The Wedding Planner and the CEO. Alison Roberts
happened to have an aerial photograph of the property on his laptop, too. Pulling a notepad and the stub of a pencil from the back pocket of his jeans, he started sketching.
By the time he’d finished what he’d wanted to do he was five minutes late for the time they’d agreed to meet back on the terrace. Not that it made him hurry down the stairs or anything but he wouldn’t have planned to stop before he turned into the ballroom and headed for the terrace. The thought only occurred to him when he saw the iPod lying on the hall table, on top of that clipboard Penelope carried everywhere with her.
If he took a look at what she’d played recently, could he pick what it was that she’d been dancing to? Get some kind of clue to solve the puzzle of who this woman actually was?
* * *
Clarissa and Blake were late getting back from lunch and, judging by the looks on their faces, they hadn’t managed to agree on the music to accompany their fireworks show.
Which meant that Rafe would most likely pull the plug on doing it at all.
He came through the French doors from the ballroom at the same time as the young couple were climbing the stairs from the garden.
‘Did you decide?’ Rafe asked.
‘We tried,’ Clarissa groaned. ‘We really did...’ Her face brightened. ‘But then we thought you’re the expert. We’ll let you decide.’
Penelope bit back the suggestion she’d been about to make. Throwing ideas around again would only take them back to square one and this was a potentially quick and easy fix.
But Rafe lifted an eyebrow. ‘You sure about that? Because I reckon I’ve found the perfect song.’
‘What is it?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Blake growled. ‘You promised you wouldn’t argue this time.’
‘Have a listen,’ Rafe said, putting his laptop on the table and flipping it open. He tapped rapidly on the keyboard. ‘I think you might like it.’
It only took the first two notes for Penelope to recognise the song and it sent a chill down her spine. The very song she’d been about to suggest herself. How spooky was that?
‘Ohhh...’ Clarissa’s eyes were huge. ‘I love this song.’
‘Who is that?’ Blake was frowning. ‘Celine Dion?’
Rafe shook his head. ‘This is the original version. Jennifer Rush. She cowrote “The Power of Love” in 1984.’
It was the version that Penelope preferred. The one she had on her iPod. The one she’d been dancing to in her private space in the centre of the maze only half an hour or so ago, when she’d taken that much-needed break.
‘It’s got some great firing points. Like that...’ Rafe’s hands prescribed an arc as the crescendo started. ‘And we can use the extended version to give us a good length of time. Fade it away to leave your names in the heart hanging over the lake.’
He wasn’t looking at Penelope. He didn’t even send a triumphant glance in her direction as Clarissa and Blake enthusiastically agreed to the song choice.
Which was probably just as well. Penelope had no idea what her expression might look like but it had to include an element of shock. Surely it had to be more than coincidence and she didn’t believe in telepathy but it was impossible not to feel some sort of weird connection happening here. How awful would it be if she looked like Clarissa had when he’d told her he could finish the show by putting their names in a love heart? As though she’d just fallen head over heels in love with the man?
Not that it really mattered. The pièce de résistance of the wedding that was going to launch her new career was starting to come together and the choice of song was perfect.
With a lot of hard work and a little bit more luck, this whole wedding was going to be perfect.
SO FAR, SO GOOD.
They couldn’t have wished for a better day weather-wise for what the local media was already billing the wedding of the year. The blue stretch of summer sky was broken only by innocent cotton-wool puffs of cloud and it was warm enough for the skimpy dresses most of the women seemed to be wearing. More importantly, the breeze was gentle enough not to ruin any elaborate hairdos or play havoc with a bridal veil.
The vintage champagne every guest had been offered on arrival was going down a treat and people were now beginning to drift towards the rows of chairs draped with white satin and tied with silver bows. Penelope saw someone open the small gauze bag she’d found on her seat and smile as she showed her partner the confetti that was made up of tiny, glittery silver stars.
How much bigger were those smiles going to be when they were watching the kind of stars that would explode across the sky as the finale to this event? Rafe had arrived as early as Penelope had, driving onto the estate in the chill mist of a breaking dawn. She’d seen him and the technicians he’d brought with him, in their fluorescent vests, working in the field on the far side of the lake at various times over the hectic hours since then. Just orange dots of humanity, really, at this distance, but she was sure it was Rafe who was directing the forklift manoeuvring the pallets from the back of a truck at one point and, much later, the towing of a flat barge to float on the lake.
Because that was the kind of job a boss would do, she told herself. It had nothing to do with that odd tingle of something she had no intention of trying to identify. A tingle that appeared along with that persistent image of the man in frayed jeans and a black singlet she had conjured up. An image that had insisted on haunting her dreams over the last week, leaving her to wake with the odd sensation that something was simply not fair...
Heading back inside the house, she popped into the kitchen to check that her team was on top of the catering. Judging by the numerous silver platters of hors d’oeuvres lined up ready for the lull while photographs would be taken after the ceremony, they were right on schedule.
‘Any worries, Jack?’
‘Apart from an eight-course sit-down dinner for two hundred and supper for six hundred? Nah...it’s all good.’ The older man’s smile was reassuring. ‘I’ve got this side of the gig covered. Go and play with your bride.’
‘I do need to do that. But I’ll be back later. Keep an apron for me.’
‘Are you kidding? That dress is far too fancy to get hidden by any apron.’
‘It’s not too much, is it?’ Penelope glanced down at the dark silver sheath dress she had chosen. A lot of effort had gone into what she hoped would be her signature outfit as she occupied an unusual space in a wedding party that was more than simply hired help but less than invited guest. The dress was demure with its long sleeves and scooped neckline that only showed a hint of cleavage. The skirt was ballet length and fell in soft swirls from thigh level but it did fit like a glove everywhere else and it had a soft sparkle that would probably intensify under artificial or candle light.
Jack grinned. ‘You look like the director of the nation’s most successful event managing company. Make sure they get some photos of you for one of those flash magazines. Now—stop distracting me. Get out of my kitchen and go and keep our first event ticking. Isn’t Princess Clarissa about due for another meltdown?’
‘Oh, God, I hope not.’ With a worried frown, Penelope headed for a ground-floor room in the west wing that had been set aside for the bride and bridesmaids to get dressed in. A room in the east wing was where the groom and his entourage were waiting. That would be the next stop, to make sure they were in position on time. Penelope checked her watch. Only twenty minutes away. The countdown was on.
She took a deep breath. At least she didn’t have to worry about the catering side of things. Jack—her head chef—had worked with her ever since she’d advertised for someone to come on