Millie Criswell - The Wedding Planner

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 the story gets out that I’m looking for a bride, the newspapers and television stations will be only too happy to aid us in our search. I intend to use them shamelessly. As will you.”

“I will?” She swallowed with some trepidation.

“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.”