing a different suit from the one Meredith had doused earlier—gray wool with a matching vest and pearl-gray shirt, which just happened to make the color of his eyes stand out—and he looked none the worse for wear. In fact, he looked mouth-wateringly good. Yummy, even.

Brushing the disturbing thought aside before she began to drool, she said, “I’m with a client right now, Mr. Morgan. If you care to have a seat on the sofa, I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” She wasn’t in any hurry to get rid of Mrs. O’Connor; the idea of making Morgan wait warmed her.

He stood beside the table, not moving a muscle, as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “I’ll buy you a new suit. In fact, I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe. It’s the least I can do to make up for—”

It was Mrs. O’Connor’s turn to gasp, though it was Meredith who turned beet red. The stupid man had made it sound as if she were his mistress, or kept woman, or whatever. It was obvious he’d given that impression to the stodgy matron, who was looking at her with shock and indignation.

Like Adam Morgan, Mrs. William O’Connor was one of the First Families of West Virginia. She’d even had the distinction FFWVA emblazoned on her personalized license plate for all the world to see. It was purported that her grandfather, Willy Fitzwilliam O’Connor, was the first resident of Morgantown to have owned and operated a thriving bordello, though Mrs. O’Connor adamantly denied the scandalous assertion, which had been made by a Morgan. The O’Connors and the Morgans hadn’t gotten along since.

Forcing a smile, Meredith said, “If you’ll excuse me one minute, Mrs. O’Connor, I need to deal with something.”

The woman glared disapprovingly at Adam, then at Meredith, and gave a loud harrumph, clearly annoyed at the whole proceeding. “I’ll come back another time. I don’t like getting involved in matters that don’t concern me. And I certainly don’t like to be kept waiting.

“And you, young woman,” she said to Meredith, “seem to have your hands full at the moment.” With an imperious lift of her chins, and pointing her nose in the air, she turned and stalked out the door, leaving Meredith speechless and standing with her mouth gaping open.

But only momentarily.

“Now see what you’ve done! You’re not only ruining my life, you’re ruining my business.”

Adam stiffened, clearly not used to being castigated, especially by a woman—a woman he’d just apologized to. He did not normally apologize to anyone. “I can’t be blamed for the rudeness of your clientele, Miss Baxter.”

“Rudeness of my—” She threw back her head and laughed, but there was no humor in it. Rather, the sound resembled nails raking down a blackboard. “That’s rich. You, of all people, calling someone else rude. How very novel.” Actually, she knew for a fact that Mrs. O’Connor was extremely rude to most everyone she encountered and was prone to meddling in matters that didn’t concern her, though she would declare otherwise.

“I said I was sorry. I offered to buy you a new wardrobe to make amends.”

“I don’t want a new wardrobe! I’m perfectly happy with the miserable one I’ve got.”

Adam had never met a woman who didn’t like or want new clothes. His sister had purchased a new wardrobe approximately every six weeks, saying fashionable clothing lifted her spirits. Perhaps the young woman was spirited enough. Or perhaps she was just stubborn and opinionated.

“My sister and mother always liked shopping for new clothes,” he explained. “I thought you might, too.”

She heaved a sigh, for it was suddenly quite obvious that the man was totally clueless and had no idea he’d offended her.

Where Adam Morgan came from money grew on trees, and the women in his life spent it freely, buying whatever they wanted with no thought to cost, designer label or starving children in India. Meredith, on the other hand, was on a fixed budget and spent only when it was absolutely necessary. Her business obligations came before her wardrobe, which admittedly lacked a certain flair and would probably have given Ann Taylor and Donna Karan heart seizures.

“Sometimes, Mr. Morgan, it might be a good idea to stop and think before opening your mouth. Not everyone has had your advantages in life. And it’s not necessary to say every little thing that pops into your head.” She wanted to say “your thick head” but she refrained.

He studied her. Meredith Baxter was quite different from any woman he’d ever known. She spoke her mind freely—albeit a bit too freely—was as organized in business as he was himself and didn’t mind going out on a limb if her instincts called for it.

She’d so much as called him stupid over those wedding invitations. No one had ever dared do that before! But rather than be annoyed, he was impressed. He wondered if maybe he really was stupid.

“Upon further reflection, Miss Baxter, that blue suit is very becoming with your red hair and green eyes. And it certainly fits you well.” Too well, as his body could amply testify. Only a surgical glove would have been more form fitting on her luscious body. “I shouldn’t have remarked on the frequency of its use. I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.” She heaved another sigh, and his eyes followed her heaving bosom—up and down, making Meredith acutely aware that, though he was somewhat of a dolt, he was still all male. “Are we still on for tomorrow morning, then?” she asked. They had an appointment to review fabric samples. Adam Morgan intended to give input on the bridal gown and bridesmaid dresses, having apparently changed his mind about those seemingly trivial matters he’d spoken of previously.

“Only if you promise to leave your water canister at home.” His lips twitched; her cheeks pinkened.

“Two jokes in two days. My, my. I’m blown away by your sense of humor, Mr. Morgan.”

“Adam. Please call me Adam.”

She arched a brow. “You’re sure? Because—”

“I’m sure.” He held out his hand, and Meredith took it. It was warm and firm, the knuckles lightly sprinkled with dark, masculine hairs. His hands exuded strength and confidence, maybe gentleness, and she was suddenly overcome with a pulsing sensation in her lower extremities that felt as if her heart had just gone into hyperdrive.

Good gracious! she thought. I’m attracted to Daddy Warbucks.

CURTIS TREMAYNE INHALED deeply of the cigarette clutched in his long, tapered fingers. His nails, once manicured religiously, were now jagged and dirty. He blew out a series of concentric smoke rings, then smiled sinisterly at the image projected on the TV screen—an image that provoked only one emotion: hatred for Adam Morgan.

“Rich bastard!” he muttered, stabbing the butt out in a plastic ashtray that read Murray’s Roadside Garage, and rolling himself off the lumpy excuse of a mattress.

The Howard Hotel wasn’t exactly the kind of accommodation he’d been used to frequenting. When he’d been married to Allison they’d only traveled first class, dined in gourmet restaurants and stayed in five-star hotels. His wife’s money had provided all the creature comforts a man in his position could want.

Curtis liked only the best, which was why he’d chosen Allison Morgan, the darling of Morgantown society, the spoiled, pampered pet of her ruthless father Allistair Morgan, who’d been as rich as Croesus and as mean as a junkyard dog. Curtis had hated him on sight.

Unfortunately, his wife was now dead, and he’d been cut off from all the Morgan wealth. Though he didn’t mourn Allison—he’d never been in love with the foolish woman—he did mourn the loss of his Hugo Boss suits and sleek black Jaguar, which he’d been forced to leave behind when fleeing his former home.

It was a pity the way things had turned out. But, as usual, Allison had pushed his temper to the limit, always whining about his drinking, the women he fooled around with, the kids he never wanted and hadn’t paid attention to.