High-Society Bachelor. Krista Thoren
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was a risk she shouldn’t take. After all, sooner or later she’d have to say something to him. Then he’d give her one of those brusque, stuck-up, disapproving replies, and she would tell him to go soak his haughty head, and then—
“Will you do it?” he asked, saving her imagination any more work.
She opened her mouth to say “no” and then remembered that Libby’s vet bill was due in less than two weeks. “Maybe. I’d need some details first.” Deborah snagged a pen and some paper from the coffee table and gave him her best businesslike voice. “How old are the children?”
He frowned. “The children? There aren’t—”
“Age group is the biggest factor, you know. It determines everything, from food to games. After all, we can’t have twelve-year-olds playing pin the tail on the donkey, can we?” Mentally Deborah winced. She sounded like a geriatric nurse. And one look at his face told her he was completely lost.
“Is there a wide age range?” she asked. Actually, that was only a minor problem, but many clients were stumped by it.
He chuckled, and Deborah stared. She hadn’t been positive the guy ever laughed, and she would never have guessed he could produce such an attractive sound. Deep, rich and melodic, it made her want to join in, even though she had no idea what was funny.
“Very wide,” he agreed. “But I’m not hiring you for a kids’ party.”
Deborah frowned. “You’re not? But that’s what I do. Well, except for a few weddings—” She drew in a sharp breath and almost choked. “You’re hiring me to plan your wedding reception?”
Good grief, no one on the block was going to believe this. She couldn’t believe it herself, after all the what-a-hunk-but-he’s-allergic-to-marriage sighing and sobbing she’d heard since she moved in. Just how everyone knew, or thought they knew, that he’d never marry was a mystery to her. Had he taken out a billboard ad?
More to the point, how had he sneaked a fiancée past the grapevine groupies?
“No, no,” Cameron Lyle said, with a haste that made her want to laugh. “No reception. No wedding. I’m not getting married.” He looked horrified, as if they were discussing a fatal disease.
Deborah felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips. Besides amusement, there was relief, pure and simple. With the exception of one last booking in March, and her own wedding, sometime in the distant future when she was very, very positive that her fiancé wasn’t going to jilt her, she hoped to plan no more weddings as long as she lived.
“Fine, you’re not getting married,” she agreed. “And you’re not having a kids’ party. So what kind of event are we talking about?”
“A dinner party. A dinner dance, in fact. January thirtieth, seven-thirty. Sixty people, mostly business acquaintances.” He ticked off the details with the air of someone who knew what he was doing and was never indecisive. “Something simple but elegant. Hors d’oeuvre, buffet service, dessert trays. Modern but conservative décor, probably silver and burgundy.”
Deborah blinked. “And you want me to plan the event?” Assuming there was any planning left to be done.
“Right. Is there a problem with that?” he asked.
She thought about it. “Probably not.” He had just handed her a golden opportunity, because this party sounded like exactly the type of event she wanted to specialize in. And since she’d been trying, so far unsuccessfully, to take her business in that direction, she shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Still…
“Why?” Deborah asked, unable to stop herself. “Why are you asking me, I mean?”
For a second he looked like he was going to say something, but then he raised a brow instead. “Why shouldn’t I?”
She could think of several reasons. Every time they met she got the impression he thought she was too talkative, too casual, too flippant, too unsophisticated and a whole lot of other toos. Of course, she herself knew that wasn’t true, but then she wasn’t him—a certified Type A personality who took himself and life way too seriously. Compared to him, she was downright frivolous.
“You don’t know my work,” Deborah pointed out. “For all you know, my event décor features plastic fruit, fringed table cloths and doilies.”
“You don’t seem like the doily type,” he said. “In any case, I’ll have final approval over everything.”
Not exactly a strong vote of confidence. But it didn’t matter. She really couldn’t afford to turn down this opportunity.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Deborah said. She told him her fee percentage and, when he nodded, she added, “Once we hash out the details, I’ll write you up a proposal. I’ve also got a contract we can fill out.”
“Good.” He looked satisfied rather than surprised, but before Deborah could decide whether or not she was annoyed that he’d apparently been so sure she would be available to plan the event, he held up a hand. “Oh, yes. I’ll need one other thing.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A hostess for my party.”
Deborah frowned. “That’s not part of the normal service.”
“I realize that, but you can do it for me, can’t you?” He gave her a confident smile that told her he fully expected her to agree.
Deborah eyed him without enthusiasm. She should have known that coming to a business agreement with this man wouldn’t be easy. Most clients were more than satisfied if she threw in a free cake or pizza with the deal, but not him. Oh, no. Nothing so simple for him. He expected her to come up with a hostess for his party. Not an easy task.
And his confident smile made her want to grit her teeth. He probably used that smile on women all the time. It probably worked, too.
Well, it wouldn’t work on her.
“I can throw in a server with the deal, but that’s the best I can do,” she told him finally.
He gave her a small, amused smile. “I’m not asking for this as a freebie in a business negotiation. I’m asking for it because you owe me a favor.”
Deborah looked up at him. He had her there. “Yes, I suppose I do. Okay, I’ll find you a hostess—”
“No.” He shook his head. “I told you, this isn’t a business issue. I’m asking for a personal favor.”
Deborah met his gaze and then, suddenly, light dawned. She felt herself flush. He must think she was a complete idiot to be so slow catching on. Her only excuse was that this had to be the worst idea she’d heard in a long time.
“Wait a minute. You’re not suggesting I…” She couldn’t finish. The thought was too awful.
“Yes, I am,” said Cameron Lyle. “I want you to be my hostess.”
Chapter Two
Deborah did not look happy. That fact alone was noteworthy, since Cameron hadn’t seen her any other way in the short time he’d known her.
During that time she’d met each of his complaints with a cheerful calm and a chatty reply that kept him off-balance. Amused, too, in spite of his irritation. Even during the past month, when she’d apparently been recovering from her fiancé’s rejection, Cam would never have guessed it by seeing or talking to her. When their paths crossed, she was often deep in conversation with a neighbor, gesturing with an enthusiasm that echoed in her lively blue eyes. She always seemed about to smile.
Except for right now. Right now she looked like she’d rather be doing anything else than having this conversation.
“No.” She shoved a hand through her thick blond hair. “I can’t be your hostess.”