The Wedding Planner. Millie Criswell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “Miss Baxter?”

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

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

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

      “The quickest way to find a bride, Miss Baxter, is to use the media. Once СКАЧАТЬ