The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal

The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal Karen Toller Whittenburg Cinderella by Mistake!When a case of mistaken identity landed Katie Canton in the Braddock world of wealth and power, she couldn't resist the temptation to mingle with the famous family. Especially fascinating eldest brother, Adam. Getting the commanding C.E.O. to loosen up was a worthy cause–until Katie realized the danger of opening her heart to a man whose master plan did not include Ms. Nobody from Nowhere!The unshakeable Adam was all shook up–and a slip of a woman was to blame. Mysterious Katie had tilted his ordered world off its axis. Would the man who had everything recognize the one gift money couldn't buy–a lifetime of love?Billion Dollar Braddocks: Born to a legacy of wealth and power, three handsome brothers discover that love is the ultimate privilege. Katie stepped into the back of the Rolls-Royce…and came face-to-face with Adam Braddock What was he doing here? And what would she say when he demanded to know why a waitress was climbing into his Rolls-Royce? “Ms. Canton? I’m Adam Braddock,” he said, extending his hand over his laptop computer. “Hello,” she said, realizing he hadn’t recognized her. Yet. A phone rang—conveniently positioned in a door console—and Adam picked it up. Katie could feel the energy in his conversation. There was frustration beneath his incredibly perfect surface. She’d thought him attractive in the restaurant, but here in his natural habitat, he was quite extraordinarily handsome. Katie leaned back against the supple leather seat and watched him in profile. What would it be like, she wondered, to have Adam Braddock focus that same intensity on her? When he realized she was the waitress he’d met at the Torrid Tomato restaurant, and not the fancy events coordinator he thought he’d hired, she just might find out. Dear Reader, Harlequin American Romance has rounded up the best romantic reading to help you celebrate Valentine’s Day. Start off with the final installment in the MAITLAND MATERNITY: TRIPLETS, QUADS & QUINTS series. The McCallum Quintuplets is a special three-in-one volume featuring New York Times bestselling author Kasey Michaels, Mindy Neff and Mary Anne Wilson. BILLION-DOLLAR BRADDOCKS, Karen Toller Whittenburg’s new family-connected miniseries, premiers this month with The C. E. O.’s Unplanned Proposal. In this Cinderella story, a small-town waitress is swept into the Braddock world of wealth and power and puts eldest brother Adam Braddock’s bachelor status to the test. Next, in Bonnie Gardner’s Sgt. Billy’s Bride, an air force controller is in desperate need of a fianc?e to appease his beloved, ailing mother, so he asks a beautiful stranger to become his wife. Can love bloom and turn their pretend engagement into wedded bliss? Finally, we welcome another new author to the Harlequin American family. Sharon Swan makes her irresistible debut with Cowboys and Cradles. Enjoy this month’s offerings, and be sure to return next month when Harlequin American Romance launches a new cross-line continuity, THE CARRADIGNES: AMERICAN ROYALTY, with The Improperly Pregnant Princess by Jacqueline Diamond. Wishing you happy reading, Melissa Jeglinski Associate Senior Editor Harlequin American Romance The C.E.O.’s Unplanned Proposal Karen Toller Whittenburg www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) To Paula and Genell, my companions on the journey. And to Cathy Gillen Thacker, for encouragement above and beyond. Thanks, Cathy! ABOUT THE AUTHOR Karen Toller Whittenburg is a native Oklahoman who fell in love with books the moment she learned to read and has been addicted to the written word ever since. She wrote stories as a child, but it wasn’t until she discovered romance fiction that she felt compelled to write, fascinated by the chance to explore the positive power of love in people’s lives. She grew up in Sand Springs (an historic town on the Arkansas River), attended Oklahoma State University and now lives in Tulsa with her husband, a professional photographer. Books by Karen Toller Whittenburg HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE 197—SUMMER CHARADE 249—MATCHED SET 294—PEPPERMINT KISSES 356—HAPPY MEDIUM 375—DAY DREAMER 400—A PERFECT PAIR 424—FOR THE FUN OF IT 475—BACHELOR FATHER 528—WEDDING OF HER DREAMS 552—THE PAUPER AND THE PRINCESS 572—NANNY ANGEL 621—MILLION-DOLLAR BRIDE* (#litres_trial_promo) 630—THE FIFTY-CENT GROOM* (#litres_trial_promo) 648—TWO-PENNY WEDDING* (#litres_trial_promo) 698—PLEASE SAY “I DO” 708—THE SANTA SUIT 727—A BACHELOR FALLS 745—IF WISHES WERE…WEDDINGS 772—HOW TO CATCH A COWBOY 794—BABY BY MIDNIGHT? 822—LAST-MINUTE MARRIAGE 877—HIS SHOTGUN PROPOSAL 910—THE C. E. O.’S UNPLANNED PROPOSAL† (#litres_trial_promo) Contents Prologue (#ub679687c-47b4-56f7-8f1c-86708d9202be) Chapter One (#u74bf1b4d-2bc3-5193-9e0a-762680213ee5) Chapter Two (#ub7673f6d-01a4-5cd9-914a-59f0928822b5) Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue Archer Braddock beat the rain to the top of the steps of Number 37 Lancashire and raised his cane to rap smartly on the front door. He liked the sound of wood on wood, found the cheerful chiming of a doorbell both annoying and intrusive, but a knock…ah, a knock was resonant discourse, an “I-have-business-within” announcement. Hadn’t he always told Janey he could tell as much about a man by his knock on the door as by his handshake? If she were here now, she’d remind him that using a cane instead of his knuckles was cheating somewhat on that theory, but arthritis had long since taken the strength from his hands, and death had stolen away his Janey. Still, she was the reason he was outside this particular door on this particular day, waiting to be admitted. “Ah, Janey, Janey,” he murmured softly. “Happy Anniversary, my dear.” The door swung open just as the cold, January rain started in earnest and without waiting for a formal invitation, he stepped into the sheltered entryway. “Archer Braddock,” he announced himself to the crisp, somber-faced butler. “I have a two o’clock appointment with Mrs. Fairchild.” “Yes, sir. We’ve been expecting you.” The butler closed the door and Archer doffed his hat, sending a fine splatter of raindrops across the marbled tile. “Did you have an umbrella, sir?” the man asked as he expertly assisted in the removal of Archer’s topcoat and gloves. “No. No, I’m afraid not.” There was one in the car, of course. His own man, Abbott, would never have let him leave the house without being properly equipped for every conceivable shift in the weather—it was a matter of pride among butlers, it seemed—but Archer had forgotten the umbrella when he’d dismissed the car. He hadn’t wanted anyone, including his completely trustworthy driver, to know where his appointment was today or with whom. “Your scarf, sir?” The butler stood ready to accept the gray cashmere muffler, and Archer allowed his hand to linger a moment in the soft folds before he pulled it from around his neck. It was a gift from Janey one long-ago winter and a present reminder that she was never far from his side…if only in warm memory. And today, more than ever, Archer needed to feel her near. The butler carefully folded the scarf and set it beside Archer’s hat on a marble top credenza. “Mrs. Fairchild is in the study,” he said. “If you’ll follow me, please.” Archer settled his balance over the cane and set off after the butler. Not so many years ago, he’d largely have ignored his surroundings, taken for granted the beauty of luxury, and already been focused on the meeting ahead. But seventy-eight summers had taught him life was in a big enough rush without him adding to it and so he walked slower now, by choice as much as necessity. He’d never been to Ilsa’s home before, never had occasion or reason to be there until now and he was—as silly as it seemed—a little nervous. But the quiet charm of her home put some of his more niggling doubts to rest. Touches of elegance such as an Aubusson rug in the foyer, a Picasso on the wall leading upstairs, vases of fresh-cut flowers on mahogany tables in the open foyer were interspersed with simple indications—an old woven basket holding garden shears and a pair of women’s flowery cotton gloves, a pair of half-glasses sitting atop an upended book—that the woman who lived in this house was not overly concerned with appearances. The butler led the way across the foyer to an open doorway and announced crisply, “Mr. Archer Braddock.” “Mr. Braddock.” Ilsa Fairchild rose from an upholstered wing chair before a cozy fire to greet him warmly. “Right on time. Please come in.” Archer stepped over the threshold, calling himself three kinds of a fool for setting out on this errand, for being an old man who still wished to believe in fairy tales and magic, but he extended his hand to her with a deceptively confident smile. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “I don’t often make the trip into Providence.” “I’m thrilled that you called. It’s wonderful to see you again.” She accepted his handshake and then indicated with a gesture that he should be seated in the matching wing chair across from hers. “It’s been…what? Five years since we worked together on the library fund-raiser?” “About that,” Archer agreed. “There have been so many of them through the years, I’ve lost track of which was which. The library always was one of Janey’s pet projects, you know.” “Mine, as well.” Ilsa resumed her seat, graciously allowing him time to settle his less-than-graceful body into the chair while she addressed the butler. “Robert? Would you please bring us some tea and—” she looked a question at Archer “—coffee?” He sank onto the cushions, grateful to be sitting after his walk in the moist afternoon air. “I would appreciate a cup of coffee,” he agreed. Robert nodded acquiescence and withdrew, closing the double doors and enclosing Archer in the welcome warmth of the room and Ilsa’s smile. She still looked like a youngster to him although he knew she was in her early fifties, at most only a year or two younger than his own son, James. Age and experience had mined her beauty, faceted her charm, replacing lustrous youth with polished grace. She was still beautiful, tall, elegantly slender, with hair that had once been the color of new copper, but had faded to a muted auburn. Her gray eyes held the light of laughter and the knowledge of sorrow, but mostly the deep-set twinkle of a true believer and that, above all else, was the reason he had come. “I was in Amsterdam when I heard about Mrs. Braddock’s passing.” Ilsa leaned slightly toward him with sympathy and the understanding of a widow for a widower. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t have attended the funeral.” It would be two years in March since that day and still the word bothered him as much now as then. “Celebration,” he corrected gently. “Funeral has such a final sound to it and, well, the truth is, I prefer to remember that day as a celebration of her life. She would have wanted to go out on a high note, you know.” “I wish I’d known her better,” Ilsa said. “But any woman who was so obviously adored by the men in her life had to have been very special, indeed.” “She was the love of my life, and I knew it the first second I laid eyes on her.” Archer leaned against the firmly cushioned chair back, shifting the crook of the sturdy, cherrywood cane—yet another lasting gift from his Janey—to the chair’s curved arm. “I know the value of love and the benefits of a good marriage. That’s why I’m here. My dear Mrs. Fairchild…may I call you Ilsa? I find myself in need of a…matchmaker.” ILSA WAS SELDOM surprised by comments made inside the privacy of her study. Her clients tended to be nervous, unsure and somewhat embarrassed about their decision to seek her services. Often, the person seated across from her had no real idea of what she could and couldn’t do for them, nor was there any clear understanding of what, exactly, a matchmaker’s role was in the twenty-first century. With experience, Ilsa had learned to be forthright in setting a businesslike tone for these initial meetings, in establishing her credentials and outlining her strategies. It prevented problems down the road, but usually the client needed to first feel at ease and the business aspect didn’t come into play until after Robert had served tea, and the social niceties were duly dispatched. Archer Braddock was obviously not her typical client. “You need a matchmaker?” she repeated, knowing her surprise echoed in the words. “For yourself?” A hoarse rumble of amusement edged past his immediate smile and became a deep, satisfied chuckle. “Ah, Ilsa, it was worth the trip up from Sea Change just for that.” He lifted a wizened hand to his mouth, as if to cover his laughter, but when he let it drop back onto the arm of the chair, his amusement was still very much in evidence. “Thank you, my dear, for believing even for an instant that I could still fancy myself going a courting. But the truth is, I’ll be seventy-nine at the end of June and it’s too late in my life to go looking for love, even if Janey wasn’t—as my grandsons would say—such a tough act to follow.” Ilsa could feel a blush warming her cheeks and had to wonder what it was about the Braddock men that made her feel like such an ingenue. James had had the same effect on her when they were in school together, and the few times she had encountered him since. And now within the first ten minutes, she had reverted to speaking first and thinking afterward with his father, too. Of course, it could have had something to do with the fact that the Braddock name was synonymous with wealth and power, not only in Rhode Island, but up and down the Eastern seaboard. Maybe even in the whole western hemisphere! But Ilsa was no stranger to the privilege of family name and fortune herself and suspected her reaction was rooted in a much more basic reality. James and Archer Braddock were old world gentlemen, possessed of an elemental charm, a warm, earthy attraction and a sincere, somewhat awed regard for women. Archer had spent half a century deeply in love with his wife, while James—the last Ilsa had heard—was still seeking his perfect match. Still, there was some indefinable quality in both men that women responded to, naturally and without hesitation. Ilsa recognized it, even if she couldn’t quite put a name to it. Robert’s tap on the door and subsequent entry with the tea tray was a more welcome interruption than she wanted to admit. Occupying her hands with the china cups and making sure the coffee was just the way her guest preferred it gave her time to regain a professional mien. No matter how influential, famous and powerful the Braddock family undeniably was, Archer Braddock had come to her as a client, and she would treat him as such. Which meant, despite an almost overwhelming impulse to ask about James—where he was, what he was doing, if he were married or not—she would keep her thoughts to herself and listen. If she’d learned anything about the people who sought out her services, she knew that listening was the key to it all. It was her gift, the listening. That and the ability to detect a spark of attraction where none was supposed to exist. She’d barely swallowed her first sip of steaming Earl Grey, however, when Archer nailed her with the unexpected yet again. “You remember James?” he asked, as if there were some possibility she could have forgotten him. “I believe the two of you were in school together at one time.” Ilsa set her cup in its china saucer with a ca-clink. “Yes, he was two years ahead of me at Exeter. He was also at Harvard with my husband, Ian. I haven’t seen James in several years. How is he?” “Engaged,” Archer said with a frown. “That’s his chronic state, when he isn’t married or getting unmarried, that is. I’ve given up hoping he’s ever going to find the right woman…they all seem right to him for the time it takes him to say, ‘I do.’ But I didn’t come here to talk about James. I came because I’ve heard some amazing stories recently about couples you’ve brought together, Ilsa, even though I had to do some serious sleuthing to discover the ‘professional matchmaker’ everyone was whispering about with such reverence was you.” “I try to keep a low profile,” she said modestly. “Appears you’re successful on all counts.” His cup rattled in the saucer as he set one within the other. “No one would come within a breath of confessing their own personal experience, but most all were willing to expound at some length on the miracles you’d wrought for others.” “I have a knack for recognizing possibilities, perhaps, but that’s a far cry from producing a miracle, Mr. Braddock.” “Please, call me Archer. Gives me a thrill to be on a first-name basis with beautiful women, and these cold winter days, thrills aren’t so easy to come by.” She gave her smile as easily as her acquiescence. “Certainly, Archer.” His nod of approval came on top of his next question. “So, Ilsa, if you’re not a miracle worker, how are you able to assist Heaven in making a match between two seeking hearts?” She set aside her teacup and saucer, finally on solid ground. “I do an extraordinary amount of research,” she said. “I study everything I can get my hands on about a person, from old school records to favored hairstyles, preferred leisure activities, favorite and not favorite restaurants, personal convictions and private opinions. I take my time in discovering all I can about a candidate, and then I put all that information aside, and simply pay attention to the world that surrounds my client. Each of us come into contact with an amazing assortment of individuals throughout our lives, but most people aren’t paying attention and miss the opportunity to make a connection. I pay attention, and that’s why I’m successful. I can provide a list of references, if you’d like, although privacy concerns prevents me from revealing my client list.” “Not necessary,” he said. “I did my own research before I made the decision to approach you. Despite the strict confidentiality you request from your clientele, I managed to attain enough information to be considerably impressed. Although I must say, I failed to gain even a glimmer of what you charge for your services. A fact that leads me to believe your fees must be rather substantial.” “It’s no simple task to put a price on love, Mr. Braddock.” The truth was she charged what she felt her contribution was worth, based on the ability of the customer to pay and her core belief that a genuine “match” was worth a genuine sacrifice. “Could you do it?” His smile was reflective, wistful, and admiring. “No,” he said. “I would never even try.” She nodded, glad they agreed. He nodded, too, then reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small stack of photographs and handed it to her. “My grandsons,” he said with no small degree of pride. “Adam, Bryce and Peter.” Ilsa looked at the wallet-size photos one by one, then spread them in a row across the table beside her chair and examined them thoroughly again. Each handsome face was stamped with the same Braddock heritage—strong jaw, straight nose, regal brow—still evident in Archer’s aging features and in her own still vivid memory of James’s face. The three young men were clearly brothers, although individually quite different. Ilsa had seen their pictures in the society pages and on the cover of the tabloids, of course. The Braddock brothers were favorites of the paparazzi. Their history was the stuff of scandal, and although Ilsa knew only bits and pieces of it, herself, the public knew even less and was hungry for more. It was a testament to Archer and his wife that they had kept the world outside the gates of Braddock Hall, their ancestral home, and raised their three grandsons away from the public eye. But Ilsa could see, even from the two-dimensional photos, that James’s sons possessed that indefinable quality that would make them as irresistible to women as Braddock men had been rumored to be for a couple of centuries. “Very handsome young men,” she said, glancing up from the pictures. “Do they have…seeking hearts?” “Not so anyone could tell,” he answered tersely. Those few words were enough to give her some valuable insight. “But you’re their grandfather and you pay attention.” Their eyes met, his still a vivid green, hers a deep and perceptive gray. “Yes,” he said. “It’s no secret that James has made a hash of finding true love and a game out of marriage and divorce. Janey and I always hoped our grandsons would seek out a relationship similar to our own, one worthy of a lifetime commitment, but not one of them shows a single sign of being capable of recognizing love when it does come along.” He pointed out each picture as he named off the brothers. “That’s Peter. He’s the youngest. He’s dazzled by long-legged debutantes. The blue-eyed charmer there in the middle is Bryce. He’s our Robin Hood, robbing tomorrow’s joys for today’s pleasure. He prefers young women with big, toothy smiles and more bosom than brains. The oldest is Adam, who is all business all the time. He’s fascinated by any woman who carries a briefcase larger than his.” “Intriguing.” Ilsa continued to study the pictures for a moment. “I’m surprised some enterprising mothers haven’t solved your matchmaking problems for you long before now.” “Oh, they’ve tried, believe me. But my grandsons are nearly as slippery as they are suave. It would be a mistake to let them know you and I have even discussed their…future.” “I am nothing if not discreet, Archer, and I consider myself a facilitator of romance, not an instigator. I initiate a meeting, allow the possibilities to present themselves, then step back and see what happens. Any intervention after that point involves a light touch and great deal of diplomacy.” “I take that to mean, you don’t offer a money-back guarantee.” “No, but I do have a rather astounding rate of success. If you prefer, your grandsons won’t ever know I’ve been involved in their match. On the other hand, that secrecy requires considerably more effort for the two of us. You’ll be my only contact and my best resource for information. Are you sure you won’t mind being involved in a somewhat clandestine alliance with me?” His chuckle came again, rough and charming. “I may be an old man, but I’m not dead yet. My only regret is that Janey isn’t here to enjoy this little intrigue along with us.” “I suspect she has a full-time job being your guardian angel.” His wrinkled smile turned wistful. “You’re right about that.” He paused, then nodded, clearly ready to close the deal. “So are you up to the challenge of finding the right women for my grandsons?” “I’m open to the possibilities, yes.” She met his eyes with a wry smile. “I may never have had three tougher cases, but your grandsons do have a certain cachet to recommend them. The Braddock name will mean something to the young women I introduce to them.” Archer took a final sip of the coffee, then set his cup and saucer on the table beside his chair and reached for his cane. “It’s what the Braddock name means to my grandsons that will cause you the biggest headaches, I’m afraid. But let’s not set out on our adventure by worrying about the problems ahead. Let’s focus instead on the beginning of a promising new enterprise and the possibility that I might live long enough to see my first great-grandchild.” Ilsa smiled, very glad to know this was the first of many meetings to come with Archer Braddock. “I’ll be in touch in a day or two with a list of information I’ll need. The research can take as long as three or four months, but things generally move rather quickly once it’s completed. I feel it’s very important to be thorough.” She rose and resisted the impulse to help him up. He pushed himself out of the chair with only a slight stiffness of movement and shifted his center of balance with the cane. “I have the utmost confidence in you, my dear, but if I may make a small suggestion…begin with Adam. He’s the oldest, but I’m also rather worried that he’s missed so much in his life. He needs to fall in love with something other than Braddock Industries and he needs to do it very soon.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” They walked together, slowly but most companionably, to the door and across the foyer. Robert awaited them in the entryway, standing ready with Archer’s coat and scarf. “My staff is even more discreet than I am myself,” Ilsa said. “So you can feel comfortable if you ever need to leave a message with them.” Archer slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat and wrapped the gray scarf around his neck. “Feel free to leave messages for me, too,” he said with a wink. “It won’t bother me a bit if everyone in my household believes I’m having an illicit affair in my old age.” He laughed and looked quizzically at Robert. “Today is not a good day to be without one’s umbrella, sir,” Robert said, holding out a black umbrella. “I took the liberty of procuring one for you.” Archer accepted it with an appreciative smile. “Discreet, efficient and exceptionally thoughtful. Thank you, Robert.” He turned again to Ilsa. “And thank you, my dear, for a delightful afternoon. I’m looking forward to your call.” Robert prepared to open the door, but Archer paused, holding off the action. “If this works out as we hope, then perhaps you’ll consider taking James on as a client.” Ilsa laughed, despite the way her stomach knotted just at the thought. “As I believe we established, Archer, I can’t work miracles.” “Ah, well, I think that remains to be seen.” And with a tip of his hat, he stepped through the doorway, opened his umbrella, and walked into the drizzly Providence afternoon. Chapter One 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 fianc?e 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. Chapter Two The cell phone rang just as Katie walked out the front door of Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow. She’d chosen the salon because it was only a short walk from the bus stop and because the name struck her as funny. And appropriate. In a couple of weeks she’d be gone, on her way to another place, a change of scene, the next new adventure of her life. She liked Providence, could see herself spending a year or two or three or more here. But the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave and there were other cities she wanted to experience, other places she wanted to see. Moving around was the way she exercised her restless spirit and kept her personality on its toes. It was the way she celebrated the lives of the family she’d lost, the way she made amends for being the only survivor. Change was always a positive in her opinion, a necessary discomfort, and in deference to that creed, her hair was gone…well, a lot of it, anyway. The phone rang again and she pulled her curious fingers away from the springy cap of natural curls to reach into her bag for the phone. The Caller ID read Unavailable, but in some cities, the listing agency’s number came up that way and since she was expecting a call from Caroline about a house-sitting job in Baton Rouge, Katie clicked on, expecting to hear a familiar Mid-western accent. “Hello?” “Ms. Canton?” Definitely not Caroline—the tones too crisp and rounded—but perhaps someone else in the office. “Yes?” “My name is Nell Russell. I work for Adam Braddock, Braddock Industries. Mr. Braddock asked me to call and arrange a time for your visit to Braddock Hall this week. He mentioned he’d spoken with you about it on Friday.” Katie blinked, a bit taken aback by the way the woman’s voice fairly vibrated with importance every time she said Braddock. And she’d said it a lot in that five-second introduction. “As a matter of fact, he did—” “Mr. Braddock said that if you hadn’t phoned by nine-thirty this morning, I was to reach you at this number and set up a time for Benson to drive you to Sea Change. I know it’s already ten, but I did want to catch you before you left your office for lunch.” Katie glanced at the traffic buzzing past, the deli on the corner, the bank across the street, and opened her mouth to say she didn’t have an office. Or have need of one. “I can arrange a time to call back later today, if it would be more convenient,” Ms. Russell continued, her voice picking up speed. “But Mr. Braddock was very specific in his instructions. It’s important that we arrange a time this week for you to visit Braddock Hall. It’s only a little over six weeks until Mr. Archer Braddock’s birthday, as I’m sure you are aware, and the sooner we get this trip scheduled, the sooner you can get your plans underway for the party.” Katie plunged in before the last syllable cleared the airwaves. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. You see, Mr. Braddock called the wrong—” “I understand completely,” Nell said, demonstrating that she didn’t listen any better than her employer. Or maybe she wasn’t programmed to accept any possibility that the name, Braddock, and the word, mistake, could occur in the same conversation. “I know you’re very busy, Ms. Canton, and I’ll be brief. I’ve been instructed by Mr. Braddock to put Benson and the Rolls at your disposal and accommodate your schedule for any day this week you’re available. If it would be of any assistance at all, I’m certain Mr. Braddock wouldn’t mind if I helped make the calls necessary to shift your appointments and clear some time on your calendar. So is tomorrow possible for you? Or the day after?” Katie stepped to the curb, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, and pressed the phone closer to her ear to cut some of the noise. Although why she should be trying so hard to hear, was difficult to say. A chance to explain the misunderstanding didn’t appear to be on the agenda as Nell Russell barely paused for breath. “Thursday would work almost as well as tomorrow, but Friday is late in the week and the traffic is just terrible and with Mr. Bryce Braddock and Mr. Peter Braddock home for the weekend, I’m afraid you’ll run into more distractions than earlier in the week, but if that’s the only day you can schedule the visit, we will, of course, accommodate you.” There was a pause, and Katie jumped in, her sense of the ridiculous rising to the occasion. It wasn’t as if anyone was listening to what she said anyway. “As luck would have it, today’s my only free day, so you see, I won’t be able to make that trip after all.” “Today might work,” Nell said, a lightbulb of possibility going off in her voice. “Hold a moment, please.” Faster than Katie could backtrack and say, Oh, wait, today won’t work, she was on hold and wondering why she hadn’t specified that today wasn’t even up for consideration. She should just hang up. But Adam Braddock had no doubt instructed his secretary to keep calling until Katie agreed to go. So why didn’t she? Agree to go, that is. It was her day off and she’d never been to the town of Sea Change, never even heard of it until Adam’s call. She’d never been invited to tour a house with a name, either. That might be fun. Plus, there was the ride in the Rolls to sweeten the temptation. “Ms. Canton?” Nell was back. “Are you in town, now?” Hard to deny, since the traffic noise was all around her. “Yes, but—” “Wonderful. If you’ll give me your directions, Benson will pick you up within the next thirty minutes, drive you to the estate and bring you back this evening. I’m so glad this has worked out. Mr. Braddock would be most upset if we’d failed to make this connection. He’s anxious for you to see Braddock Hall. It’s a lovely place and I’m sure you’ll enjoy the drive down, as well as touring the grounds. This is a good time for you, then?” Katie debated with her conscience. She would be going under false premises, true. But she hadn’t misled anyone and she had tried to correct the misunderstanding. While only a precocious preteen, she’d adopted the physicians’ creed of First, Do No Harm as her own…and really, what harm could there be in her going for a drive with Benson in the Rolls? Adam Braddock was no closer to finding a legitimate party planner whether she took a ride in his car or not. And she could always figure out some way to pay Benson for the gas. She knew she’d regret not taking the chance and, when all was said and done, her main goal in living was to end every day with as few regrets as possible. “Now is the perfect time for me,” she said, decision made. “Tell Benson, I’ll be waiting on the corner of—” She glanced up at the street signs, “Weybosset and Orange whenever he arrives. And thank you.” Katie clicked off the phone, dropped it into the depths of her bag, and gave her new crop of curls a saucy toss to shake off the nagging voice of reproach. Okay, so she could have, probably should have, tried harder to explain. But life was short and she’d vowed to experience all that it offered with her chin up, and her hopes high. She owed that much to the family she’d lost so long ago that she couldn’t even remember their smiles. She owed that much and more to the lost little girl she once had been. To live every moment as if it were a gift was the only promise she’d ever made to herself…and right or wrong, she was taking a ride in Adam Braddock’s Rolls-Royce. She was going to enjoy every moment of the experience, too. And if tomorrow it still seemed necessary, she’d do her penance by looking up party planners in the Yellow Pages and phoning Nell with a selection of names and phone numbers. It was the least she could do. Someone in the milling crowd jostled her as the light changed from Don’t Walk to Walk. As people moved past her into the crosswalk, busy with their own agendas, she backed up to the wall of the building on the corner and allowed her lips a whimsical grin. Anticipation bubbled inside her, and she felt a little sorry for anyone who wasn’t her, standing on the corner of Weybosset and Orange, waiting for the Rolls to come for her. SO MUCH FOR ANTICIPATION, she thought as she stepped into the back of the silver-gray automobile and came face-to-face with Adam Braddock. What the heck was he doing here? And what would she say when he demanded to know what a waitress was doing climbing into his Rolls-Royce? “Ms. Canton? I’m Adam Braddock,” he said, glancing up and extending his hand over the top of the small computer on his lap. “So nice to meet you.” “Hello,” she said, realizing he hadn’t recognized her. Yet. The door closed behind her with a sturdy ka-thud and as it was too late to make a run for it, she settled onto the seat with a soft, leathery sshhplop, and returned his solid handshake with a limp-wrist brush of her fingers. “Nice car.” His handsome face barely registered a vague smile before his eyes were back on the computer screen. “I’m glad you were able to make the trip to Braddock Hall on such short notice.” “I, uh, wasn’t expecting to see you.” “It’s an unexpected trip.” He frowned at the computer screen and typed in a response. Katie fidgeted on the seat, wishing he’d recognize her and get it over with, thinking this car seat was made of the softest leather ever to come into contact with her own seat, wondering if there was any way she could get out of this situation gracefully. “Sort of unexpected or really unexpected?” “What?” His tone barely made it a question, his eyes didn’t stray from the screen. “Well, if it’s sort of unexpected, like a broken water heater, then this probably isn’t the best time for me to visit and we ought to just reschedule, but if it’s really unexpected, like someone in the family has appendicitis, then I should just get out of the car now and let you make the trip by yourself.” “No.” His voice for all its vagueness, sounded pretty authoritative. “That isn’t necessary.” But Katie wasn’t giving up on escape that easily. “But if someone’s ill—” “Christmas decorations,” he said succinctly. “What?” “Christmas decorations,” he repeated, displaying not a single other sign he realized she was sitting beside him in the car. “Christmas…in May?” He picked up a phone—conveniently positioned in the door console—and punched in a number. One number, rapid dial. Naturally. “Lara,” he said sharply into the phone. “The stock’s moving. Any word from Wallace?” He listened so intently Katie could all but feel the energy of his thoughts. He was as smoothly controlled as the car in which they were riding and exuded the same sort of luxuriant power. Harnessed. Refined. But there was frustration beneath the surface, and it was a quite incredibly perfect surface, too. His dark hair was cut with the precision of a master stylist, not too short, not too long, not a hair out of place. Perfect from every angle. His clothes, too—a dark gray suit, white shirt, exemplary tie, right down to the Windsor knot—reflected a pristine attention to detail. His profile—almost the only angle she had been shown since she got in the car—revealed the same strong, even features as a face-on view. In other words, perfect. She’d thought he was attractive in the restaurant, of course, but here in his natural habitat, he was quite extraordinarily handsome. Even better to look at than the Rolls…and that was saying something. Katie leaned back against the supple leather seat and watched him in profile, deciphering from his intense expression and his silence that he was capable of listening when he wanted to do so. Or when he was interested. What would it be like, she wondered, to have a man like Adam Braddock focus that same intensity on her? What would it take to engage his interest? Of course, when he realized she was a waitress at The Torrid Tomato and not the events planner he’d hired, sight unseen, for an exorbitant amount of money, she just might find out. She figured he’d be angry with her, even though the fault was largely his. No doubt he had yes-women at his beck and call, in the office and out of it, too, and she didn’t imagine he ever took kindly to hearing explanations. It was too much to ask of perfection, she supposed, to expect him to entertain the idea that had he only listened to her for two minutes in the first place, she wouldn’t be in his car right now. Okay, so it was her own choice to be in the car. She couldn’t exactly blame him for that. But still he ought to be gentlemanly enough to share some of the responsibility. “Good work, Lara. Remember, as far as Wallace knows, I’m unavailable the rest of the week. Let’s see if he doesn’t break a sweat by this time tomorrow.” He hung up without another word. No good-byes necessary with Lara, apparently. Or perhaps he was already so engrossed in the activity on his little computer screen he didn’t know he hadn’t given a polite “over-and-out” to the conversation. That made more sense, she decided, as he didn’t seem to remember he wasn’t alone, either. Katie fidgeted a little more, wondering what it would take to persuade him to look up from that computer. Conversation, clearly, wouldn’t. And she didn’t give a simple, straightforward request much of a shot, either. Even if he were polite enough to pretend an interest in any discussion she proposed, she’d receive barely half of his attention. At best. Studying his intense and concentrated expression, Katie doubted he’d notice if she stripped naked and tossed her clothes out the window. Maybe if she started with her shoes and aimed them at his window…or at him? But the way her luck was running so far, she’d probably just hit him in the head with her Birkenstock sandal and knock him unconscious. Which wouldn’t be much of an improvement. Plus, there was probably some law against being barefoot—much less naked—in a Rolls-Royce…whether the owner noticed or not. She tapped her feet on the lush carpet of the floorboard, wished she’d worn her Old Maine Trotters instead of the sturdy sandals, even though she had just treated herself to a pedicure at the beauty salon. She wiggled her toes and wondered if she would be admitted to the pretentious-sounding Braddock Hall in her denim jumper and red T-shirt or if some haughty butler would quietly suggest she slip on a jacket and tie or send her around to the back door. Shifting her backpack purse to the seat beside her, she wished her phone would ring, so she could demonstrate to Adam Braddock that she was no more focused on him than he was on her. He might even enjoy eavesdropping on her conversation. It was possible he was simply shy and lacking in social—as well as listening—skills. She cut a sidelong glance to him and sighed, again. What was she thinking? The man practically had skills oozing out of every pore. And she had no doubt he could turn on considerable charm when it occurred to him to do so. Why would she think for two seconds that she could best him in a dueling phones scenario? He’d have her on the mat before the second ringy-ding-ding. She subdued yet another sigh and turned to gaze out the window, but the Rolls, for all its seamless negotiation, had yet to pull away from the city landscape and there was nothing much to see. Unless she counted the way the smoky tint on the glass shaded the outside world, turning the sky and everything under it muted and pale, while enclosing her in a serene bubble of privacy and soft, soothing color. Even the music drifting like a slight breeze around her was meant to be unobtrusive and formless, a background for Braddock business conducted while traveling from one office to another. There was even a glass partition between the back seat and Benson, which precluded learning anything about him, except that the back of his silver head wasn’t that fascinating. Her gaze sidled over to see what she could see on the computer screen and as that proved to be not much, her body followed, sliding gradually into a forty-five degree angle where she could just begin to make out the data on the computer. Numbers. Lots of… “Are you interested in the stock market, Ms. Canton?” She tried to be as graceful as possible while sliding back to an upright position. “Isn’t everyone these days? And you can call me Katie.” His eyebrows went up slightly and a glimmer of amusement lit his whiskey-brown eyes for a second. “I thought we were going to keep our association strictly business,” he said. “Oh, we are.” She gave him one of her best mystery smiles—all lips, no teeth. Not that he noticed. “But since we’re sharing a ride and presumably some conversation along the way, it’ll be easier if we dispense with the mister and ms. stuff.” “Hmm.” His glance flicked over her, lingering on her glistening—thanks to the new haircut and a new Aveda product—hair and with a sinking sensation, she knew any minute now he’d be tossing her out on her waitress butt. But with only a faint and fleeting frown, his gaze cut back to the laptop. “Have you made any plans for my grandfather’s birthday, Katie?” If he’d had any recognition of her at all, it was gone with the latest shift in the Dow Jones. She was beginning to think the challenge was not in getting out of this situation with grace, but in getting him to notice she was in it in the first place. “I thought maybe I’d get him a tie. What about you?” The slight lift of his mouth showed that he wasn’t completely without a sense of humor. “I’m thinking along more practical lines. A small manufacturing company.” “That’s going to take a lot of wrapping paper.” “Good thing I own stock in Hallmark.” Again he tapped keys on the keyboard. “I meant, of course, what plans you may have made for the party.” “I’m only going to see the house,” she said candidly. “I haven’t given the party a single thought.” His frown might have been for her. Then again, maybe not. “That’s commendable,” he said. “It is?” His eyes stayed on the screen. “You haven’t wasted your creative energy making plans that could easily be thrown askew by logistics.” “No, indeed,” she agreed. “Because, of course, no one likes to be thrown askew.” She was rewarded with a sidelong glance and smiled to herself. “I mean, who knows when Christmas decorations are going to pop up and cause unexpected trips right smack in the middle of a perfectly pleasant May?” He pursed his lips slightly as the flow of data blinked and rolled across the computer screen. “Sea Change is a small town by anyone’s standards,” he said. “It’s neither by the sea nor particularly adaptable to change. Any change. Replacing the old, worn-out Christmas decorations has turned into a major undertaking, with half the town council voting to duplicate the original designs and the other half insisting on a more modern theme and everyone else disagreeing in general. Unfortunately, compromise isn’t a word much used in our town and as I’m currently chairman of the town council, I’ve been summoned to an emergency meeting to decide the issue.” His fine brown eyes met her blue ones, and her silly heart skipped a beat. “Isn’t that what you wanted to know, Katie?” Okay, so it skipped two beats. Possibly three, altogether. Which only proved she was as susceptible to a handsome face as the next woman. “I was curious, yes. You’re obviously a busy man and well, Christmas decorations didn’t seem important enough to lure you out of your office. I thought you were just being evasive. Which is fine. It’s certainly none of my business why you’re making the trip to Sea Change. Today.” Of all days. His attention and his gaze unsettled her in equal measures, but his sudden smile made her glad she’d gotten out of bed this morning. “No need to worry, Katie. I won’t get in your way.” She laughed because that was so clearly implausible. “Too late.” Surprise lent a slight crinkling around his eyes, a gentler cast to his smile. “So you do have some plans in mind, after all.” He nodded, seeming satisfied that she was doing her job. “Commendable.” Apparently, she could do no wrong—as long as she was doing what he wanted done. “You’re easier to please than I expected. I’m commended if I don’t make any plans and commended if I do make them but just don’t want you to know I’ve made them.” “I trust people to do what’s expected of them in their own way and without my supervision.” “That’s a very optimistic attitude.” “It’s simply the only way to delegate authority. I don’t have the time or inclination to plan a party. That’s why I hired you and, as long as my grandfather has a good time, you have carte blanche to plan the party in any manner you see fit.” “Oh good, then the belly dancers are a go.” His smile slid into a patient amusement and his gaze slipped back to the computer. “He’ll be seventy-nine and he is in good health, but let’s not push the envelope.” “Gotcha,” she said as if making a note to herself. “Fun, but conservative. Dancing in, bellies out. Any other restrictions on this carte blanche you’ve given me?” “Only that you exercise good taste.” “Oh, well, if that’s a requirement, you’ll definitely need to find someone else.” There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a touch of humor in his solemn tones. “I’m glad to know you have a sense of humor, Katie, and I have the utmost faith in your judgment. I also trust you’re aware that a few words from me can greatly enhance your reputation. Or severely cripple it. It really is in your own best interest to ensure this party comes to pass without a hitch.” “Or a belly flop,” she said, wondering how he managed to stuff that much ego into his nice white shirt without getting either one wrinkled. “I think you can rest assured, Mr. Braddock, that I—” “Adam,” he corrected absently, his attention circling back on that dumb computer screen. “Adam,” she repeated dutifully, wishing his name didn’t feel so weightless and welcome in her mouth. “Rest assured I have no intention of—” The phone rang then, a distracting tweet of a noise, and he had it to his ear in a flash. In less than a second, she was forgotten, relegated to a blip in the background of his consciousness. “Yes, I see it,” he said, staring intently at the computer screen. “He’s a fool if he holds out much longer. He’ll lose everything. I haven’t a clue what he thinks he can gain by this. Put Allen on.” Katie listened—as if she could do anything but—while the one-sided conversation filled up with legal terms and contract points. A year or more ago, she’d worked in a Seattle brokerage firm for a few months and picked up enough of the lingo to recognize that Braddock Industries was conducting a surefooted and leveraged buyout. So Adam was getting his grandfather a manufacturing company for his birthday. Imagine that. “He can’t afford to be that obstinate. What is he thinking?” He snapped the words into the phone, but even Katie could tell it was a rhetorical question. No answer except the one he wanted would ever satisfy Adam Braddock. “Wallace can’t expect we’re going to make a better offer.” “He’s concerned about his employees,” Katie said, hardly aware she’d spoken her thoughts aloud, much less expecting to get any response to her unsolicited opinion. “What did you say?” Adam’s sharp tone brought her up short. “No, Allen,” he continued. “I was asking Katie…the events planner.” She gave a guilty start and realized she suddenly had his full and complete attention. “Me?” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/karen-whittenburg-toller/the-ceo-s-unplanned-proposal/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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