Best Laid Plans (3 page)

Boy, these guys don’t give
anything away. Except little black dresses.

I hurry back to the party. I
feel awful leaving Robert alone for so long. I flip my phone open to text him,
and see my last message was sent to a number I don’t recognize. The message is,
“I will ruin you.” What? He wants to ruin me? And then it clicks. He has a
message sent from my phone threatening him. If I were to say anything, he could
show it to the police.

Oh, this is
so
not
over!

It’s barely eleven, but based
on the number of people standing in line at the valet parking, the party must
be ending early. It is a Thursday night, and people have to work tomorrow. Still,
they don’t usually all leave at once.

I stop at the front bar to
stash my wet dress, and receive a very judgmental glare from Kyle. I’d explain
myself later, after I find Robert. He’s standing by the DJ and has aged a year
since I’ve been gone. The fire marshal paid a surprise visit. The ladies’
restroom overflowed. But worst of all, Lois got hold of a long blonde wig, and
decided she was going to go Lady Godiva. She wanted Luke to be her horse, but
when he hid in the men’s room, Lois decided Kyle would do.

I remember Kyle’s judgmental
look. I finish Robert’s story for him. “She went behind the bar barefoot and
stepped on some broken glass.”

Robert looks at me. “How did
you know?”

I sigh. “Where is she?”

“She’s in the kitchen. And
she’s still in her Lady Godiva outfit.”

“You mean her birthday suit.”

“Potato, potata.”

When I open the kitchen door,
I find Lois huddled in the corner on a bench, wearing nothing but a cheap nylon
wig and some gauze wrapped around her foot. She is sipping champagne directly
from the bottle and feeling sorry for herself. I grab a chef’s jacket off the
kitchen coatrack.

“You must be cold. Why don’t
you put this on?”

She stands up sheepishly,
sets the bottle down, and lets me slip the jacket on her. I can’t help but
notice that her body is in very good shape. I just don’t think that I should be
seeing
all
of it.

She sits back down and picks
up the bottle. “I made a fool of myself,” she whimpers, taking another swig.

I sit next to her. “It’s your
birthday. What better time?”

Lois is too intelligent a
woman to believe that, and the look she gives me lets me know it. She offers me
the bottle. I take a swig, and pass it back to her.

She stares at the label. “I’m
a middle child. I wasn’t the firstborn and I wasn’t the baby. I was even born
on my older sister’s birthday, for God’s sake. All my life I’ve thought, ‘My
turn is coming. It’s just around the corner. My special, secret powers are
going to blossom and people are going to notice me.’” She takes another swig.

A sense of humor is the best antidote
for self-pity. “I think people noticed you tonight,” I quip as I put my hand
out for the bottle.

She laughs and passes it to
me. “Careful what you wish for, right? I’m surrounded by younger, smarter,
prettier people, and I think my time is over. All that’s left is to put as much
money in my retirement account as I can, so I’ll be able to afford a tiny
little condo in Palm Springs, early bird discount dinners for one, and cable to
watch Lifetime movies all day.”

Lois forgets I’ve seen her
home. She doesn’t strike me as someone who’s hurting for money. The bottle is
almost empty, so I only take a small swallow before handing it back.

“I just want people to think
I’m special. No one’s ever told me I’m special.”

I don’t think I gave Lois the
party she wanted. She asked for
Fifty Shades
but what she wanted was
Cinderella
.
And now it’s almost midnight and she has to put the work clothes back on without
ever getting to dance with the prince.

“Did you ever tell anyone you
thought they were special?” My question seems to sober her up a little.

“No. I’ve known special
people, but how do you say that to someone?”

“Well, maybe people think you’re
special and they don’t know how to say it either.”

I can see she’s thinking
about it. I’ll let her stew on that while I work on getting her dressed. “I’ll bring
your clothes if you tell me where you left them.”

She hangs her head down even
lower. “I flushed them down the toilet.”

That explains the plumbing
problem. I need to save this party. I can’t have my last client at my last
event be naked and crying in the kitchen. I stand up. “Wait here.” I start to repeat
to myself:
I can salvage tonight, I can salvage tonight
.

I head back to the bar, pull
my wet dress out, and make a beeline to the dressing room. I know my guys
travel with hair dryers, and I grab Atom and Brett to get the dress wearable. Then
I track down Luke. When I tell him my plan, he gets a panicked look.

“I’ll be standing nearby,” I
say calmly.

“She called me her horsey,
and said she wanted to ride me hard, and put me away wet!”

“Luke, just say, ‘I’d like to
bite that lip of yours’ and then you can walk away.”

He stares at me. “I don’t
think you understand how attractive I am. Women don’t let me walk away.”

“I’m sure you have a standard
excuse.”

He stops to think, and the
effort is written all over his face. “I could tell her if I was fifty years
older I bet I’d find her attractive.”

I sigh. “No, Luke. Do not say
that!” Poor Luke. He is very handsome, and he can lift very heavy things, but
that is about the extent of his assets. “Tell her you’re already seeing
someone.”

Atom delivers the dress to
me. I probably should give Lois the little black dress and wear the work dress,
but if I don’t want to return it, I have less faith in Lois’s impulse control
.
And this little black dress is going back to that man!

I hand the dress to Luke
carefully (so he doesn’t get his body oil on it), and walk him to the kitchen
door. “Remember, hand her the dress, say ‘I would like to bite that lip,’ and if
she says anything, you say you’re seeing someone.”

He’s as nervous as a virgin
on prom night (another of Aunt Celia’s sayings). “What if she
does
something?”

“I’ll be standing at the
door. Now go.” I want to give him a push but don’t want the oil on my hands. Luke
tentatively approaches her. Her eyes move from the bottle to his face. Thankfully
she looks a little embarrassed, so she won’t be trying to mount the horsey. He
hands her the dress. It’s not a glass slipper, but footwear isn’t what she
needs right now. I can tell Luke wants to run, but he delivers the line. Maybe
I was too hard on him. He does have other assets. He’s dependable. Predictable,
but dependable.

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?

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.