“I need to speak with you. About Anne.”
Leaden silence transmitted through the phone for a moment. “I had a feeling. Come on over to my place, and we can sit down and figure this out.”
Since George couldn’t stop to write down the directions, Forbes stayed on the phone with him until he pulled into the driveway of the redbrick row house not too far from Town Square.
The front door opened to reveal the man who could be either George’s enemy or his ally in sorting out the mess he’d gotten himself into with Anne. He dashed up the front steps, glad to take the thick green towel Forbes held toward him.
Forbes led him down the shiny, dark wood–floored hall into a masculine leather and wood–furnished study. “Make yourself comfortable. I can put on some water for hot tea. Or coffee, if you’d prefer.”
“Nothing for me, thanks.” George spread the towel over the leather club chair before sitting. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. Now here, he didn’t know how to start the conversation.
Forbes sat in a stiff-looking blue Queen Anne wing chair.
Queen Anne. Yes, she had all the makings of royalty.
“I was afraid when I first met you that things between you and Anne might get complicated.” Forbes templed his fingers, looking as if this were a casual Sunday call rather than one of the most important meetings of George’s life.
“Complicated? Bit of an understatement. I—” He glanced down at his clenched hands. “I cannot continue being dishonest with her. I respect her too much to continue the charade.”
“And that’s how I know you’re perfect for her.”
Surprise rushed through George. “Excuse me?”
The younger man nodded. “You’ll find that I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, George. You see, I wanted to be able to observe you for a while. I’m very protective of my cousin. She’s been through a lot in her life.”
George bolted out of the chair and paced the perimeter of the room. “Yes, she’s told me some of what she’s been through.”
“Such as?”
“Her parents’ deaths, having to quit graduate school for financial reasons, the decision to start her business…” George stopped pacing and braced his hands against the frame of one of the tall windows. “Do you think she’ll be affronted when she learns I’ve been deceiving her?”
“Probably. But she’ll get over it quickly. She’s not one to hold a grudge. Well, in one case, but otherwise I’ve never known her to be unforgiving. And I think she has good reason to want to forgive you quickly.” Forbes’s voice took on an amused tone.
George studied the pattern of the rain washing down the paned glass, his emotions in turmoil. Fear balled in the pit of his stomach. “If I tell her I am not getting married, I’ll be in breach of contract.”
“I’ll handle that part. By this time tomorrow, that part of the contract will be null and void.”
“How?”
Forbes held his hands up in front of him. “I’ve known your employer a very long time. Suffice it to say I do have some measure of influence with him.”
A glimmer of hope burned in George’s soul. “I’m unsure of how to tell her.”
Forbes rose and crossed to join him at the window. “Don’t worry. When the time’s right, you’ll know.”
“What if I blow it? What if the time isn’t right?”
“Tulips. Purple ones. Lots of them.”
Chapter 12
With a couple of hours before the meeting with George Wednesday afternoon, Anne headed upstairs to what used to be bedrooms in her converted Town Square row house. She sang along with Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” while she rearranged supplies in the larger of the two storage rooms. She loved having music piped through the building over the stereo system her cousin Jason had installed last year. And the five-disc CD changer she’d bought on his recommendation kept her from having to change them but once or twice a day.
The machine cycled to a new track. “I’ve got you under my skin,” she sang along with Frank Sinatra. She stopped singing. The lyrics fit exactly how she felt about George. She clamped her lips shut and refused to let the words affect her. Was she going to have to stop listening to everything because it reminded her of George Laurence?
She kicked off her black pumps and got up on the stepladder to move her Christmas decorations on the top shelf. Last Christmas had been her first in the Town Square Merchant Association, and she had joined with the rest of the members in decorating her storefront in the Victorian Christmas theme. With her love of literature, she’d tried to make hers as Dickensian as possible.
Would George have liked it?
No! She couldn’t allow herself to think about him, nor be worried about his likes and dislikes.
Sinatra faded out to be replaced by Dean Martin crooning “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.” Anne tossed a wreath onto the top shelf, jumped off the ladder, and ran downstairs. She yanked the CDs out of the changer and replaced them with more innocuous classical music. Hopefully that would help keep her mind from wandering down treacherous paths.
Strains of Mozart, Strauss, Beethoven, Handel, and Chopin filled the office. With renewed determination not to think about George Laurence, she returned to the storage room and tried to lose herself in organizing.
As she cleaned, she mentally laid out the tables at Lafitte’s Landing for the Landry-Laurence engagement party. She still couldn’t understand why George didn’t want her to send out the invitations, but with as much other work as she’d had to do in the past two weeks, his insistence turned out to be a blessing.
The first few notes of “The Blue Danube” came over the speakers. She shook out the eight-yard length of tulle even as her feet started the one-two-three pattern of the waltz. She usually tried to get her clients to incorporate this piece into their reception music. Most under the age of forty didn’t.
Letting the music fill her, she twirled around the room, a cloud of yellow fabric billowing about her. If only—
“May I have this dance?”
Anne yelped and spun toward the door. The fabric tangled with her feet and sent her sideways into a tall metal shelving unit. Hand over her pounding heart and cheeks burning, she righted herself and turned to face George Laurence. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
George stepped forward and took the hazardous material from her, rolled it into a ball, and deposited it on a shelf beside her. Turning, he bowed and extended his right hand. “May I?”
No. She shouldn’t. It wasn’t appropriate. She placed her hand in his and let him whisk her around boxes and stacks of fabrics and bunches of silk flora.
His cinnamon eyes burned into hers. She wanted to look away, to regain some control over her actions and reactions. She couldn’t. The heat of his gaze held a future that would never come true. He belonged to someone else. He spun her as the song swelled to a close, then ended with a dip. As he brought her upright, still tight in his embrace, his breath caressed her cheek.
Fire swept through her. She wanted him to kiss her more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.
He reached up to brush back a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead.
As soon as he touched her cheek, she pushed away from him. “I’m sorry.” She took several steps back and tried to catch her breath.
He moved toward her, but she held her hands out to stop him.
“George, I can’t.… I don’t think I can continue as your wedding planner.”
“That’s what I came here to speak to you about.” His deep voice was soft, comforting. “You are not my wedding planner. I am not getting married.”
Lava-hot tears burned the corners of her eyes, and her chest tightened. He wasn’t getting married—
Oh no. If he’d broken off his engagement because of her, she’d never be hired to plan another wedding again. She shook her head. “No. Please don’t tell me that. I can’t—”