Prelude to a Wedding Read online

  PRELUDE TO A WEDDING

  Patricia McLinn

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  Published by Patricia McLinn at Smashwords

  Copyright 2010 Patricia McLinn

  First published 1991 by Silhouette

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  Discover other titles by Patricia McLinn at Smashwords:

  Hoops

  A New World

  Rodeo Nights

  Not a Family Man

  Prelude to a Wedding

  A Stranger in the Family

  A Stranger to Love

  The Rancher Meets His Match

  Widow Woman

  Lost and Found Groom

  The Games

  Principal of Love

  ~

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The Wedding Series:

  ~

  Prelude to a Wedding

  Wedding Party

  Grady's Wedding

  The Runaway Bride

  ~

  ~

  GRW Maggie Finalist

  "Wonderful emotional turmoil and growth with a great 'last-minute-save' ending." ~ Rendezvous

  ~

  ~

  To Ginni,

  Who believed,

  even when there were no endings,

  and who gave the best advice of all:

  Just Get It Done

  ~

  Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or errors in this book, please send them to me at:

  Patricia (at) PatriciaMcLinn (dot) com .

  Even with many layers of editing, mistakes can slip through, alas. But, together, we can erradicate the nasty nuisances. Thank you! - Patricia McLinn

  Chapter One

  "Paul, I'm having the baby."

  Paul Monroe stared in disbelief at the woman standing at the far side of his old-fashioned desk. A ripple of panic swept through him, but he swallowed and tried a chuckle. It sounded feeble. "You gotta be kidding, right?"

  "No. I'm not kidding."

  He saw the strain in Jan's young face, backing up her words, but still he hoped for a reprieve.

  "I mean, you told me all along that this would happen sometime—"

  "I told you it would happen today."

  He'd heard that exasperated tone enough to ignore it.

  "And I've seen it coming for a while, so I knew you'd have the baby someday—"

  "Not someday. Today. And not sometime. Now."

  Paul stared at Jan and wished he'd had an urge to make calls outside the office this morning, or an impulse to play hooky. The day had sure been tempting enough, with Indian summer casting sparkling October light across Chicago. Surely he could have found something he had to do outside the office. Maybe an appraisal in the country, down winding lanes between half-bare trees revealing bites of blue sky.

  Not that he minded coming to his office most days. Building and office alike held an ambience Sam Spade would have recognized immediately. Paul liked that.

  But some days he just didn't feel like being confined by four walls, and he was lucky enough and good enough in his field so that on those days he could find something else to do. He wished he had today, because then he wouldn't be here facing his very pregnant and soon-to-be-beyond-pregnant-and-into-motherhood secretary, wondering what in the hell he was supposed to do next.

  Hospital. That's what he was supposed to do. Get her to the hospital. Damn, this should have been Ed's job. Fathers-to-be had a moral responsibility to make this panicked drive to the hospital—not bosses.

  "Are you—?"

  "I'm sure. I've been timing the contractions for a while and they're getting close now. Plus my water broke."

  He might not know much about women having babies, but anybody who'd ever watched TV knew that phrase meant business. "Have you called—?"

  "I've called the hospital," Jan informed him, still efficient even when her skin went pale and her breath came hard with a contraction. Contraction—that seemed a mighty polite word for what appeared to be just plain agony. "They're expecting us." With a smile that shone even through the pain, she patted her protruding stomach. "And I've called Ed's office. They're trying to track him down and he'll meet us there."

  Paul should have known she'd have everything taken care of. On the other hand, she scheduled everything so darn efficiently, why couldn't she have scheduled this moment for about three hours earlier or six hours later so she'd be at home? Then he wouldn't have to be the one saying, "Okay, I'll dri—"

  "I appreciate your driving to the hospital." He also should have known her ability to anticipate his sentences wouldn't abate even in the throes of childbirth. Jan Robson might be only twenty-five, but sometimes she awed him. What awed him most was how she ran his office to her own exacting standards without impinging on his freedom. She was amazing. She never let up.

  Nearly before the thought finished forming in his mind, she spoke. "But before we leave for the hospital, you have a phone call to make."

  "Aw, Jan."

  "You've been putting it off and putting it off, and there's no more putting it off now. It's exactly the way you're dealing with the proposal from the Smithsonian, too. Eventually you won't be able to ignore that, either."

  He ignored her second statement. "This wasn't supposed to happen until Halloween."

  "No. I've told you all along that the due date was October 7. And I'm right on time—"

  Of course she was, Paul thought. Jan was always right on time.

  "— but you chose to pretend it would happen until Halloween because you'll be out of town then. You wouldn't make the call before, so you have to make it now."

  "But Jan—"

  "You promised, Paul."

  "I know, but this isn't the time—"

  "This is the time."

  "After I get you to the hospital—"

  "No. Now, while I can make sure you do it."

  "I'll talk Centurian into giving me somebody on loan like they did when you had flu two years ago and for your honeymoon and—"

  "Disasters, every time. Besides, no secretary from Centurian will work for you now that they know better and—"

  "But they all like me," he protested with a faint satisfaction at, for once, getting to interrupt her.

  It would be easiest if he could use one of the Centurian Insurance secretaries. Even as an independent contractor, he did enough work for them that they'd rented him this cubbyhole office. A Centurian secretary would have at least a basic understanding of what he did, besides knowing where to find the copying machine.

  "Of course they like you. Everybody likes you, but they all know what you're like to work for and they won't do it. You'd run wild with a regular temporary, and I won't have you— Ah!"

  The way she broke off and clutched her hand to her stomach propelled him out of his chair and to her side in record time. Then there was nothing to do but give her the support of an arm around her shoulders until he felt the tension ease out of her.

  "Jan, we need to get you to the hospital."

  She looked up at him through eyes glazed with pain, joy and determination. "You promised."

  Hell! Hell and damnation! He pivoted and reached the phone in one stride. "You don't play fair, woman."

  "That's the only way to win with you."

  "What's the number?" he grumbled, a grin fighting a
gainst the churning in his stomach. She did know him well.

  She gave it to him. "And the person you want to talk to is Bette Wharton." She pronounced the first name as one syllable.

  He repeated the name when the voice on the other end of the line identified herself as Top-Line Temporaries and asked how she could help him.

  He heard the click of the phone as he was transferred, then a new voice answered, "Bette Wharton."

  This voice sounded crisp and cool on the surface with the hint of something smooth and hot inside, and it made him think inexplicably of a spicy cheese concoction his mother used to stuff celery. Despite his tension over Jan, he almost grinned. How might this unknown woman on the other end of the telephone line react to being compared to stuffed celery?

  "This is Paul Monroe. I'm calling because—"

  "Ah, yes, Mr. Monroe. I've been expecting your call."

  "You have?" He looked up, prepared to skewer his secretary with a look. She would have him call somebody with the same trick as hers of not needing him to finish sentences. And why in the world did he have to make this call if Jan had already lined things up?

  "Yes. I have a list of candidates."

  But Paul wasn't listening. His dirty look had changed to one of worry.

  "Tell her," Jan ordered. She exhaled with a breath he supposed she'd learned at that birthing class she and Ed had attended.

  "I need a secretary," he blurted out.

  "I know. As I said, I have several candidates. But I think you should make the final choice. If you'd like to stop by our office, or I could come by your office—"

  "I'll come there . . . sometime. Maybe today or—I don't know— We have to get to the hospital. Now! We're having a baby!"

  Bette Wharton held the receiver long after the fumbling click had severed the connection, as if the instrument in her hand could reveal to her the scene on the other end. Only when the dial tone pierced her fog did she hang up.

  So Jan Robson was having her baby. And Paul Monroe needed a temporary secretary. Which meant she'd finally meet him.

  She'd been intrigued ever since the brisk young secretary first came to her office five months ago and explained that she would be going on maternity leave eventually and needed a very special temporary secretary for her very special boss. Bette had regarded the news as propitious. For two years, she had been steadfastly guiding Top-Line toward just that niche in the marketplace—matching special needs with special service. Providing a replacement for Jan Robson could be the perfect gauge of how well she and Top-Line were doing.

  Bette had wondered at first if there was more between secretary and boss than dictation, but Jan Robson saw Paul Monroe's faults far too clearly to be romantically involved with him. It had been Bette's observation that women in love lost the ability to reason when it came to the men involved.

  No, Jan simply had a very high regard for her boss of six years. Bette wondered why, when the man Jan described sounded so little like a businesslike adult, but she couldn't doubt the secretary's feelings.

  In deference to those feelings and with an eye to her company's future, she had conducted the search for Paul Monroe's temporary secretary personally. The results pleased her. All the employees at Top-Line were just that, but the ones she had selected for Mr. Monroe's approval were the top of the top.

  Now all she had to do was wait for the enigmatic Paul Monroe to make his appearance so he could make his selection.

  * * * *

  Darla Clarence closed Bette's office door behind her.

  "There's a Paul Monroe out front asking for you. I can tell him you've left for the day."

  Bette recognized the offer as part of Darla's long-running campaign to get her to work less. And that meant it must be nearing six, since that was when Darla usually started encouraging her to go home; most nights Bette didn't follow the advice until two or three hours later.

  "That's all right, Darla. I'll see him now. He could turn out to be a very important client for us."

  "Just a one-man office," Darla said with a hint of a sniff.

  "True, but he has pull with Centurian. He's our first contact with them, and you know what a prestigious account that would be. That could open a lot of doors."

  In her overall plan, Bette had targeted such large corporate clients for her fifth year in business. Having the opportunity this soon felt like winning the lottery. Even so, she wouldn't trust to luck to make the most of it. She'd already drafted a proposal of what she could offer Centurian. But first Top-Line had to impress Paul Monroe enough that he'd recommend her company.

  Darla gave an almost silent click of disapproval, but started to open the door.

  "He doesn't look like any important client I've ever seen. At least not for our kind of business." She hesitated with her hand on the doorknob and glanced back at Bette, a glint in her dark eyes. "Funny business is what he looks like he's best suited for."

  The soft chuckle Dada left behind puzzled Bette as much as her words. Neither prepared her for Paul Monroe, who started talking the minute he came through the door.

  "Hi. Whew, what a day. And this is only the middle of the week! I don't know if I'll make it to Friday at this rate. Hard to believe when people spout off about you-really-should-have-a-family they're talking about putting you through this 2.5 times. Once is enough to cure anybody."

  Before Bette could rise from behind her desk to greet him properly, he'd crossed the room and flopped into the padded armchair. Eyes closed, legs extended, arms dangling over the arms of the chair, he looked as if he didn't have a bone in his compact body. At least not a self-conscious bone. He acted as if they'd known each other for years.

  She swallowed her surprise. On second thought, he did look as if he'd had a rough day. In fact, he looked as if he'd spent it re-enacting Romancing the Stone.

  His dark gray suit was top quality, but the jacket—now critically rumpled—was dangling from two crooked fingers. His slacks bore multiple creases and seemed oddly wrinkled at the knees. The knot of his silk tie rested at midchest, and his limp shirt showed a coffee stain on one rolled-back sleeve. The third button from the top had been matched with the second buttonhole, giving him a lopsided air.

  His shining chestnut hair would do a racehorse proud, but any self-respecting Thoroughbred would demand a better brushing than this mane seemed to have gotten, she thought with a private grin.

  "Sure, go ahead and laugh at someone who's been through eight of the nine levels of hell today," he said.

  At the sound of his voice, she stifled a start and killed the grin. Great. Nothing like laughing at a new client to impress him. He'd opened his eyes, but only halfway, as if he could manage no more. When she met his look, however, she saw his eyes were dancing. She'd always thought that was only a figure of speech, but his truly did. The green flecks that showed against a gray background performed something lively and agile. If he'd been through eight levels of hell, well, she could believe he'd brought a bit of the devil back with him.

  "You're the most cheerful martyr I've ever heard," she surprised herself by saying.

  His grin widened in satisfaction—with himself, or her, or both, Bette didn't know. "That's the only way to go— singing at the stake."

  "A variation on singing for your supper, I suppose."

  "For my sup—? Ah, I get it. Stake turns to steak, as in charbroiled. I see why Jan picked you. I'll have to mind my P's and Q's—and I'm not talking vegetables."

  Bette shifted at the reminder of why he'd come. Word-play was fun, but this was business. "Yes, well... Uh, how is Jan? And the baby? Your call ended rather abruptly."

  "Both doing fine. A boy. Edward, Jr. Eight pounds eight ounces, all parts fully operational. Especially the lungs. Although his father's a little worse for wear at the moment." He held up a palm as if to forestall her, his first movement other than raising his eyelids. "And yes, before you ask, he does look worse than me right now."

  "You mean he was there? I thought…"


  His eyes narrowed and she felt as if she'd had a spotlight trained on her. "Of course he was there. And what did you think?"

  "From your appearance, and from what you said, I thought…" Hesitating, she met his gaze and came to the conclusion that evasion was not a viable option if she wanted to stay on good terms with this man. "I thought you must have been in the delivery room somehow."

  His eyes popped wide open. "The delivery room? Good Lord, woman, are you crazy?" His body seemed to sag in reaction to the energy he'd expended in astonishment. "It was bad enough in the waiting room. I never would have made it in the delivery room!"

  She tried not to laugh. She really did. It was no use. In the end, she had to wipe moisture from her eyes and take three deep breaths to get her voice under control.

  "I see." Another deep breath might get rid of the final quiver of amusement in her words, so she gave it a try, avoiding Paul Monroe's gaze. She had a feeling his dancing eyes would surely pave the road to relapse. "I imagine the hospital personnel wouldn't let you in there."

  One eyebrow rose in a quizzical expression that invited her to share his amusement. "Actually, they all presumed I was Jan's husband at first, and for once in her life Jan was too preoccupied to straighten out the mess. I filled out some forms they shoved in my hands, then they kept telling me to follow this corridor and turn that way and check in with this desk and see that nurse. Ed arrived just in time. I tried to explain, but they were making threatening noises about my scrubbing and joining my wife in the labor room when he showed up. When they realized he was the father, they got all huffy, as if I'd been trying to worm my way into some secret place, and they kicked me out to spend the rest of the miserable afternoon in the waiting room."

  "That must have been very difficult for you." Bette had had time to damp down the laughter, but apparently he didn't fall for the straight face she'd assumed.