Best Laid Plans (4 page)

“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 focused 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.

There’s a can of anti-static
spray sitting next to a manila envelope at reception (and no one has offered it
to Pippa). Jackson hands me the envelope. “Here’s what we have on the party.”

The envelope is pretty thin
so I doubt this is much of a birthday celebration. “If I have any questions,
how can I reach you?”

“Email me with any critical
questions, but I expect you to protect me from the minutia. And one more thing…”

His hands grab my arms. Those
beautiful hands. He’s so close and his grip is so tight. “Ohhh.” I make that
noise again. I’m being held by the sexiest man in the world, and I sound like
Homer Simpson.

Jackson smiles that annoying,
smug smile, and I want the earth to swallow me up. He leans into my ear. “I
want you to wear this dress at the party. Consider it the uniform for the
night.” His voice is so low only I can hear, but despite the lack of volume,
there is no doubt he expects to be obeyed.

I think the dress orgasms
again.

The first thing I do when I get home is get out of the dress
and tights, and then call Robert. I tell him we have one more job. I’m relieved
to find he’s available, and I think he’s relieved to know that I can afford to
keep him on another week or two.

Then I tell him
who
the event is for. I had filled him in on some of the details of my excursion
last night. Now I can give him the name that goes with the face—and hands.

“You want to do business with
that man?”

“It may have been a peace
offering.” That’s the story I’ve decided to tell myself. It’s not based on any
reality, but it’s not healthy to have an adversarial relationship with a
client. And I’ll only be lying to myself for one week. “He specifically said he
wanted to be involved as little as possible.”

“Still, can you trust him?”

“I’m holding a deposit check
for $150,000.”

The phone is silent. Then I
hear the click of his keyboard. “He
is
hot. He’s at the top of the most
eligible bachelor list in San Francisco.”

And based on his personality,
he will probably be a bachelor for a very long time.

“He’s a billionaire. He’s hot
and he’s a billionaire. Life is so unfair.”

I try to soften the blow. “Money
doesn’t buy happiness.”

“That’s a lesson I’d like to
learn the hard way.” His voice suddenly goes from playful to concerned. “Oh
Jillian, you need to read this.”

“Robert, stop. If it’s
personal, I don’t want to know. If it’s financial, I already have his check. I
only want to know if he has a history of suing event planners. Anything else
you can tell me
after
the event. That is a hard limit.” I don’t need to
know anything personal. This isn’t
his
birthday party. And he’s got a
girlfriend.

“Yes, sir.” I can tell by
Robert’s playful tease that I’ve gone a little Dominant. We started using
phrases from Christian Grey’s contract in front of our clients a few years ago,
to their delight (though I’m still not clear about the difference between a
hard limit and a soft limit). At some point, we started using the phrases even
when the client wasn’t around. Maybe that’s why people think we’re a couple.

I open the manila envelope
with the event details, and we start discussing a strategy. The guest list is
fairly small—only twenty people or so. I can tell this was planned by his
corporate team. Their notes make it sound more like a business dinner than a
birthday party. I’m certainly not going to be able to bill $150,000 for a party
like this. I can’t even plan a theme if I don’t know anything about the
birthday boy.

Robert is thinking the same. “I’ll
start making calls tomorrow morning to see what’s available Friday, but we can’t
make a decision until we know what we’re doing. You need to do some of your
world-class snooping on the brother.”

“I prefer to call it
research. We can bill for research.”

We end the call and I go to
work. Facebook has thirteen Bryan Hunters, but only one looks twenty-four years
old. Even better, according to his page, he is in Italy and bored out of his
mind.

You wouldn’t know he’s Jackson’s
brother by looking at him. Where Jackson is controlled energy in a business
suit, Bryan is rocking the hipster look with his Buddy Holly glasses and skinny
jeans. His hair and beard are both artfully disarranged. If Jackson is a top
dog, then Bryan is definitely a puppy dog.

There are a bunch of selfies
with a pretty blonde named Monica. A few at Ocean Beach, the Marin Headlands,
and Golden Gate Park. But the majority of their pictures together are in clubs
and restaurants.

Checking the guest list, I
don’t see anyone named Monica. I need to contact Bryan and get some details. If
I’m doing the math right, it should be about four in the morning in Italy. I
send my friend request and am surprised when it’s instantly accepted. I send a
private message that I’m planning his birthday party and need some info. He
shoots back his Skype username and within a minute we connect.

I can’t tell whether his hair
is styled or he has bed-head. He’s checking me out, too. “Have we met before? You
don’t look familiar.”

“I’m an outside planner. Your
brother asked me to help.”

“At the Il Fratello
Fortunati? He doesn’t think I’d be sick of Italian food after two weeks of
touring every broke-down vineyard that grows his precious nebbiolo grapes?”

I hear something that sounds
like a car horn in the background. It seems to make Bryan even edgier than his
clothing. “Did you hear that? That was a rooster. It’s four o’clock in the
morning, and they have roosters on Viagra here.”

Boy, this is a high-strung
family. “Actually, your brother has decided to move your party.” It’s not
technically a lie. “That’s why I’m calling. I’m trying to figure out what you’d
like.”

“Jackson wants to know what I’d
like?”

So it’s not just me. He
treats everyone the same. “Well, it is your birthday. I was going over the
guest list, and I didn’t see Monica on it.”

“Who’s on the guest list?”

I read him off the names as
quickly as I can. A Hunter woman (his mom, I find out), and the rest of the names
are employees of Hunter Enterprises, which sets him off more than the rooster.

“This is a company party? He
is making my birthday a company party? When was someone going to ask me who I
wanted to invite?”

I think of Felicity the
intern. “Oh dear, I’m afraid that’s my fault. I was supposed to do that, but I
dropped the ball. Please don’t tell your brother. We both know how he can be.” I
know when I start manipulating people I’m headed for trouble. But if I can pull
this party off, I’ll have a nest egg and one non-kinky event I can use as a
reference.

We chat for half an hour, and
I realize that he wants a big blow-out party for a hundred and fifty of his
closest friends—none of whom are on the guest list Jackson gave me. Jackson is
expecting a quiet, boring business dinner. Can I make them both happy? I offer
Bryan a compromise. If he’ll endure the company dinner, with Monica by his
side, I’ll give him the birthday he wants.

I worry I might not be able
to afford two parties, so we start negotiating. He wants a full bar, so we cut his
food budget to just a cake, and I can remove the dessert from Jackson’s dinner.
Bryan wants the party built around the dance floor, and makes some great
suggestions on how to do it. He’s been going to clubs in the city long enough
to know what works and what doesn’t, and he gives me the names of his favorite
DJs.

“And Jackson is okay with
this?” he asks.

It might be 4:30 in the
morning in Italy, but Bryan doesn’t miss much. “He told me he didn’t want to be
bothered with the minutia.”

“I’m not sure he would
consider this minutia,” Bryan warns.

“Bryan, I know it’s your
birthday, but can we make this a surprise to your brother?”

“He doesn’t like surprises.”

“He doesn’t like a lot of
things.”

Bryan stares into his screen.
In that moment, I see the family resemblance. I remember that same expression
on Jackson’s face in the elevator. I start to wonder whether this is a bad idea
just as Bryan breaks into a smile.

“A surprise party. This is
going to be
good!”

Bryan puts me in touch with
Monica, who promises to compile a list of friends to invite. I tell her we
should email out an STD today, and then have to quickly explain that it’s an
acronym for Save The Date—not Sexually Transmitted Disease.

Once I know we need a space
with both a dance floor and large dining area (and as much space between them
as possible), I let Robert do his magic. At this late date, no restaurant or
event venue has availability. We’re going to have to find a raw space, and
bring
everything
in.

With Robert’s connections, we
find a church for sale in the Dogpatch neighborhood. It’s perfect. The church
itself is empty, and there is a parsonage next door with a large kitchen and
reception room. What’s more, there’s a private courtyard that connects the two
buildings. We contact the realtor, and by the end of the day, we have arranged
to rent it for the week.

Robert and I spend Sunday
coming up with a timeline and a vendor list. Monica has received a hundred
RSVPs already, and Robert tries to push me over the $150,000 budget. He’s very
persuasive, but I just keep hearing Bryan’s voice in my head.
He doesn’t
like surprises
.

Monday we hit the ground
running, and the week flies by. I have an inspector verify the building is up
to code, I contact our insurance company to give us a quote, I schedule a walk-through
with the fire marshal, and hire a cleaning crew for before and after the event.
Robert handles the caterer, the DJ, and the lighting company. We meet with our
décor vendor on how to turn the parsonage into an elegant dining hall and the
church into a techno palace. Bryan has been in rural Italy for two weeks. He
needs some sensory overload for his birthday.

And, of course, I had the
little black dress dry-cleaned.

Thursday morning, the milk
curdles in my coffee. Considering I just bought it, I check the refrigerator and
find that everything is warm. I call the building super and within an hour he
confirms what I already know—it’s dead. He promises to get a repairman out
today. These things always happen when I don’t have the time to deal with them.

Thursday night, there’s a
sticky note on my fridge. “Cheaper to replace than repair—ordering new one.”
Looks like I’ll be eating takeout for a few more days. I hope I can still fit
in that dress tomorrow night.

When Friday arrives, I’m at
the church at nine in the morning. I had hoped to grab breakfast on the way in,
but the line at the local coffee shop was too long. Robert is working with the
lighting guys, so I take the lead on the décor crew load-in. There is some
drama when the forklift gets stuck in the up position, but I leave that to
Robert to handle while I run back to the parsonage.

Inside, I find a hysterical Hispanic
woman. She starts speaking to me in Spanish. Very rapid Spanish. At that moment,
my phone rings. It’s not a number I recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. This
woman’s outburst seems more pressing.

My phone rings again from the
same number. I give her my best “Uno momento” and take the call. I recognize
the voice immediately. Or rather, the tone.

“For what I am paying you, I
expect you to pick up the phone and not send me to voicemail.”

“How’s your Spanish?”

“What?”

“Can you speak Spanish?” I’ve
thrown Jackson off his stride. He says he does, so I order, “Translate” and
hand the phone to the woman. They have a short conversation, and then she hands
the phone back to me.

He’s calmer now. “It seems
there are pigeons in your kitchen. Is everything all right?”

That is not the thing you
want a client to know. “Oh, she must mean that they’ve delivered the quail.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what
she means. So, I should expect quail for dinner?”

“Appetizer.” What tangled
webs we weave. “Did you have any other questions?”

“I was just checking that
everything’s on schedule.”

“And that I haven’t absconded
with your money?” Oh, I’m getting testy. “No, everything is going
very
well. I look forward to seeing you tonight at six.”

“Then I’ll let you get back
to your
quail
.”

“Thank you. You’re very
understanding.”

“Yes, I am.” Jackson makes
that phrase sound practically threatening.

Now, who can I call to deal
with these
quail
?

. . .

By six o’clock, we have
transformed the parsonage into a refined dining room (lots of fabric and up
lighting), and turned the courtyard into a garden oasis (and dealt with the pigeon
infestation). Crews are still working in the church to get it ready for later. I
hired a string quartet from the Conservatory of Music. Having worked my way
through college, I know how good it feels to have a little extra money for the
weekend. I just don’t remember looking so young when I went to college. In
their tuxedos and gowns, they look more as if they’re going to the junior prom,
but they play beautifully, and the music will help drown out any sounds from
next door. Robert has strict orders to keep the crew in stealth mode.

I slip into the ladies’ room
and put on the little black dress. It isn’t a good work uniform. It doesn’t
have any pockets, so there’s no place to stash my phone. I’ve had to add a belt
with a ditty bag, and that just makes the dress even shorter. I brush my hair,
dab a little perfume on, and freshen my lipstick. I’m more nervous than usual, and
I know why. It’s not the event that scares me—it’s the client.

When I return to the room, I
notice the photographer is setting up. She’s pretty, she’s a brunette, and she
has long, straight hair. I wonder whether Jackson has slept with her. I won’t
tell her about the after-party, in case she’s a mole.