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

“Hello?”

A person. Adam put down the report, momentarily taken aback. “Kate Canton?” he asked.

“Yes?” Her tone turned cool, cautious.

“This is Adam Braddock.”

“Who?”

“Adam Braddock,” he repeated. “Ilsa Fairchild gave me your name.”

“Why would she do that?”

Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have called after office hours. He warmed his tone to compensate for the suspicious note in her voice. “She thought you might be able to help me. I’m sorry to phone so late in the evening, but I’m in desperate need of a party planner.”

“A what?”

Maybe Ms. Canton was a trifle hard of hearing. “A party planner. I need someone to put together a party for me.”

“You have the wrong number.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, infusing his tone with the old Braddock charm as he repeated the phone number written on the card, waited for her confirmation, then added, “And you are Kate Canton?”

“Yes, but I’m not a party planner.”

Women were so touchy about job titles these days. “Coordinator, then,” he said. “Events coordinator. And I mean for this to be quite an event. It’s in honor of my grandfather’s seventy-ninth birthday at the end of June. There’ll be somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred guests, and—”

“Two hundred,” she repeated. “That’s a lot of party hats.”

She was already calculating expenses. That was a good sign. “I’m sure you’re up to the challenge, Ms. Canton. You came highly recommended.”

“Someone recommended me to plan your birthday party?”

Hard of hearing and a little thick, too, perhaps. Or falsely modest. Or clever enough to string him along, playing hard to get. Of course, it was also just possible she was simply intimidated by the Braddock name. He’d experienced some strange reactions from people when they realized who he was and the powerful family and fortune he represented. He’d had women hang up on him from sheer nervousness. He’d known some men—and women—to pretend not to recognize the name, as if that somehow put them all on a more level playing field. Whatever Ms. Canton was experiencing, Adam was determined not to lose patience with her. He cleared his throat, dispatching any hint of impatience. “Ilsa Fairchild gave me your name and number and a favorable recommendation.”

“Mr. Braddock, you have the wrong number. I don’t know why Mrs. Fairchild gave you my number, but I’m not the person you want.”

Adam frowned. He didn’t normally have this much trouble convincing someone to work for him. “You’ll have a free hand with the plans,” he said persuasively. “And a very generous budget.”

“Money is not the point,” she responded quickly.

Money was always the point. “I realize you must be very busy and may prefer to keep your business centered in Providence, but I can assure you, Ms. Canton, that my family is not without influence in this area, and we do host a number of social events every year. I can’t guarantee your business will increase overnight because you do this one party for us, but I believe it is a great opportunity for you. Sea Change is barely a half-hour drive and I’m quite willing to compensate you for any inconvenience. I’ll make it well worth your while.”

There was a pause, a considering silence, and Adam relaxed. The tide, he suspected, was turning. “You’re offering me a great opportunity?” she repeated, a note of humor, a softer touch in her words. “To plan a party?”

“Yes.” Ms. Canton was on the hook, ready to make a deal, and Adam was suddenly, resolutely eager to cinch this one. “I haven’t much time and I understand that this is very last minute for you,” he said. “So let’s cut to the chase. What will it take to get you?”

KATIE COULDN’T DECIDE if she was more offended or flattered that Adam Braddock was so eager to get her. She remembered him from that day at the restaurant, of course, although clearly he didn’t remember her. She’d thought he was quite seriously handsome…and quite seriously underimpressed with her. He’d been a bit arrogant for her tastes, way too sure of himself to allow any woman equal footing. Something of a stuffed shirt, actually, and when a smile might have changed her mind, he’d seemed determined to keep frowning. She’d wondered at the time how—and why—the vibrant Mrs. Fairchild had hooked up with him. A family friend, she’d said, which could cover a multitude of sins. People couldn’t be held responsible for the friends someone else in their family made. But none of that explained how he’d come to have her phone number. Katie guarded the number of her cell phone—her only concession to practicality and convenience—with a religious zeal and had given it to only a handful of people in the six months she’d been living in Providence. Ilsa Fairchild might have given it out by mistake, but she wouldn’t have done so on purpose…not without clearing it with Katie first. And she definitely wouldn’t have given her a recommendation as a party planner. No one who knew Katie at all would have done that.

“There’s been a mistake, Mr. Braddock,” she began. “I’m not the person you meant to call.”

“Please, Ms. Canton, don’t be coy. I’m a busy man. The party’s only six weeks away and I don’t have the time or the inclination to track down another coordinator. Name your price and let’s get this settled.”

His tone was so serious, his manner so “Let’s Make a Deal” that Katie wanted to laugh. What kind of man got so worked up over a birthday party? A busy man. A man who made lists and marked off items with a superior sense of self-satisfaction. A man with a singular mind-set, who was completely determined to refute her every denial. “Five thousand dollars,” she said, positive he’d hang up on her faster than she could say…just kidding.

“Done.”

Katie swallowed her laughter like a big wad of chewing gum. “What?” she choked out.

“You said five thousand. I agreed.”

She thought fast. “You didn’t let me finish. It’s five thousand now and another five thousand later.” There, that should fix his wagon.

He did hesitate. “You must be very good, Ms. Canton. For that price, I’ll expect you to plan a beautiful June day into the bargain. Phone my secretary tomorrow…no, Monday morning, and she’ll make arrangements to get a deposit check to you. You’ll want to make a preliminary visit to Braddock Hall and look over the estate. Nell—my secretary—will make those arrangements as well. Just tell her when you’ll be driving down and she’ll take care of everything. Any questions?”

Are you crazy? But when Katie found her voice, she just managed to squeeze out a croaky, “I don’t drive.”

That seemed to slow him down. For about two seconds. “Then I’ll send the Rolls for you. Nell will work out the day and time with you.”

The Rolls. He would send “The Rolls” for her. Over the span of her twenty-six years, Katie had been the recipient of bus tickets, cab fares, carriage rides, even a first-class plane ticket once. But no one had ever before said, “I’ll send The Rolls for you,” as if it was the obvious, only thing to be done. “The Rolls?” she repeated.

“The chauffeur is Benson. He’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Within reason, of course.”

A Rolls-Royce with a chauffeur. Benson, the chauffeur. Anywhere she wanted to go. Within reason, of course. Of course. But it was tempting—more than tempting—to say, “hey, sure thing, send it on.” How often did a person get offered such an adventure? On the other hand, she wasn’t crazy enough to think any of this would happen. “Well,” she said. I’ll certainly look forward to that.”