The Notorious Mrs. Wright. Fay Robinson
local bridal consultants and party planners to give customers an event they’ll remember all their lives—costumes, props, scenery, the works. You pick a theme and we can do it. We can dress the staff, dress the customer, dress the guests. We use live centerpieces instead of ice sculptures, too, which is unique.”
“Like what?”
“Oh…models dressed as mermaids reclining on a half shell in the middle of a seafood buffet—that sort of thing. No one else around here goes to that extreme.”
“So these aren’t specific characters like you do in the restaurant?”
“Some are. Some aren’t. It depends on what the customer requests. People love themed parties, especially brides. We can whip up anything, given enough time. I have a whole third floor packed with props and costumes.”
“What are some of the weddings you’ve done?”
“Well, we haven’t done too many yet because we only opened six months ago and weddings take a lot of advance planning, but we’ve done several mystery parties. Those are great fun.” She thought about what else. “Oh, and we did a Gone With The Wind anniversary celebration for an older couple. The hosts dressed as Scarlett and Rhett, and we had a replica of the front porch of Tara. They gave an elegant ball with an orchestra and period dancing and all the guests came in costumes.”
“Not exactly my kind of party.”
“Too cutesy?”
“Yeah. No offense.”
“None taken. My son said the same thing, that it sounded like a ‘chick party’ to him.” They both laughed. “But that’s usual for this kind of event. The woman plans it and the man goes along with it because he loves her.”
“Makes sense.”
“The guests did have fun at that one, though. We got a lot of referrals from it.”
“What kooky ones have you done?”
“Mmm, in October a couple plans to be married in one of the local haunted houses. They want me to dress them as Herman and Lily Munster.”
He grimaced. “That’s way too weird for me.”
“Me, too. It doesn’t fit in with the elegant atmosphere I maintain for the restaurant, but for private parties I try to be more flexible. Besides, it should be fun getting them ready. I haven’t done monsters before. We get a lot of calls for parties with ghost themes, since the city is known for its haunted buildings, but monsters aren’t my specialty.”
“Can you do it?”
“Oh, sure. No problem.”
“Where did you learn your craft?”
“The costumes and makeup?”
“Yes. Where did you study that?”
“I’ve picked up things here and there. I haven’t been to any kind of school, if that’s what you mean.”
“You’re really good for someone who’s not trained.”
She shrugged. “I suppose it’s all that experience playing dress-up as a child.” She realized her unintended pun and almost choked.
“What about your family?” he asked. “Are they still in Virginia?”
“My stepfather, yes. He raised me after my mother died.”
“You’re close?”
“Not much anymore. I visit him a couple of times a year.”
They passed a sandbar where big, brown pelicans sunned themselves.
“Oh, look!” she called out. “How pretty.”
The boat was fully under way now, and the captain had begun his monologue. The star-shaped Spanish fort, or castillo, on the left bank had once helped protect the town from invaders. Whit took photos of the birds and then the fort, moving from one side rail to the other for a better view.
Emma watched, as entertained by him as by the trip. He seemed to find everything interesting and asked a million questions.
She was having fun. She’d started to worry about the storm, though. Lightning zigzagged over the town. The rain fell in a wide, blue sheet in the distance, but was much closer than before.
They made a circle of the bay, then went up toward the island’s lighthouse, painted like a barber pole and topped with a red housing. Whit pointed his camera at the structure. “Great lighthouse.”
“Isn’t it? Abby and I have done a few parties there.”
“Wish we were closer so I could see it better.”
“You have to be on foot to get right up to it. There’s a little park around it.”
“Too bad the boat doesn’t go nearer to shore. The scenery here’s pretty, though.” With the viewfinder still to his eye, he turned the camera toward her and snapped a photo. “Very, very pretty.”
“Why did you do that?”
In rapid succession, he took several more shots.
Exasperated, she held her hands in front of her face. “Whit, would you stop it, please?”
“Okay, sorry.” He put down the camera. “I only wanted to show the men in Michigan what they’re missing.”
“I’m sure they have women in Michigan.”
“Not like you.”
She rolled her eyes at his outrageousness. “Are you flirting with me?”
Before he could answer, thunder boomed overhead. Rain began to pelt them as if a heavenly hand had opened a faucet. Everyone on the top deck squealed and scrambled for the cover of the lower one.
“Come on,” he called out, ushering her down the narrow metal steps. They were among the last people to exit, and all the seats were taken. People crowded between the tables. Whit and Emma could barely get inside.
“Here,” Whit said, pulling her against the back wall. He shifted his hanging camera to his side to keep it from digging into her. His muscular arm came to rest above her head.
Very conscious of his impressive chest, Emma felt intoxicated. The man’s body was made of steel. He smelled good, too. Fresh, like the rain. Little droplets still clung to his long eyelashes. Goodness! Even soggy he looked great.
Bending down, he whispered playfully, “The answer is yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’m flirting with you.”
“Oh.” She stifled a grin. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“Me, too.”
“By the way,” she whispered back, feeling very at ease with this man and a bit playful herself. “Your…um…crotch is vibrating.”
“That’s my phone. It’s letting me know I have a message.”
“Ah, and here I thought you were just excited about being close to me.”
He chuckled low. “Well, that, too.”
EVERY WORD THAT CAME OUT of her mouth was probably a lie, but it was such a pretty mouth that Whit had almost convinced himself not to care.
His first priority was to his client, getting what he needed to prove the lady either was or wasn’t Emma Webster, but he found himself forgetting that when he looked at her. She had eyes the color of fine aged whiskey and a perfect little body that, at the moment, was so close he could feel the wrinkles on her shirt.
He wasn’t sure who was emanating all the heat—him or her—but they were in danger of setting the boat on fire.
Needing a distraction, he