Kaye Dacus - Stand-In Groom

Courtney shook her head as she sat. George also declined. He lowered himself onto the love seat a good six inches from Courtney.

Odd. Without exception, every couple who’d sat across from her in their initial consultation couldn’t keep from touching each other— holding hands, his arm around her, her hand on his knee, some kind of contact. George Laurence, however, was as stiff as Courtney was animated when she started talking about her ideas for a grand outdoor wedding at a plantation home down on River Road. Could be a cultural difference. She’d never had a British client before.

Thursday night, she’d been so sure he was “the one.” How could God have put that attraction in her if He hadn’t meant for her to be with this man? She had to stop thinking about him. Focus on the wedding. His wedding. She swallowed hard and realized the girl had stopped talking. “That sounds lovely. Have you determined a budget yet?”

Courtney cast a furtive glance at George, her cheeks turning a becoming shade of pink. “Um, there really isn’t, like, a set limit on what we can spend.”

Anne frowned. “I’m not certain I understand what you mean.” She looked at George, but his bland expression betrayed nothing.

“I mean, Cl—” Courtney broke into a coughing fit, bringing a delicate hand up to cover her mouth.

Anne leaped up and went around to the small refrigerator hidden in the base of one of her built-in cabinets. She took two bottles of water back with her and handed one to Courtney. George waved off the one she offered him as he pressed the blue silk handkerchief from his coat pocket into Courtney’s hand. The expression on his face showed more fatherly concern than romantic interest.

Yes, that was part of it. Part of what bothered her. The age difference. George Laurence had to be older than Anne herself, while Courtney wasn’t quite twenty. What was he thinking, marrying a girl half his age?

“I’m so sorry,” Courtney said after taking a swig of the water. “Must be allergies or something.” She looked at George before taking a deep breath and continuing. “Anyway, what I was saying is that my fiancé, well, I don’t even know how to say this without sounding, like, stuck up, but he has, y’know, a lot of money.”

Anne couldn’t look at him. Why was he leaving this all up to Courtney? Why couldn’t he come out and say it himself?

“He told me I could have anything I wanted, no matter what the cost.” Courtney’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. “Miss Anne, do you think it would be wrong of me to get married in a pink dress? I saw a picture in one of the magazines—I should have brought it with me—some actress or singer who just got married wore a green dress because green is, like, her favorite color. My favorite color is pink, and I’ve always dreamed of getting married in a pink dress like the one Princess Aurora wore at the end of Sleeping Beauty , y’know?”

Pink? Anne still tried to fathom the idea of a budgetless wedding. “I’m positive we can find the perfect dress for you.” She turned to George, sitting so erect his back hardly touched the sofa cushion, hands clasped in his lap. “I realize you’ve told Courtney she can have whatever she wants no matter the cost, but can you give me a ballpark figure so I can start working up a plan of action?”

“I’ve—it’s just as she said: whatever she wants, no matter the cost.”

Really? Anne bit the inside of her cheek to keep her grin intact. Going to play that way, huh? Well, his “no matter the cost” would be put to the test as soon as she could sit down at the computer and start working up a plan based on everything Courtney said she wanted. No calling in favors from childhood friends on this wedding. If he really meant what he said, all of her vendors— all of them—would be rewarded for every discount, freebie, or no-charge delivery they’d ever given her. And for the first time, she might actually get her full fee, on time.

She picked up her planner. “Let’s talk dates.”

“Third Saturday in October,” Courtney said. “That’s the date we’ve chosen. Oh, but we want to have an engagement party the Friday after the Fourth of July.”

Five weeks for the engagement party and four and a half months for the wedding. If she truly had unlimited financial resources, no problem. Anne had planned to take the weekend after the Fourth off, but for a commission this size…

“Let’s see. That would be Friday, July seventh….” She marked the date in July, then flipped to October. Nothing else on her calendar for that week. “Both dates look good.” She closed the planner. “Now here’s what we do next: I’ll work up a proposal, complete with a budget, based on what you’ve told me, as well as a contract. If I can get an e-mail address, I can send both to you for review before our next meeting. Can you come in at three o’clock Thursday?”

George pulled out a touch-screen PDA and tapped away at the surface with a stylus. “Thursday afternoon looks clear.” He clipped the thing onto his belt and reached into his shirt pocket, withdrawing a business card.

Anne took the card, hoping to get some idea of who this guy was. Against a plain white background, all she saw was GEORGE F. LAURENCE in the middle with his mobile number—a New York area code—at the bottom left and an e-mail address at his own dot-com on the right. Aha. If he had his own Web site, she could look it up and find out more about him.

Standing, she gave each of them one of her cards. “If you think of anything else you’d like me to figure into the plan, please call.”

Courtney came around the coffee table to hug her again. “Thank you, Miss Anne. I know I’m going to have so much fun working with you.”

“I’m delighted to have the opportunity.” She walked arm in arm with Courtney to the door. “I’m serious. Call me if you think of anything. I’m available all hours, not just when I’m in the office.”

“Thanks.” Courtney grinned.

Anne turned and extended her hand to George. “Mr. Laurence, it was nice to see you again.”

He shook hands with firm brevity. “Ms. Hawthorne.” He bowed his head slightly and opened the door for Courtney.

She kept her smile pasted on until they were past her front windows, then spun on her not-too-high heels and crossed to her computer. If he had his own dot-com e-mail address, he must have a Web site. She opened a new Internet window and entered the address. The high-speed cable connection paused for a moment; then an error message popped up on the screen: WARNING! YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO ACCESS THIS PAGE. She tried refreshing the page, but the same warning came up. So she did a Google search for his name. Lots of genealogy sites with George Laurences listed, but nothing that seemed to point toward the man who’d just shattered her girlish hopes and dreams of the past several days.

She slumped forward until her forehead touched the screen. “God, why are You doing this to me? Why did he have to turn out to be some kind of eccentric millionaire who’s into much younger women? Why couldn’t he have turned out to be a nice, simple British guy who likes old movies and Dean Martin?”

“I don’t think this plan is going to work.” George turned down the volume of the Rat Pack & Friends satellite radio station and adjusted the hands-free earpiece of his mobile phone.

“What happened?” Digital static crackled through Forbes Guidry’s voice.

“She thinks I’m some sort of debaucher of young women.”

“What?”

George had to smile at the astonishment in Forbes’s voice. “She didn’t say it in so many words, but I could tell from her expression when she first realized why we were there.”