The Wedding Planner. Millie Criswell

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      Like Adam Morgan, Mrs. William O’Connor was one of the First Families of West Virginia. She’d even had the distinction FFWVA emblazoned on her personalized license plate for all the world to see. It was purported that her grandfather, Willy Fitzwilliam O’Connor, was the first resident of Morgantown to have owned and operated a thriving bordello, though Mrs. O’Connor adamantly denied the scandalous assertion, which had been made by a Morgan. The O’Connors and the Morgans hadn’t gotten along since.

      Forcing a smile, Meredith said, “If you’ll excuse me one minute, Mrs. O’Connor, I need to deal with something.”

      The woman glared disapprovingly at Adam, then at Meredith, and gave a loud harrumph, clearly annoyed at the whole proceeding. “I’ll come back another time. I don’t like getting involved in matters that don’t concern me. And I certainly don’t like to be kept waiting.

      “And you, young woman,” she said to Meredith, “seem to have your hands full at the moment.” With an imperious lift of her chins, and pointing her nose in the air, she turned and stalked out the door, leaving Meredith speechless and standing with her mouth gaping open.

      But only momentarily.

      “Now see what you’ve done! You’re not only ruining my life, you’re ruining my business.”

      Adam stiffened, clearly not used to being castigated, especially by a woman—a woman he’d just apologized to. He did not normally apologize to anyone. “I can’t be blamed for the rudeness of your clientele, Miss Baxter.”

      “Rudeness of my—” She threw back her head and laughed, but there was no humor in it. Rather, the sound resembled nails raking down a blackboard. “That’s rich. You, of all people, calling someone else rude. How very novel.” Actually, she knew for a fact that Mrs. O’Connor was extremely rude to most everyone she encountered and was prone to meddling in matters that didn’t concern her, though she would declare otherwise.

      “I said I was sorry. I offered to buy you a new wardrobe to make amends.”

      “I don’t want a new wardrobe! I’m perfectly happy with the miserable one I’ve got.”

      Adam had never met a woman who didn’t like or want new clothes. His sister had purchased a new wardrobe approximately every six weeks, saying fashionable clothing lifted her spirits. Perhaps the young woman was spirited enough. Or perhaps she was just stubborn and opinionated.

      “My sister and mother always liked shopping for new clothes,” he explained. “I thought you might, too.”

      She heaved a sigh, for it was suddenly quite obvious that the man was totally clueless and had no idea he’d offended her.

      Where Adam Morgan came from money grew on trees, and the women in his life spent it freely, buying whatever they wanted with no thought to cost, designer label or starving children in India. Meredith, on the other hand, was on a fixed budget and spent only when it was absolutely necessary. Her business obligations came before her wardrobe, which admittedly lacked a certain flair and would probably have given Ann Taylor and Donna Karan heart seizures.

      “Sometimes, Mr. Morgan, it might be a good idea to stop and think before opening your mouth. Not everyone has had your advantages in life. And it’s not necessary to say every little thing that pops into your head.” She wanted to say “your thick head” but she refrained.

      He studied her. Meredith Baxter was quite different from any woman he’d ever known. She spoke her mind freely—albeit a bit too freely—was as organized in business as he was himself and didn’t mind going out on a limb if her instincts called for it.

      She’d so much as called him stupid over those wedding invitations. No one had ever dared do that before! But rather than be annoyed, he was impressed. He wondered if maybe he really was stupid.

      “Upon further reflection, Miss Baxter, that blue suit is very becoming with your red hair and green eyes. And it certainly fits you well.” Too well, as his body could amply testify. Only a surgical glove would have been more form fitting on her luscious body. “I shouldn’t have remarked on the frequency of its use. I apologize.”

      “Apology accepted.” She heaved another sigh, and his eyes followed her heaving bosom—up and down, making Meredith acutely aware that, though he was somewhat of a dolt, he was still all male. “Are we still on for tomorrow morning, then?” she asked. They had an appointment to review fabric samples. Adam Morgan intended to give input on the bridal gown and bridesmaid dresses, having apparently changed his mind about those seemingly trivial matters he’d spoken of previously.

      “Only if you promise to leave your water canister at home.” His lips twitched; her cheeks pinkened.

      “Two jokes in two days. My, my. I’m blown away by your sense of humor, Mr. Morgan.”

      “Adam. Please call me Adam.”

      She arched a brow. “You’re sure? Because—”

      “I’m sure.” He held out his hand, and Meredith took it. It was warm and firm, the knuckles lightly sprinkled with dark, masculine hairs. His hands exuded strength and confidence, maybe gentleness, and she was suddenly overcome with a pulsing sensation in her lower extremities that felt as if her heart had just gone into hyperdrive.

      Good gracious! she thought. I’m attracted to Daddy Warbucks.

      CURTIS TREMAYNE INHALED deeply of the cigarette clutched in his long, tapered fingers. His nails, once manicured religiously, were now jagged and dirty. He blew out a series of concentric smoke rings, then smiled sinisterly at the image projected on the TV screen—an image that provoked only one emotion: hatred for Adam Morgan.

      “Rich bastard!” he muttered, stabbing the butt out in a plastic ashtray that read Murray’s Roadside Garage, and rolling himself off the lumpy excuse of a mattress.

      The Howard Hotel wasn’t exactly the kind of accommodation he’d been used to frequenting. When he’d been married to Allison they’d only traveled first class, dined in gourmet restaurants and stayed in five-star hotels. His wife’s money had provided all the creature comforts a man in his position could want.

      Curtis liked only the best, which was why he’d chosen Allison Morgan, the darling of Morgantown society, the spoiled, pampered pet of her ruthless father Allistair Morgan, who’d been as rich as Croesus and as mean as a junkyard dog. Curtis had hated him on sight.

      Unfortunately, his wife was now dead, and he’d been cut off from all the Morgan wealth. Though he didn’t mourn Allison—he’d never been in love with the foolish woman—he did mourn the loss of his Hugo Boss suits and sleek black Jaguar, which he’d been forced to leave behind when fleeing his former home.

      It was a pity the way things had turned out. But, as usual, Allison had pushed his temper to the limit, always whining about his drinking, the women he fooled around with, the kids he never wanted and hadn’t paid attention to.

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