The bell on the front door of Anne’s office jingled at 9:50 Monday morning. She looked up from Saturday night’s invoices, which she’d been entering into her expenses spreadsheet. Her heart thudded. Dressed in a dark gray suit, a white button-down, and a colorful tie, George Laurence cut a dashing figure. More slender than she’d remembered from last Thursday, but with broad shoulders that suggested he worked out.
She saved the Excel document and went around the desk to greet him. What was he doing here? Had he gotten her office address from Forbes? Had his “not available” status changed over the weekend? And who was the young woman—“Courtney? Courtney Landry?”
The beautiful brunette stepped forward and extended both hands. “Miss Anne! I was so afraid you wouldn’t recognize me.”
Anne clasped the girl’s hands, and they exchanged kisses on the cheek. “How could I not? Your sister Brittany’s wedding was only last summer. You’d just graduated from high school, if I remember. Did you enjoy your first year of college? UCLA, right?”
Courtney’s perfect, homecoming-queen features glowed. “Right. It was awesome. I loved it. It seems like a long time since you used to come over and babysit and tutor me in—well, everything.” She squeezed Anne’s hands. “I set up the appointment for today because I want you to plan my wedding. There isn’t anyone else in the world I trust more than you to pull it together exactly the way I imagine—like, even better, I’m sure.”
“Your—” Anne’s heart dropped into her left big toe. She glanced over Courtney’s shoulder at George Laurence, who stood in profile looking at photos of previous events on her wall. The name Landry was all that had downloaded from the request form on her Web site for ten o’clock Monday morning—now. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that you—that you and he—” She swallowed hard. “Congratulations, Courtney. Why don’t we sit down and discuss your ideas.”
She couldn’t meet George Laurence’s gaze as she waited for him and Courtney to be seated on the Chippendale-style sofa under the picture window. “Can I get anything for either of you? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
Courtney shook her head as she sat. George also declined. He lowered himself onto the love seat a good six inches from Courtney.
Odd. Without exception, every couple who’d sat across from her in their initial consultation couldn’t keep from touching each other— holding hands, his arm around her, her hand on his knee, some kind of contact. George Laurence, however, was as stiff as Courtney was animated when she started talking about her ideas for a grand outdoor wedding at a plantation home down on River Road. Could be a cultural difference. She’d never had a British client before.
Thursday night, she’d been so sure he was “the one.” How could God have put that attraction in her if He hadn’t meant for her to be with this man? She had to stop thinking about him. Focus on the wedding. His wedding. She swallowed hard and realized the girl had stopped talking. “That sounds lovely. Have you determined a budget yet?”
Courtney cast a furtive glance at George, her cheeks turning a becoming shade of pink. “Um, there really isn’t, like, a set limit on what we can spend.”
Anne frowned. “I’m not certain I understand what you mean.” She looked at George, but his bland expression betrayed nothing.
“I mean, Cl—” Courtney broke into a coughing fit, bringing a delicate hand up to cover her mouth.
Anne leaped up and went around to the small refrigerator hidden in the base of one of her built-in cabinets. She took two bottles of water back with her and handed one to Courtney. George waved off the one she offered him as he pressed the blue silk handkerchief from his coat pocket into Courtney’s hand. The expression on his face showed more fatherly concern than romantic interest.
Yes, that was part of it. Part of what bothered her. The age difference. George Laurence had to be older than Anne herself, while Courtney wasn’t quite twenty. What was he thinking, marrying a girl half his age?
“I’m so sorry,” Courtney said after taking a swig of the water. “Must be allergies or something.” She looked at George before taking a deep breath and continuing. “Anyway, what I was saying is that my fiancé, well, I don’t even know how to say this without sounding, like, stuck up, but he has, y’know, a lot of money.”
Anne couldn’t look at him. Why was he leaving this all up to Courtney? Why couldn’t he come out and say it himself?
“He told me I could have anything I wanted, no matter what the cost.” Courtney’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. “Miss Anne, do you think it would be wrong of me to get married in a pink dress? I saw a picture in one of the magazines—I should have brought it with me—some actress or singer who just got married wore a green dress because green is, like, her favorite color. My favorite color is pink, and I’ve always dreamed of getting married in a pink dress like the one Princess Aurora wore at the end of Sleeping Beauty, y’know?”
Pink? Anne still tried to fathom the idea of a budgetless wedding. “I’m positive we can find the perfect dress for you.” She turned to George, sitting so erect his back hardly touched the sofa cushion, hands clasped in his lap. “I realize you’ve told Courtney she can have whatever she wants no matter the cost, but can you give me a ballpark figure so I can start working up a plan of action?”
“I’ve—it’s just as she said: whatever she wants, no matter the cost.”
Really? Anne bit the inside of her cheek to keep her grin intact. Going to play that way, huh? Well, his “no matter the cost” would be put to the test as soon as she could sit down at the computer and start working up a plan based on everything Courtney said she wanted. No calling in favors from childhood friends on this wedding. If he really meant what he said, all of her vendors— all of them—would be rewarded for every discount, freebie, or no-charge delivery they’d ever given her. And for the first time, she might actually get her full fee, on time.
She picked up her planner. “Let’s talk dates.”
“Third Saturday in October,” Courtney said. “That’s the date we’ve chosen. Oh, but we want to have an engagement party the Friday after the Fourth of July.”
Five weeks for the engagement party and four and a half months for the wedding. If she truly had unlimited financial resources, no problem. Anne had planned to take the weekend after the Fourth off, but for a commission this size…
“Let’s see. That would be Friday, July seventh….” She marked the date in July, then flipped to October. Nothing else on her calendar for that week. “Both dates look good.” She closed the planner. “Now here’s what we do next: I’ll work up a proposal, complete with a budget, based on what you’ve told me, as well as a contract. If I can get an e-mail address, I can send both to you for review before our next meeting. Can you come in at three o’clock Thursday?”
George pulled out a touch-screen PDA and tapped away at the surface with a stylus. “Thursday afternoon looks clear.” He clipped the thing onto his belt and reached into his shirt pocket, withdrawing a business card.
Anne took the card, hoping to get some idea of who this guy was. Against a plain white background, all she saw was GEORGE F. LAURENCE in the middle with his mobile number—a New York area code—at the bottom left and an e-mail address at his own dot-com on the right. Aha. If he had his own Web site, she could look it up and find out more about him.
Standing, she gave each of them one of her cards. “If you think of anything else you’d like me to figure into the plan, please call.”
Courtney came around the coffee table to hug her again. “Thank you, Miss Anne. I know I’m going to have so much fun working with you.”
“I’m delighted to have the opportunity.” She walked arm in arm with Courtney to the door. “I’m serious. Call me if you think of anything. I’m available all hours, not just when I’m in the office.”
“Thanks.” Courtney grinned.
Anne turned and extended her hand to George. “Mr. Laurence, it was nice to see you again.”
He shook hands with firm brevity. “Ms. Hawthorne.” He bowed his head slightly and opened the door for Courtney.
She kept her smile pasted on until they were past her front windows, then spun on her not-too-high heels and crossed to her computer. If he had his own dot-com e-mail address, he must have a Web site. She opened a new Internet window and entered the address. The high-speed cable connection paused for a moment; then an error message popped up on the screen: WARNING! YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO ACCESS THIS PAGE. She tried refreshing the page, but the same warning came up. So she did a Google search for his name. Lots of genealogy sites with George Laurences listed, but nothing that seemed to point toward the man who’d just shattered her girlish hopes and dreams of the past several days.
She slumped forward until her forehead touched the screen. “God, why are You doing this to me? Why did he have to turn out to be some kind of eccentric millionaire who’s into much younger women? Why couldn’t he have turned out to be a nice, simple British guy who likes old movies and Dean Martin?”
“I don’t think this plan is going to work.” George turned down the volume of the Rat Pack & Friends satellite radio station and adjusted the hands-free earpiece of his mobile phone.
“What happened?” Digital static crackled through Forbes Guidry’s voice.
“She thinks I’m some sort of debaucher of young women.”
“What?”
George had to smile at the astonishment in Forbes’s voice. “She didn’t say it in so many words, but I could tell from her expression when she first realized why we were there.”
“From Anne’s expression? She’s usually so good at hiding what she’s thinking, even from those of us who know her best.”
“I think Ms. Hawthorne is suspicious of the nature of my relationship with Miss Landry. And with every right to be so. Why would a man forty-one years old be marrying a girl half his age— less than half his age?” Especially a man like me at whom no woman would ever look twice? George shook off the negative thought and turned the leased Mercedes Roadster convertible into the driveway that should lead to his employer’s nineteenth-century home.
“Anne’s pretty open-minded. I mean, she does have high morals, but when she takes on clients, she doesn’t let things like age differences in the couple interfere with her job.”
Enormous oak trees lined the narrow road, creating a canopy overhead that allowed no sunlight through. George removed his sunglasses and slowed the car. After five nights in a hotel, he hoped all the plumbing repairs were indeed completed. He didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with water dripping on his head, as Forbes told him the leak had been over the basement service quarters.
Anne might be open-minded, but he’d seen the look of pure astonishment in her eyes for a split second before she’d slipped into her professional persona. “Look, mate, she’s your cousin, and you know her better than I do. I just don’t want to see anyone get hurt because of this.”
The tree-shaded drive rounded a corner to reveal a magnificent mansion, just like the kind used in movies about the American Civil War. “Love a duck,” George breathed, stopping the car to drink in the view.
“I beg your pardon?” Humor laced Forbes’s baritone voice.
“Oh, sorry. I’ve just seen the house.”
“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say.” Red brick with a white-pillared porch dominating the front, the manse loomed ever larger as he drove closer.
“Listen, you focus on getting settled in and don’t worry about Anne. If she has a problem with you or the situation, believe me, you’ll know about it. With Anne, you don’t have to guess.”
George bade the lawyer farewell, ended the call, and followed the paved carriageway to the separate garage building in the back. The land sloped down toward a large pond, exposing the basement level of the house. Mrs. Agee, the housekeeper, had moved in yesterday, but when George tried the main service entrance, it was locked. He punched in the security code Forbes had given him on the panel beside the door and entered.
“Hello?” His voice echoed through the shadowy interior of a cavernous kitchen fitted out with enormous commercial-grade appliances set in redwood cabinetry with gray granite countertops.
“Someone there?” A woman’s voice came from a hall to his right, and bright lights blazed, momentarily blinding George.
“Mrs. Agee?”
An African-American woman entered the kitchen—tall, softly built, her gray hair kept back from her angelic face with a flowery scarf. “I’ve been expectin’ you for a couple of hours now.” She crossed the room, right hand extended. “I’m Keturah Agee, but you can just call me Mama Ketty.”
Now he was almost certain he’d stepped out of real life and onto a movie set. He shook her hand. “George Laurence.”
“Let’s get you settled in, baby, and then we can discuss business matters.”
He followed her through the stone-arch doorway into a hall with gleaming wood floors. The corridor extended the same short distance to the left and right of the doorway.
“I’ve taken up residence in the suite on the left.” She pulled a key out of the pocket of her khaki pants.
The antique brass key was heavy in his hand. “Is locking the doors necessary inside the house?”
“It will be if there’s ever a party here and this lower level is swarming with caterers and day-hires.” She looked at the gold pendant watch hanging from a long chain around her neck. “It’s nearly three. Can I make you some tea?”
Teatime really wasn’t until four. “I’d love some.”
She smiled, showing a full set of straight, white teeth and dimples in both cheeks. “I’ll put the water on while you get yourself settled in.”
By the time he’d gotten his two suitcases and hanging bag out of the car, the teakettle whistled, drowning out Mama Ketty’s humming. She winked at him as he wheeled the luggage through the kitchen. He paused at the door to his room, hoping it was large enough that he wouldn’t be tripping over the end of the bed, as in his room in the New York town house.
The door swung open on silent hinges. The dark wood flooring continued into a long but very narrow room. Well, if he was going to have to stay in the tiny space, at least it had a large window overlooking the back lawn and the pond. He opened the door to his left, expecting an equally small bath, and entered a second, much larger room.
In relief, he sank onto the queen-size bed that sat on a plain metal frame under another large window. Dark wainscoting gave way at waist height to walls painted hunter green. Two more doors revealed a walk-in closet and a large private bath.
He’d have to go furniture shopping, but the size of the suite more than made up for being sent into exile for nearly five months.
The sweet aroma of cinnamon and vanilla drew him back out into the kitchen. He sat in one of the tall chairs at the bar on the back side of the island. Mama Ketty set a white cup and saucer in front of him along with a dessert plate piled with sweets and pastries.
He’d just bitten into an oatmeal cookie when a chime reverberated through the room.
Mama Ketty looked perplexed. “Someone’s at the front door.”
“I’d best go see who it is.” He stood, then looked around. He didn’t know how to access the main portion of the house.
“Beyond the pantry.” Mama Ketty indicated the opposite side of the kitchen from their suites. “Enter the security code before you open the door at the top. The upstairs is on a different zone than down here.”
He jogged up the enclosed wooden staircase and found himself in another kitchen—smaller but still well appointed. He crossed to the swinging white door and exited into a wide foyer. The hall ran the length of the house, the front door on the opposite end. Two figures stood on the other side of the etched oval glass; he entered the security code and slid the dead bolt lock open.
“Miss—”
“George!” Courtney stepped forward and hugged him. “Mama had to come by and see the house.” She gazed at him with wide eyes begging him to maintain his fictitious identity.
Forcing a smile, he stepped back and motioned the two women in. The only similarity between daughter and mother was their chestnut hair. Courtney, about average height, possessed a natural grace and a dancer’s figure. Her mother, however…
The cloying odor of an entire flower garden preceded the woman into the house. Dressed in a bright pink sateen jogging suit, she sported overly large sunglasses, which she pulled down to the tip of her nose with claws painted to match her outfit.
“Mrs. Landry.” He took her proffered hand, hoping her nails wouldn’t impale him. “It is nice to finally meet you.”
She looked him over from head to toe and raised her painted-on eyebrows. “So you’re the cause of this. To think, my own daughter springing a surprise like this on me. She used to tell me everything, you know. Humph. I expected you’d be—”
Younger. So had Anne Hawthorne.
“Taller.” Mrs. Landry brushed past him.
Courtney shrugged and cocked her head to the side in an apologetic gesture. He followed along behind as Courtney explored the house with her mother. He’d served in some of the largest estates in Britain yet was impressed by the obvious care taken in the restoration of this property.
“Oh, I have the perfect pink faux-fur rug for this room. It would make such a cute nursery.” Mrs. Landry gave George a significant look over her shoulder from the doorway of the last room on the third floor.
He shuddered internally as he inclined his head toward the woman who fit the stereotype of nouveaux riches every person in the service industry feared working for.
Courtney checked her watch. “Oh, Mama, we need to go if you’re going to have time to get ready for the homeowners’ association meeting tonight.”
He stepped out on the front porch with them, astonished to see a Rolls-Royce in the driveway. The chauffeur scrambled out and opened the back door.
“Mama, you go on. I need to speak with George for a moment.” Courtney watched her mother climb into the car. As soon as the door closed, she turned back to look up at George. “I’m so sorry I sprung that on you without any warning. My friend I thought I was going to stay with ended up going to Australia for the summer, so I’m having to stay with Mama instead.”
“And she didn’t know you were engaged?”
“Not until I told her at breakfast this morning right before you and me went to meet Miss Anne. Mama wanted me to go to the beauty salon with her and was like, ‘Where are you going?’ And I was all, ‘I have plans.’ But she was like, ‘You just got here—how can you have plans?’ and got all up in my face until I blurted out where we were going. It wasn’t exactly how I wanted to tell her—I wanted her to find out when everyone else does at the engagement party.” She grabbed his hands and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for playing along.”
Mentally, George added elocution lessons to the etiquette he planned to teach Courtney between now and the engagement party. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Come to dinner with us tonight?”
“Of course.”
She gave him directions to the restaurant, although he’d Map-Quest it as soon as he got inside. He waited on the porch until the car disappeared between the tree rows, then leaned against the front door after closing it and resetting the alarm. The deception had just gotten a little bigger. Now Courtney’s mother believed he was the fiancé. But concealing the truth of his identity from the wedding planner had felt much worse than this.
The wedding planner.
He cut off all the lights and descended toward the service level. Anne Hawthorne.
When he’d seen her at the restaurant, he’d immediately wanted to get to know her better. No one had affected him like that in a very long time. And he must lie to her to protect his employer’s identity and keep his job.
He shook his head as he regained his seat at the island. The next five weeks were going to be, like, the longest of his life.