The Wedding Planner. Millie Criswell

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      Chapter Two

      Meredith might have been bearding the lion at ten, but the only thing growling this morning as she made her way up the flagstone walk to the mansion’s wide double doors was her stomach. She’d been running late and hadn’t had time for breakfast.

      Issuing a cease-and-desist order to her stomach, she sucked it in, tugged at the hem of her royal-blue wool suit jacket, checked her stockings to make sure they were run free—she wasn’t going to give that voyeur another reason to stare at her legs—and quickly admired her manicure: Wild Rose, and not a chip in sight.

      Let the cretin try to find fault with her today, she thought, smiling defiantly.

      Banging the heavy brass door knocker three times, she turned to survey her surroundings while she waited.

      The house sat atop a hill and overlooked the city below. The view was spectacular, she had to admit. The grounds were as well manicured as the man who owned them. The acre front lawn was as green as a piece of crushed velvet, unusual for this early in spring, and didn’t have one unsightly weed growing in it. Not that weeds would dare grow in Adam Morgan’s lawn.

      Giving silent thanks that she didn’t have to mow such a monstrosity, she smiled at the thought of her own postage-stamp-size yard, which suited her to perfection. She had more weeds than lawn, and what wasn’t taken up with weeds was covered with flowers of every sort imaginable.

      Flowers were her passion. She wondered if Adam Morgan had any passions, besides sunflower seeds, that is. It had taken her almost an hour to vacuum the carpet after he’d left yesterday. She knew now what Gretel had felt like following the breadcrumb trail.

      Glancing at the plantings of white and red begonias lining the drive and front walk, she shook her head in dismay. Anyone with half a brain knew it wasn’t wise to plant begonias until after Derby Day, which wasn’t until May, and usually after the last frost. Not that such a thing mattered to Adam Morgan, who had more money than God, and probably wasn’t the least bit bothered by such trivial matters. No doubt he had an army of gardeners who took care of such things.

      Glancing at her watch to find that it was now five minutes after the hour, she frowned and banged the knocker again, harder this time, wondering why old houses never had doorbells. She was about to make an off-color comment about the rudeness of having been kept waiting, when the door was thrust open by the scowling man himself.

      Adam Morgan didn’t look at all happy to see her; the feeling, she could assure him, was mutual. “You’re late, Miss Baxter. I abhor lateness. It’s a sign of a disorganized mind.”

      The attack was so sudden she didn’t have time to ponder why his maid or butler hadn’t answered the door. Drawing herself up to her five-foot, five-inch height, which barely met his chin, she responded, “For your information, Mr. Morgan, I was not late. I’ve been standing on your porch for a full five minutes waiting in the cold for someone to answer my knock.

      “And while we’re on the subject, I would think someone with your resources could afford an intercom system, or, at the very least, a working doorbell.”

      Tossing a handful of sunflower seed husks into the potting soil of one of the tall, spiral holly bushes flanking the massive front door, he stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “A doorbell in a two-hundred-year-old historical house? I don’t think so, Miss Baxter. Aside from the fact that it would look incongruous to have something so modern as a doorbell cluttering up the facade, it would ruin the exquisite stone—stone my great grandfather quarried himself and hauled up this hill on a wagon.”

      His voice was filled with such passion when he spoke about the mansion that Meredith’s earlier question was now answered: apparently the house ranked right up there with sunflower seeds. Admirable.

      “My housekeeper had an emergency and had to leave. If you’re cold—” He stared at her chest, as if he could sense that her nipples were puckered, making Meredith extremely grateful she wore a suit jacket.

      Not bothering to reply she followed him into the walnut-paneled study, where a fire burned cheerfully in the grate. The only cheerful thing about the room, she noted. The colors were somber and restrained, much like the man himself. The burgundy velvet drapes matched the two Queen Anne chairs flanking the fireplace. The leather-bound volumes lining the shelves, though attractive, and no doubt expensive, didn’t add much in the way of relief. It was obvious the antique furnishings had been designed for looks not comfort.

      Seating herself on a straight-backed chair fronting the impressive mahogany desk, she reached into her portfolio and pulled out an assortment of wedding invitation samples and cake photos, spreading them out on the leather desktop. “These are just samples, of course. I have others, if none meet your needs.”

      What would meet Adam’s needs, or rather who, was seated directly in front of him. Meredith Baxter, with her bow-shaped, kissable mouth and a figure that conjured up X-rated thoughts, was an incredibly sexy woman. And as Peter had so succinctly pointed out, he hadn’t been with a woman, sexy or otherwise, in a very long time.

      “You’re frowning, Mr. Morgan. Is there something the matter? As I said, I have other samples I can show you.”

      Pushing the material back to her, he shook his head. “Just use your own judgment, Miss Baxter. I don’t really care what the cake and invitations look like. Those are trivial matters for the female mind.”

      Meredith bit the inside of her cheek, reminding herself of the ten thousand dollars sitting in her bank account.

      “The only requirement I have is that the date be set for Saturday, June 21. I want the invitations printed immediately.”

      “But—” Was the man insane? Duh!

      “No buts about it, Miss Baxter. I have a deadline to meet. We both do, as a matter of fact.”

      “But you don’t have a bride. How can you possibly set a date for the wedding without a bride? Certain details have to be decided, and—”

      “The wedding plans will proceed. I’m sure you’re going to need every bit of the time allotted to pull this off. You have less than twelve weeks to finalize everything.”

      Realizing that she would probably be fired for what she was about to say, Meredith plunged ahead anyway. “Making wedding plans without a bride is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I naturally assumed when you laid out your ridiculous scheme that you intended to find the bridal candidate first, then proceed with the arrangements. I can’t plan a wedding without a bride. It just isn’t—”

      Ignoring her protest and pointed opinion, and without revealing so much as a flicker of the annoyance he felt, Adam moved from his desk to the floor adjacent to where Meredith sat and proceeded in his expensive designer suit to execute a series of sit-ups.

      At the man’s outlandish behavior, Meredith’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Mr. Morgan!”

      “I think better СКАЧАТЬ