Best Laid Plans - Robyn Kelly (red white and royal blue hardcover .txt) 📗

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 hoping my ass isn’t on display.

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

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 it 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.

She 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. “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 at any time.

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 I realize I’ve been staring at the door. “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’m without a restaurant, 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 keep business and pleasure separate.”

“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 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.”