Prelude to a Wedding (The Wedding Series Book 1) Read online

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  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 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 Darla 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.

  “It was,” he said in a tone that had just enough humor to escape self-pity. “I can see you think I had the easy role in this whole thing, but let me tell you, waiting rooms can really take it out of you.”

  She fought a grin. Business. Get back to business. “I’m sure they can. I’m glad everything went well in the end. It all turned out fine. Now—”

  His groan cut her off. “Went well? Are you crazy, lady? Midway through my day I had a woman walk into my office and tell me she was in labor, and it went downhill—fast—from there. Went well?”

  “I see your point. One expects one’s assistant to better arrange such matters.”

  She regretted the teasing words as soon as they were out. Nine out of ten men didn’t appreciate having their egos pricked by a sharp tongue, even in jest. Not the best way to win prospective clients. She could feel her hopes for entree to Centurian fading as fast as the October daylight. Then she saw the glint of appreciation in his eye, and sighed in relief. Paul Monroe, apparently, was the tenth man. Still, she’d be on safer ground if she got the conversation back to the matter at hand.

  “That’s right,” he said mildly. “An assistant should do this sort of stuff on her own time.”

  “I can guarantee you that none of the six candidates I have selected for you to choose from will pose a similar problem for you—at least not for the next few months.�
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  He sat up, and she became aware of the way his chest filled the misbuttoned shirt and his forearms swelled below the rolled-back sleeves. She swallowed, and remembered the things Jan Robson had told her about this man. Not her type. Not at all.

  “I sort of hoped you’d be my assistant.”

  The words to slash his presumption that any woman in an office was automatically an assistant welled up in her throat. She caught the gleam in his eyes just in time. The sort of gleam a kid’s eyes had as he waited for the teacher to open the desk with a frog hidden in it.

  He’d baited the hook and cast it out there like an expert. And she’d almost fallen for it.

  “I don’t have the credentials to join the Mission: Impossible team,” she said smoothly. She tapped the folder on her desk. “But these people do. Why don’t you look at the profiles tonight and let me know in the morning whom you would like. Someone will fill in there tomorrow, then your selection should be available, say—” she checked the thick appointment book spread open on her desk “—Monday morning. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Very efficient.” He said the right words, but his tone didn’t have the note of appreciation she might have hoped for. She could feel the “but” coming before his mouth even formed the word. “But I don’t think I’m in any shape tonight to give these profiles the consideration they deserve. I’d hate to gloss over them, but I’m afraid that’s what would happen.”

  Despite his politely tailored words, Paul Monroe was being a smart aleck. She should be irritated at him for not taking her work seriously, but he obviously didn’t take himself any more seriously. That glint in his eyes seemed to invite her to find a joke to share with him.

  She gave her head a tiny shake. Jokes? She couldn’t afford to think about jokes. Business. “What do you propose, then?”

  He grinned.

  Uh-oh. She’d made the mistake of giving Paul Monroe the perfect opening, and she’d been caught.

  He sat up, slinging his jacket over one forearm and tucking the folder under his elbow. “As long as you asked, I think it would be a wonderful service of Top-Line Temporaries if you came and told me all about these candidates over dinner. An oral report instead of making me wade through the written report.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Dinner.” He stood, and tipped his head as he examined what she feared was the incredibly stupid expression on her face. “You do eat, don’t you?”

  “Of course I eat.”

  “Yeah, I guess you don’t look really anorexic, but you do look a little thin. My mother would love to get her hands on you and fatten you up some.”

  “Your mother?” What was he doing talking about his mother? He was a client. A client. He’d proposed a business dinner. A little unorthodoxly, perhaps, but a business dinner nonetheless.

  “Yeah, Mom’s a throwback to the old days. You’d think a Lake Forest matron who does charity luncheons and supports the symphony would have followed the trend into alfalfa sprouts and organic tomatoes, wouldn’t you?”

  Bette was vaguely aware that his hand under her elbow, warm and firm and so very much there, was supposed to encourage her to rise from her chair. She rose. He handed her her briefcase and she accepted it. He steered her toward the door and she followed. Too preoccupied by his comments, she paid little attention to where she was going.

  So he was from Lake Forest, from the North Shore, where suburbs were pristine and upbringings well-to-do.

  “But no alfalfa sprouts for Mom. She got fed up on that sort of thing as a kid herself.” Surely alfalfa sprouts hadn’t been big when his mother was a girl, so he must mean something else, but she had no idea what. Though she could swear she’d seen something like a grimace flicker across his face before being replaced by a grin. “She sticks to the basics of my childhood. And I’m happy to say my childhood was filled with double chocolate brownies and triple-decker sandwiches. All my buddies used to come to my house after school, just for the food. I don’t think even now she’s ever served granola in her life. Thank God. G’night.”

  He waved to Darla, who stared as they made their way through the outer office. “You’re leaving, Bette?”

  “She’s leaving,” Paul Monroe answered firmly. “We’re going to dinner.”

  “Great!”

  Bette cringed a little at Darla’s enthusiasm, which made it sound as if Bette hadn’t gone to dinner with a man in a year. And she had. Doug Burton, last winter. Once.

  She tried to slow her pace against the tug on her elbow.

  “Uh, maybe I should wait...lock up.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll lock up.” So much for Darla’s help. Her dazzling smile lit her face. “You two go on and have a nice dinner. Have fun.”

  The last two words might have qualified as an order.

  “We will,” Paul promised.