The Wedding Planner. Millie Criswell

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      “You’re darn right, you will. Those vultures have hounded and exploited my family for years. I think some payback is in order. And I am very good at paying back, make no mistake about that.”

      The feral glint in his eyes made Meredith a believer. Adam Morgan was a man used to getting his own way.

      “Weddings are supposed to be joyous occasions, Mr. Morgan. Some people wait their whole lives to find the right person, fall in love and get married. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? I mean—what about love?”

      He didn’t bother to hide his disdain at the question or at her impertinence in asking it. “You’re beginning to sound like a poorly written romance novel, Miss Baxter.”

      She stiffened, her chin lifting a notch. “I happen to love romance novels, Mr. Morgan.”

      He started to say something—sarcastic, no doubt!—then thought better of it and said instead, “I’m not the romantic type. I don’t have time for hearts and flowers and happily ever after. In my opinion what I’m doing can be likened to a business merger. Two sides with similar views and interests coming together to form a successful union for the good of the company or, in this case, the good of the family unit.”

      “So, in the immortal words of Tina Turner— ‘What’s Love Got To Do with It?’ I think I understand.” The man was cold, heartless. She pitied the poor woman who was foolish enough to marry him.

      He looked at her strangely. “Who is Tina Turner?”

      Meredith held out her hand. “An old family friend, Mr. Morgan. Don’t worry about a thing. Your upcoming nuptials are in excellent hands.”

      Gazing down at those excellent hands, he said before releasing hers, “Your polish is chipped, Miss Baxter. And you have a run in your left stocking.”

      Her mouth dropped open at the man’s audacity, her eyes clouding in anger, and she didn’t notice how the corners of his mouth had tilted. “Thank you very much, cretin, Neanderthal, arrogant meathead,” she said between gritted teeth, but he was already out the door and didn’t hear her.

      “Anyone I know, sweetie?” her assistant, Randall, asked, emerging from the back room in time to catch a glimpse of the man through the plate-glass window. He’d just returned from delivering six candelabras to the First Baptist Church, where the Sanders wedding would take place on Saturday morning.

      Meredith forced down her anger. “Adam Morgan, our new client.” She explained the details of the unorthodox wedding arrangement and the man’s obnoxious observations, making Randall grin.

      With his bleached-blond hair, tanned complexion, and brilliant blue eyes, Randall Cosby looked like a California beach boy. He was slight of build, but muscular, and had no difficulty performing the arduous tasks of lifting and hauling necessary to his position. He worked for Meredith part-time while attending law classes at West Virginia University.

      “The man’s obviously got good taste in women.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “If he noticed the run in your stocking, sweetie, then he was staring at your legs. And your legs are one of your best features.” He looked down at his own and pulled a face. “Mine are just too skinny and straight. No curvature at all to them. I’ve been cursed with brains and no body.”

      Meredith laughed. One of the things she liked best about Randall was his honesty. He was going to make a wonderful lawyer. “Thank you, I think. But I don’t believe Mr. Morgan was looking at my legs for any reason other than to find fault. He’s a stickler for details. And he’s going to be a royal pain in the butt to work with.”

      Randall began straightening the bridal magazines on the long glass display counter. “Handsome, though. From what I saw of him, he’s a very good-looking man, and quite a natty dresser.” Randall was into clothing in a big way.

      “Yes, he is that,” Meredith agreed, a sigh escaping her lips. “But he’s too arrogant and structured to suit me. I prefer someone a bit more animated. Adam Morgan is definitely not my type.”

      Randall arched a disbelieving brow. “Mickey Mouse, he’s not.” He shook his head. “Sweetie, you are way too picky. I used to think I was choosy, but you are much worse. I don’t think there’s a man alive who could live up to your expectations. The Prince Charmings of the world are few and far between. You’re going to have to settle for a mere mortal if we’re ever going to plan one of these fabulous weddings for you.”

      “I’m not in any rush to get married.” She intended to wait for her knight in shining armor, no matter how long it took. There was someone special out there for her; she just knew it.

      “Well, your mother is. Last time I visited Louise at the nursing home—we shared the loveliest boxed lunch from Grabber’s Deli—she asked if you and I were dating. I told her that you weren’t my type.” He rolled his eyes, making Meredith laugh again.

      “Mom’s worried she’s going to die before I can produce grandchildren for her to dote on. She’s always trying to fix me up with the male nurses who work at Pleasant Acres. I guess she doesn’t think I can get a date.”

      “She worries about you, sweetie. We all do.”

      Meredith smiled at her employee. “That’s good, because that leaves me to worry about more important things. Speaking of which, we’d better get back to work. I’ve got to prepare myself for my meeting with Morgan tomorrow. I’m bearding the lion at ten.”

      He arched a brow. “Hmm. Sounds interesting.”

      “Interesting isn’t the word for it, Randall. Nauseating, aggravating, but definitely not interesting.”

      ATTORNEY PETER WEBBER leaned back in his tufted, red-leather swivel chair and noted the unusually high color on Adam Morgan’s cheeks. As his lawyer for the past ten years, and best friend long before that, Peter was quite attuned to the man’s shifting and often foul moods. Adam was displeased or distracted about something, and he would no doubt let him know soon enough what it was that was bothering him.

      “As you suggested, I hired the wedding planner. We’ll be meeting tomorrow morning to iron out the specifics of the upcoming wedding.”

      “What’s he like?” Peter began making notes on a yellow legal pad. Adam was a stickler for recording even the most mundane details of every conversation.

      “He is a she. Meredith Baxter from Best Laid Plans.”

      “Cute.”

      “She’s attractive enough, I guess.” Adam had always been intrigued by redheads. And she had the best-looking legs he’d seen in a very long time. Well-defined calves, shapely ankles. He adored the way her cheeks filled with color whenever she became embarrassed, which, judging by what he’d already observed, was often.

      “I meant the name of her business.”

      “Oh.”

      Adam squirmed restlessly in his seat, and Peter swallowed his smile. He hadn’t seen the man this distracted in a while. “What does Miss Baxter think of your plan to wed?”

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