Millie Criswell - The Wedding Planner

“Sounds to me like you’re the one who should be reading them, Adam. You might learn something. And you might be able to experience love and romance vicariously through the pages of a book, since you’re not performing it for real.”

“You’re starting to sound like my mother, Peter, and that’s the deadliest of mistakes.”

Peter was wise enough to know when he’d pushed too far, and from the dangerous expression on his best friend’s face, that time had come. “How is Lilah? Still exploring the mysteries of India?”

Adam’s mother had left West Virginia shortly after her husband’s death six years ago to travel the continent. She had not seen fit to return, not even for her only daughter’s funeral, which was in keeping with Lilah Morgan’s personality. She’d always loved herself more than anyone else.

Bitter at the slight she had shown his sister, Adam had also been relieved. He had no desire to see his mother, who would likely muck up the adoption proceedings with her histrionics, at any rate.

“Yes, thank God! She’s still there. I just hope she stays away for the next three months, until we can get everything finalized.”

Peter hesitated before bringing up the next subject, which he knew would bring pain to his friend. But he also knew there was no getting around it. Adam wanted to be apprised of any and all developments concerning the murder of his sister. “There’s been no word on Curtis Tremayne. The district attorney’s office doesn’t have any new leads as to his whereabouts, and the private investigator we hired hasn’t turned up anything yet. It’s as if he’s fallen off the face of the earth.”

At the mention of his former brother-in-law, Adam’s eyes flashed quicksilver. He had warned Allison about marrying the handsome gold digger, but she’d fancied herself in love with Tremayne and hadn’t listened.

Now she was dead.

The bastard had strangled the sweet, lovely woman with his bare hands after beating her viciously beforehand. The sight of Allison’s battered body, when she was dying, had sickened Adam’s stomach and his mind. He would never forget what his sister had endured for the sake of love.

The only good that had come out of Allison’s relationship with Curtis Tremayne had been their daughter, Megan, and son, Andrew. Adam had promised Allison on her deathbed that he would keep the children from Tremayne and adopt them as his own.

“Hire more investigators. I want that guy found. It’s been three months since my sister’s murder, and we’ve had no justice, no closure. I want him to pay for what he’s done.”

Peter scribbled on his notepad. “I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”

“I want the media contacted about my plans to marry. You can coordinate your efforts with Miss Baxter. You’ve probably had more experience in dealing with the press than she has. Though she looks a damn sight better than you.”

The good-natured lawyer grinned. “You want national coverage—Good Morning America, the Today Show?”

Adam nodded. “I want the world to know that Adam Morgan is looking for a wife.”

“You’re going to make yourself a target for those who won’t agree with what you’re doing.”

The tall man shrugged. “It’s a small enough price to pay to honor my sister’s last request, don’t you think? And I’ve got you and Miss Baxter to run interference for me.” Adam finally smiled. “I think the woman is up for the challenge. How about you?”

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.