The Wedding Planner and the CEO. Alison Roberts
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her enough to lose this unexpected opportunity.
One that was about to slip away. She saw the look that implied complete understanding and went as far as forgiving the company receptionist for her unprofessional exchange with a potential client. She also saw the body language that suggested this CEO was about to retreat to whatever top-floor executive sanctuary he’d unexpectedly appeared from.
‘I’ll give her a list of other companies that might be able to help,’ Melissa said.
‘I don’t want another company.’ The words burst out with a speed and emphasis that took Penelope by surprise. ‘I...I have to have the best and...and you’re the best, aren’t you?’
Of course they were. The entire wall behind the receptionist’s desk was a night sky panorama of exploding fireworks. Pyrotechnic art with a combination of shape and colour that was mind-blowing.
The man’s mouth twitched. Maybe he’d been surprised, too. ‘We certainly are.’ Amusement reached his eyes with a glint. Very dark eyes, Penelope noticed. As black as sin, even. Her pulse skipped and sped up. There was only one thing to do when you found yourself so far out of your depth like this. Aim for the surface and kick hard.
‘It might be worth your while to consider it.’ She snatched a new gulp of air. ‘This is a celebrity wedding. The kind of publicity that can’t be bought.’ She managed a smile. ‘I understand you specialise in huge shows but New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July only happen once a year, don’t they? You must need the smaller stuff as well? This could be a win-win situation for both of us.’
An eyebrow quirked this time. Was he intrigued by her audacity? Was that a sigh coming from Melissa’s direction?
‘You have a managerial board meeting in fifteen minutes, Mr Edwards.’
‘Give me ten,’ Penelope heard herself saying, her gaze still fixed on him. ‘Please?’
* * *
She looked like some kind of princess. Power-dressed and perfectly groomed. The spiky heels of her shoes looked like they could double as a lethal weapon and he could imagine that the elegant, leather briefcase she carried might be full of lengthy checklists and legally binding contracts.
She was the epitome of everything Rafe avoided like the plague so why on earth was he ushering her into his office and closing the door behind them? Perhaps he was trying to send a message to the junior staff that even difficult clients needed to be treated with respect. Or maybe there had been something in the way she’d looked when he’d suggested it was her own wedding she’d come here to organise.
A flicker of...astonishment? He’d probably have the same reaction if someone suggested he was about to walk down the aisle.
Maybe not for the same reasons, though. The kind of people he had in his life were as non-conformist as he was, whereas this woman looked like she’d already have the preferred names picked out for the two perfectly behaved children she would eventually produce. One girl and one boy, of course. She might have them already, tidied away in the care of a nanny somewhere, but a quick glance at her left hand as she walked past him revealed an absence of any rings so maybe it had been embarrassment that it was taking so long rather than astonishment that had registered in that look.
No. More likely it was something about the way she’d said ‘please’. That icy self-control with which she held herself had jarred on both occasions with something he’d seen flicker in her face but the flicker that had come with that ‘please’ had looked like determination born of desperation and he could respect that kind of motivation.
‘Take a seat.’ He gestured towards an area that had comfortable seating around a low coffee table—an informal meeting space that had a wall of glass on one side to show off the fabulous view of the Wimbledon golf course.
Not that she noticed the gesture. Clearly impressed to the point of being speechless, she was staring at the central feature of the penthouse office. A mirror-like tube of polished steel that was broken in the middle. The layer of stones on the top of the bottom section had flames flickering in a perfect circle.
He liked it that she was so impressed. He’d designed this feature himself and he was proud of it. But he didn’t have time for distractions like showing off.
‘Ms...?’
‘Collins. Penelope Collins.’
‘Rafe Edwards.’ The handshake was brief but surprisingly firm. This time she noticed his invitation and he watched her seat herself on one of the couches. Right on the edge as if she might need to leap up and flee at any moment. Legs angled but not crossed.
Nice legs. Was that subtle tug on the hem of her skirt because she’d noticed him noticing? Rafe glanced at his watch and then seated himself on the opposite couch. Or rather perched on his favourite spot, with a hip resting on the broad arm of the couch.
‘So...a celebrity wedding?’
She nodded. ‘You’ve heard of Clarissa Bingham?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Oh... She’s a local Loxbury girl who got famous in a reality TV show. She’s marrying a football star. Blake Summers.’
‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘It’s a huge wedding and we were lucky enough to get the best venue available. Loxbury Hall?’
‘Yep. Heard of that, too.’
Her surprise was evident in the way she blinked—that rapid sweep of thick, dark eyelashes. He could understand the surprise. Why should he know anything about a small town on the outskirts of the New Forest between here and Southampton? Or an eighteenth-century manor house that had been used as a function venue for the last decade? He wasn’t about to tell her that this location did, in fact, give him a rather close connection to this upcoming event.
‘It could be the last wedding ever held there because the property’s just been sold and nobody knows whether the new owner will carry it on as a business venture.’
‘Hmm.’ Rafe nodded but his attention was straying. This Penelope Collins might not be remotely his type but any red-blooded male could appreciate that she was beautiful. Classically beautiful with that golden blonde hair and that astonishing porcelain skin. Or maybe not so classical given that her eyes were brown rather than blue. Nice combination, that—blonde hair and brown eyes— and her skin had a sun-kissed glow to it that suggested an excellent spray tan rather than risking damage from the real thing. She was probably no more than five feet three without those killer heels and her drink of choice was probably a gin and tonic. Or maybe a martini with an olive placed perfectly in the centre of the toothpick.
‘Sorry...what was that?’
‘It’s the perfect place for a fireworks show. The terrace off the ballroom looks down at the lake. There’ll be six hundred people there and major magazine coverage. I could make sure that your company gets excellent publicity.’
‘We tend to get that from our larger events. Or special-effects awards from the movie industry. There are plenty of smaller companies out there that specialise in things like birthday parties or weddings.’
‘But I want this to be spectacular. The best...’
She did. He could see that in her eyes. He’d had that kind of determination once—the need to get to the top and be the very best, and it hadn’t been easy, especially that first time.
‘Is this your first wedding?’
Her composure slipped and faint spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. ‘I run a very successful catering company so I’ve been involved in big events for many years. Moving to complete event design and execution has been a more recent development.’
‘So this is your first wedding.’
She didn’t like the implied putdown. Something like defiance darkened her eyes and the aura of tension