Best Laid Plans Page 3

  Lois’s hand reaches up and takes his. Did he flinch? She says something to him. I’m ready to step in, but then he says something to her, and she replies, and pretty soon he sits down on the bench next to her, still with her hand in his. Maybe Luke’s not so predictable.

  I ease out of the kitchen. I don’t know what happened in there, but I suspect she told him she thought he was special.

  And who can resist that?

  CHAPTER THREE

  * * *

  My alarm goes off at 11:59. I have a strict rule to always be out of bed before noon. I am a self-employed party planner who can’t afford to sleep in, and 11:59 is still before noon. Then I remember that I’m not a self-employed party planner—I’m an unemployed party planner. That thought is so depressing I decide I’m still self-employed until I send Lois her bill for last night.

  I put on a robe, and a pot of coffee. When I head to the computer, I see my phone sitting on top of the little black dress. That incredibly soft, flattering dress. It would look so good in my closet, but it has to go back. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

  The battery on my phone is dead, so I plug it in to recharge while I pour my coffee and grab a yogurt. When I get back to my desk, the phone has enough juice to display two missed calls.

  The first was a little after nine this morning. A woman is asking me to call her back today about an event for her company. Probably some admin who has to get three competitive bids and then gives the job to the same firm they always use.

  The second message is from Lois. It’s short. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You really are special!” I guess she’s over her self-pity. I hope she feels the same way after she sees the bill. I’m going to charge her for the plumber and the broken glasses. I’m providing the loan of my dress complimentary.

  As soon as I set the phone down, it rings. I just want to enjoy my breakfast, so I may not be my most cheerful as I answer it.

  “Ms. Whitkins? This is Felicity. I called earlier and I hadn’t heard from you.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. We had a late-night event yesterday, and we didn’t open the office until noon today.” She doesn’t need to know I’m still in my pajamas.

  Felicity would like me to take a meeting today. She doesn’t have any particulars other than it’s a private event for one of the executives, and they need to schedule the meeting for today. When I ask how many firms she is interviewing, she says only mine. It sounds too good to be true.

  Felicity senses my hesitation, and mentions she’s just an intern, and because it’s for an executive, she needs to make this happen if she wants a job offer. I’m a sucker for a sob story, so we agree on meeting at 4:30. I was hoping for a corporate gig, but since it’s a private event I bet I’ll need to dust off the floggers.

  I have four hours until the appointment, so I drag myself to the gym. I don’t want to work out, but the thought of staying home and replaying last night’s disaster is too much. I’ll do some cardio. If there’s an interesting class happening, I may join it. I just need to get out of my head right now.

  By three o’clock, I’m home and scanning the closet for business meeting attire. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve bought myself a new business suit. When I had the money, I didn’t have the time for shopping. Now I have the time, but not the money.

  I pull out the professional-looking gray twill jacket and skirt. It’s been my go-to garb for meeting a new client since I can remember, which is why it’s looking old. The lapels are the wrong width to be fashionable this year, and the skirt is “rump sprung”—the fabric is stretched from sitting, so when it’s hanging in the closet it looks like a death mask of my rear.

  My eyes drift to the little black dress. Could I wear that? It’s short, but I have some black tights that would look good with it. It certainly would be an ego boost.

  I give the dress the smell test, and it passes. It’s a little wrinkled from lying on the desk, but if I hang it in the bathroom when I shower, it should steam smooth. All right, I’m going to wear it, and tomorrow I’ll take it to the dry cleaners, and then I’ll send it back.

  . . .

  Hunter Enterprises is on the top floors of the Embarcadero Building. The views are incredible. Just from the reception area, you can see from Coit Tower to the Bay Bridge. But right now I’m staring at the clock tower in the Ferry Building, and it’s 4:50. I’m a little peeved. They were the ones who needed to have this meeting today, and they’ve kept me waiting for twenty minutes. I probably should be standing. I can’t let this dress get rump sprung.

  “Ms. Whitkins?” a voice behind me calls.

  I turn around. A woman stands in what I thought was a solid wall. Now I realize the doorway was hidden in the paneling. This certainly isn’t Felicity, the intern. This elegantly dressed woman is in her fifties and could be a poster child for executive assistant.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, but there’s been a little hiccup in our schedule today. Let me show you to the conference room. May I get you anything to drink?”

  I stand and am shocked to see my skirt hiked up much too high, and glued to me. I try to shake it loose, but there is a buildup of static electricity between the dress and the tights and I can’t pull them apart. I look up to the woman with a “Please help me” expression. She notices immediately.

  “I see you’re a victim of the new carpet. That was supposed to have been treated today. Come in here. There’s a spray that should help.”

  I follow her through the door. I’m holding my briefcase in front of me, and keeping my thighs as close together as I can, which just builds up the electricity even more.

  She shows me into a small conference room. “If you’ll wait here, we’ll be with you shortly. And I’ll try to find that spray for your dress.”

  She walks out the door, and I’m alone. This is my chance to shove my hands inside the dress and wrestle it free. I face the door, so no one can walk in on me, and peel the little black dress from my tights.

  “Ms. Whitkins?” Another voice behind me! A male voice. An oddly familiar male voice.

  I move my hands away from the hem and turn around. That’s when I see him, standing in another of those damn hidden doors. The man who gave me this little black dress that is now clinging to me like Saran Wrap.

  “I’m Jackson Hunter.” He extends his hand. I reach for it and sparks fly. Literally. The static electrical shock looks like a lightning bolt between our fingers. I shriek and suddenly my dress un-clings (if that’s even a word) and hangs perfectly relaxed.

  “Hmmm, I believe we have some electricity between us,” he quips.

  “I think my dress just orgasmed.” Why did I say that? “I mean your dress…I’m sending it back tomorrow. I just…all my suits were at the cleaners.”

  His smile tells me he doesn’t believe me—again. “Of course, but you really don’t have to return it.”

  I give him my most direct stare. “Oh, but I really do.”

  Staring at him turns out to be a mistake, because it reminds me how incredibly handsome he is. He’s dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, with a red and navy repp necktie. The complete corporate executive. Jackson Hunter of Hunter Ente— Oh no. This is his company.

  I turn on my professional smile. “So you have an event coming up?”

  “First things first, Ms. Whitkins.” He turns toward the door. “Pippa, come in here.” Ms. It walks in with her eyes down and stands next to Jackson. I’m relieved she’s not wearing her little black dress, too.

  “Pippa, tell Ms. Whitkins you’re all right.”

  Pippa’s eyes rise up to meet mine. They look like two cherries in a bowl of milk. I shouldn’t be delighted that she is suffering from a hangover—but I am. The fact that her hair is perfect doesn’t help. Her gaze drifts down to my harem uniform, and there is a flash of anger in her pale face.

  “Pippa!” He says it as if she’s a child who isn’t responding.

  Pippa pastes on a smile. “As you can see, I am not
Mr. Hunter’s unwilling victim. I like your dress.”

  I’m pretty sure I know how women get this dress, so her smarmy comment ignites my anger. “Thanks. Mr. Hunter lent it to me after you vomited all over mine.”

  Oh, that look. That “I was so drunk I don’t remember, what else did I do” look. I’ve seen it all my life. First my mother, then my late husband, and now Pippa. The girl with the perfect hair. Kill them with kindness. I put on a big smile. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re safe and sound, and at work.”

  Jackson pulls a chair out. “Pippa is not an employee, but she has been in my service.”

  I was angry at her, and now I’m even angrier at him. This man has that smug sense of superiority that I detest. I wore this dress because it made me feel confident, until I ran into the one man I didn’t want seeing me in it. What makes it even worse is that I still find him sexy as hell. I need to get this meeting on track. I pull a notebook out of my briefcase.

  “Shall we discuss the event you want? We’re already running late.”

  “Certainly, Ms. Whitkins. Sit.”

  The way he said “sit” makes me suspect his company is a dog obedience school. Pippa plops down in a chair. Jackson watches me, or maybe the dress, as I sit. After a pause, he takes his seat.

  “My brother is turning twenty-five and I promised to throw him a party.”

  “And you chose me because…”

  He smiles. “I had your number in my phone.” He’s enjoying this. I just have to remember I can walk out of his office anytime.

  Pippa pipes up, “Oh, he’s got your number, all right.”

  Jackson turns to her, and pins her with his glare. “That will be all. Wait for me in the lobby.”

  Pippa whines, “Yes, sir.”

  Jackson sighs. “I’m telling you for the last time. Call me Jackson.”

  “Yes, Jackson.” She stands, flips her hair, and leaves through the secret door.

  Well, that was awkward. I debate working the topic of enabling into the conversation, and quickly dismiss that idea. The less I’m involved with his personal life, the better.

  Jackson clears his throat and snaps me out of my reverie. “My event team has arranged for the birthday party at Il Fratello Fortunati.”

  “I thought you said he was turning twenty-five, not fifty. And have you seen the kitchen? I’m all for old-world charm, but they take it a little far.”

  “It seems the health department agrees with you. They closed it down. And now I don’t have a venue, caterer, or an event team, since they’re all in Brussels preparing for our media conference on Monday.”

  I scribble inside my notebook so it looks like I’m interested. “And when is his birthday?”

  “Friday.”

  Is he kidding me? “Next Friday? A week from today?”

  “Which is why I need you.” He pulls out a checkbook. “Think of it as the start of a mutually beneficial relationship. Ever since last night, I’ve been imagining several events where I could use someone with your particular skill set. Can you work late nights?”

  He’s trying to make me blush again, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. Let’s see how he likes his own medicine. I’ll get him all hot and bothered and then turn down his rinky-dink party. I lean forward and put my elbows on the table. “I’m very flexible.”

  He smiles and the dimples in his cheeks deepen. “Hmmm. I like a flexible woman.”

  I smile right back at him. “I’ve yet to meet a man who didn’t.”

  His smile disappears and I take some satisfaction in that. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Have you met a lot of men?”

  No, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I have a strict policy of client confidentiality—so I can’t answer that question. I’m sure you understand, considering how demanding you can be about your privacy.”

  He doesn’t even have the courtesy to look contrite, let alone apologize for the way he treated me last night. In fact, he looks bored.

  “I insist on discretion.” He leans in, and I feel the urge to retreat. “I also insist on being your only client while we’re working together.”

  My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, and I don’t choose the flight option. “You can have a whole team of planners working for you but I can’t even have one other client? Seems like a double standard.”

  “The other planners are for my business. I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

  “What you fail to realize is that your pleasure is my business.” Oh, that didn’t come out the way I wanted. There’s no turning back now. “That’s why I have to be very selective about the clients I choose.” I close my notebook, signaling he’s not one of the chosen.

  His lips flatten as he opens the checkbook. “I understand your exclusive services come at a premium. I’m prepared to write you a deposit right now. Will a hundred do?”

  I laugh. “A hundred dollars?”

  “No. Thousand. One hundred thousand.”

  When he said everything’s for sale, I didn’t realize we were talking six figures. I could keep Robert on as an employee, pay off both of my credit cards, and put some money back into savings.

  “Ms. Whitkins? Is one hundred sufficient?”

  I recover quickly. “I don’t know. You haven’t told me anything about this party. How many people are you expecting? Is it a sit-down dinner or buffet? Is there dancing? Did you want a band?” My mind starts spinning on all the things that need to get done in one week.

  “What I want is to give my brother a birthday party that requires as little of my involvement as possible. I also want you and I’m willing to pay for both. Shall we say $150,000?”

  Damn him, it’s too good an offer to pass up and he knows it. He’s wrapped it all up in sexual innuendo so it would be doubly embarrassing for me to accept. One look at Pippa will tell you I am nothing like his type. I’m not petite, I’m not twenty-something, and I don’t have long, straight hair. If I take this job, he’ll probably make it a living hell for me. Suddenly the fact that it’s only a week away makes it more appealing. He clicks his pen rapidly, signaling his impatience, and I cave.

  “That should be a sufficient deposit. I’ll send you my W-9 for tax purposes.”

  He flashes a victory smile, rips a check out, and passes it to me as he picks up the conference room phone. “Shirley, I need the event file for Ms. Whitkins waiting for her at the front desk.”

  The check is made out to JW Events, even though I haven’t given him my company name. I remember he told the little tyke he wanted everything he could get on me. I can see the dossier now. Jillian Whitkins, thirty-one, widowed, owner of JW Events. Last known date with a man: no record found. Then there would be lots of pictures of my parties. I should warn him not to believe everything he sees on the Internet.

  I wonder what I could find out about him. I bet he was born rich. He certainly acts like someone who’s been privileged all his life. A rich kid who’s always thought he’s better because he’s better off.

  As much as I’d like to read the unauthorized biography of Jackson Hunter, I decide it’s none of my business. A week from today I’ll be free of this man forever, so it’s best not to dig myself in any deeper. He can remain the mysterious, enigmatic, drop dead gorgeous, wealthy client who lures women into little black dresses.

  He catches me staring at him as he hangs up the phone. He smiles that same smile that caused $362 worth of broken champagne flutes, and my toes curl.

  “I’ll have the complete party file waiting for you at reception. You can use what my team planned as a guide, including the guest list. The hardest part will be the time constraint.”

  The hardest part will be working for him. But I’ve got $150,000 to spend and everything—and everyone—has a price. “I’ll need your brother’s contact info.”

  “My brother is out of the country and doesn’t get back until Thursday. I’d rather you don’t disturb him. I have enough trouble keeping him fo
cused on his work as it is.”

  Oh, I feel sorry for his brother. This man is such a control freak that I can’t help needling him a little. “Would you like me to hire a photographer?” I try to hold a poker face but I know my eyes are giving me away. He tilts his head a little to the side. From the way he’s studying me, I doubt people joke with Jackson.

  “I have a photographer I always use. I’ll give you her contact info.”

  He stands up suddenly, signaling the meeting is at an end. I ought to get out of my chair but he’s hovering over me, blocking me. His hands come down and land on the armrests, and now I am trapped. As much as I want to look at his hands, it’s Topaz Olympus that’s got my attention.

  “I’m leaving for Brussels tomorrow. I won’t be back until Thursday. I’m going to trust you to handle this. It should be cookie-cutter for an experienced planner like you. And just so I’m very clear: no whips, no chains, no half-naked men, and no kink. This isn’t one of your theme parties.”

  “Yes, sir.” Where did that come from? “I mean, Jackson.”

  “Oh, you can call me sir.”

  He straightens, and I finally have room to push myself up out of the chair. I’m grateful to find my dress isn’t clinging. He places his hand on my back, between my shoulder blades, and I almost jump out of my skin.

  “Did I shock you again?”

  Yes would be the easiest answer, but not the truth. There’s a very different current going through me now, and it’s best to keep it to myself. “I thought you were going for my phone.” If I’m going to lie, I might as well make it a good one.

  “You’re safe from me—today.” His hand in my back gently guides me out of the conference room and toward reception. Pippa is sitting on the sofa and her long, straight hair looks like it’s trying to escape, thanks to the static electricity. I should have some empathy. Maybe tomorrow. Right now I just want to enjoy the view of Pippa having a bad hair day. She sees Jackson and tries to pat it back in place, but the hairs cling to her hand and get teased wilder and wilder.