Karen Whittenburg - The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal

His chuckle came again, rough and charming. “I may be an old man, but I’m not dead yet. My only regret is that Janey isn’t here to enjoy this little intrigue along with us.”

“I suspect she has a full-time job being your guardian angel.”

His wrinkled smile turned wistful. “You’re right about that.” He paused, then nodded, clearly ready to close the deal. “So are you up to the challenge of finding the right women for my grandsons?”

“I’m open to the possibilities, yes.” She met his eyes with a wry smile. “I may never have had three tougher cases, but your grandsons do have a certain cachet to recommend them. The Braddock name will mean something to the young women I introduce to them.”

Archer took a final sip of the coffee, then set his cup and saucer on the table beside his chair and reached for his cane. “It’s what the Braddock name means to my grandsons that will cause you the biggest headaches, I’m afraid. But let’s not set out on our adventure by worrying about the problems ahead. Let’s focus instead on the beginning of a promising new enterprise and the possibility that I might live long enough to see my first great-grandchild.”

Ilsa smiled, very glad to know this was the first of many meetings to come with Archer Braddock. “I’ll be in touch in a day or two with a list of information I’ll need. The research can take as long as three or four months, but things generally move rather quickly once it’s completed. I feel it’s very important to be thorough.” She rose and resisted the impulse to help him up.

He pushed himself out of the chair with only a slight stiffness of movement and shifted his center of balance with the cane. “I have the utmost confidence in you, my dear, but if I may make a small suggestion…begin with Adam. He’s the oldest, but I’m also rather worried that he’s missed so much in his life. He needs to fall in love with something other than Braddock Industries and he needs to do it very soon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” They walked together, slowly but most companionably, to the door and across the foyer. Robert awaited them in the entryway, standing ready with Archer’s coat and scarf. “My staff is even more discreet than I am myself,” Ilsa said. “So you can feel comfortable if you ever need to leave a message with them.”

Archer slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat and wrapped the gray scarf around his neck. “Feel free to leave messages for me, too,” he said with a wink. “It won’t bother me a bit if everyone in my household believes I’m having an illicit affair in my old age.” He laughed and looked quizzically at Robert.

“Today is not a good day to be without one’s umbrella, sir,” Robert said, holding out a black umbrella. “I took the liberty of procuring one for you.”

Archer accepted it with an appreciative smile. “Discreet, efficient and exceptionally thoughtful. Thank you, Robert.” He turned again to Ilsa. “And thank you, my dear, for a delightful afternoon. I’m looking forward to your call.”

Robert prepared to open the door, but Archer paused, holding off the action. “If this works out as we hope, then perhaps you’ll consider taking James on as a client.”

Ilsa laughed, despite the way her stomach knotted just at the thought. “As I believe we established, Archer, I can’t work miracles.”

“Ah, well, I think that remains to be seen.” And with a tip of his hat, he stepped through the doorway, opened his umbrella, and walked into the drizzly Providence afternoon.

Normally, Adam Braddock steered clear of The Torrid Tomato. The restaurant had found its niche market among the trendy young professionals who spilled from the offices of downtown Providence between the hours of twelve and two, seeking food, fun and a temporary release from stress. Menu items catered to the healthfully eclectic palate, the atmosphere always bordered on boisterous, and over the course of the noon hour, the crowd gravitated toward a high-strung pitch of pandemonium. In Adam’s view, the restaurant had just two things going for it on this day in early May: proximity to his office and a noise level that encouraged speedy conclusions to any business, personal or private, being conducted over lunch. As he had no idea why his grandfather had suggested today’s meeting with a heretofore unknown old friend of the family, Adam wanted to devote as little time as necessary to it. Hence, his request to meet Mrs. Fairchild at The Torrid Tomato.

She had yet to arrive, and he glanced at the gold Bulgari watch on his wrist, checking the time—ten minutes to twelve—already impatient to be back in the office. The Wallace deal was percolating nicely and he expected a phone call early this afternoon formally accepting the buyout offer. He had a two o’clock appointment with John Selden, the chief operating officer of Braddock Construction, and a three-thirty scheduled with Vic Luttrell, the corresponding executive for Braddock Architectural Designs. At four-forty, he would go over tomorrow’s schedule with his administrative assistant, Lara Richmond, and at five-thirty, he would play handball at the club with Allen Mason, Braddock Industries’ chief corporate attorney. Tonight he was having dinner with the top two executives of Nation’s Insurance Group regarding the possible relocation of their corporate offices to the new Braddock Properties office complex in Boston. All in all, a fairly light day, although he could have skipped lunch entirely and never missed it. But when his grandfather made a request, which he so seldom did anymore, Adam was hard-pressed to find any decent reason to refuse.

A bubbling brook of throaty laughter flowed somewhere behind him, sparkling and effervescent, a lovely sound rising above the frantic noon-hour gaiety. For all its genuine warmth, Adam judged it as a blatant bid for attention from someone, a look-at-me summons to the whole restaurant, and he firmly declined to turn around. All he wanted was a noisy atmosphere, a sort of homogeneous cacophony, nothing overtly distracting…certainly, not the siren’s song of amusement that echoed out again as if the laugher couldn’t keep it inside. There was something mesmerizing in the lilting tones, something intriguing in the laughter and, despite wanting to ignore the sound altogether, the third time he heard her laugh, he twisted in his chair and craned his neck to see who she might be.

“Adam?”

He whipped back around, chagrined to be caught rubbernecking. “Mrs. Fairchild.” He rose with a smile to greet the tall, attractive woman who had spoken, and moved to pull out a chair for her, assessing her age—mid-to early-fifties—her appearance—understated elegance—and the platinum and pearl necklace—genuine, not costume—at her throat, in an appreciative blink. “I’m so pleased you could join me.”

“The pleasure is mine.” She smiled, extending her hand for a quick clasp of his. The warmth of her greeting held as she took her seat, lifted the folded napkin, and dropped it delicately onto her lap. “Your grandfather speaks so highly of you and your two brothers, I feel I’ve been remiss in not making more of an effort to get acquainted.” She paused, measuring him in a graceful glance. “You are very like James.”

“You know my father?”

She nodded. “We were in school together at Exeter and again for a couple of years at Harvard. Well, truthfully, he was two years ahead of me and doubtless never knew I existed. He was always quite charming, though, even during those somewhat awkward adolescent years.”

That rang with authenticity. While Adam could never imagine his father as an adolescent, awkward or otherwise, charm was James’s calling card, his stock in trade. But Adam was positive his father would have noticed Ilsa Fairchild, no matter what age he might have been at the time. She was very attractive and James Braddock had always had an eye for the ladies. “He would be flattered you remember him, I’m sure.”