The chair across the table scraped against the ceramic tiles. George conjured a smile for Forbes. How did this man know Anne Hawthorne?
“Sorry about that. Dessert?”
George declined. “You know the wedding planner well, then?”
“The—Anne? Yes, I’ve known her all my life. She’s my cousin.”
His cousin. George kept his grin in check. Whether she was his cousin or his sweetheart shouldn’t matter. She was still beyond his reach. The contract addendum litigated that. Maybe once his employer revealed the truth at the engagement party…
But by then, George would have been lying to this woman for more than a month. She would hate him, and her hatred would be well deserved. By then, he would probably hate himself as well.
To keep from dwelling on such thoughts, he turned his attention to his dinner companion. “When will the plumbing be repaired so Mrs. Agee and I can move into the house?”
“A few days more—probably next Monday or Tuesday. When does Miss Landry arrive?”
“Sunday evening. She has planned to lodge with a childhood friend while in town.”
“Good.” Forbes folded his napkin and laid it beside his empty plate. “Although it’s not generally known who owns the house, it’s better if she is seen only with and around people she’s known all her life. Less suspicion will be raised that way.”
“Would it be better if I stayed elsewhere?” Although he loathed the idea of spending the next five weeks in a hotel, better that than reveal his employer’s secret before the time of his employer’s choosing.
“No. I think you’ll be fine staying out there. The rumor around town is that the property was purchased by a wealthy out-of-towner, and you’ll serve as the mysterious, eccentric new owner for the time being.”
“Does Mrs. Agee know—?”
“Who her real employer is? No. She signed a contract with a confidentiality clause, but we felt at this time she didn’t have a need to know. When the time is right, she’ll be informed.”
George nodded at the waitress to take his dinner plate and waved off the dessert menu. “And Ms. Hawthorne? If she were to sign a confidentiality agreement?”
“No.” Forbes’s expression became courtroom-caliber serious. “She is not to be told until the day of the engagement party. I don’t—she doesn’t need to know you aren’t Courtney Landry’s fiancé. Of course, that means you will have to handle some details yourself.”
Some details? George nearly laughed at the understatement. How was Anne Hawthorne supposed to pull together an engagement party when seeing the invite list might tip her off as to the true identity of her client? And what about the invitation itself? It couldn’t have the name George Laurence on it. He’d have to do that, too. The more he thought about the event, the more tasks he discovered would fall to him to accomplish.
At least the next few weeks wouldn’t be boring.
As she climbed the back stairs to her apartment, Anne juggled her duffel bag, attaché case, purse, stack of files, and the cup of gourmet coffee she’d stopped for on the way home. As soon as she dropped everything but the coffee cup on the kitchen table, she realized she’d left the food in the car.
She jogged back downstairs, retrieved it, and went up to the apartment on the third floor where, as she expected, the door was unlocked. In the dark kitchen, she found a grease pencil in a junk drawer, wrote a note on the lid of the top Styrofoam box, and put them both in Jenn’s refrigerator.
Back in her own apartment, she turned on the computer in the guest bedroom, started the music media software, and filled the apartment with the dulcet tones of crooners such as Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Bing Crosby, Kay Starr, and her favorite of all, Dean Martin.
Singing along with Dean’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head,” she returned to the kitchen and retrieved her mail from the floor where Jenn or Meredith had slid it under her back door.
She’d be surprised if George Laurence was any younger than forty.
Astonished by the wayward thought, warmth washed over her at the memory of the intensity of his gaze earlier.
Since her broken engagement ten years ago, every time she’d felt the least attracted to a man, her internal alarms had gone off. She trusted the instincts born of experience to keep her from being hurt again. But the entire time she’d stood there talking to George Laurence, all she’d felt was a profound sense of interest in getting to know him better.
God, what are You trying to tell me? Is he the one? Is this finally the answer to my prayer for a husband?
No answer came to her over the soft warbling of Frank Sinatra crooning “The Coffee Song.” The fact that her mind had instantly jumped to wondering if George Laurence was her future husband did bother her a bit. After everything she’d been through, the desire to maintain her independence—as a person and as a professional— kept her working eighteen to twenty hours nearly every day. Yet deep down, she just wanted to fall in love with someone and experience his falling in love with her in return. Not wanting anything from her, just loving her.
George Laurence seemed like the kind of man who had everything together. His expensive suit and shoes, grooming, and impeccable manners stood as proof of an established man comfortable with himself and those around him. So many of the men she’d gone out with at her cousins’ behest were still trying to “find” themselves, even into their late thirties or early forties, and wanted to be with a woman who would have a stabilizing influence on them.
Anne, however, didn’t want that kind of turmoil in her life. She wanted a man who knew what he wanted out of life, a man comfortable with himself, and with simple tastes—classic music and movies, dining out—who didn’t mind the hours she put into her business.
Her phone chirped the Pink Panther theme. She unclipped it, flipped it open, and pressed it to her ear. “I wondered when you were going to call.”
Meredith laughed. “I didn’t figure you’d be home any earlier than now, but if you were still on your date and having a good time, you wouldn’t answer. So?”
She filled her cousin in on the evening, and by the time she got to seeing Forbes, she heard Meredith’s SUV pull up the driveway. Although she trusted her completely, something kept Anne from telling her about how she felt when she met George Laurence. Anne wasn’t sure herself what her feelings meant. She needed time to pray…and time to get to know him better.
“Do you want to come up for a few minutes?” Anne asked, crossing to the kitchen window that overlooked the carport.
“You working tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Just for a minute, then—Jenn sent some peach cobbler for you.”
Anne opened the door and closed the phone. Meredith Guidry’s strawberry blond head came into sight in the dim stairwell. Anne met her on the landing and accepted a plastic tub of the still-warm dessert while leaning forward to kiss Meredith’s cheek.
“Did y’all have fun tonight?” She ushered Meredith into the kitchen.
“Turned out to be just Jenn, Jason, Rafe, and me. Seems it was a big night to have other plans. How much work do you have left to do tonight?”
“A few hours. What was Rafe’s big announcement?” Anne closed the door and leaned against the kitchen cabinet. Meredith, Forbes, and Jenn’s younger brother piloted the private jets owned by their parents’ commercial real estate and investment corporation.