Wicked Heat. Kelli Ireland
pressed her fingertips against the ridges in an attempt to smooth her skin. “I’m sorry, but...who’s going to be newly wed?”
The coordinator’s smile faltered as he glanced between her and the stranger she knew still stood within earshot. “I...well...you are, madam.” He raised a clipboard that held several sheets of paper with printed information and handwritten notes in the margins. “My staff and I have worked diligently on the preparations for the ceremony, just as you requested.” He looked at the list and began ticking off items. “We’ve made arrangements for cake tasting, set up appointments with three florists, have a string quartet that will play in the lobby this evening so you might hear the quality of their performance. Then there’s the—”
“I’m not getting married,” she said. “I’m coordinating the wedding.”
“No.” The denial, issued in that decidedly upper-crust British accent, was ripe with disbelief. “Not you.”
Ella slowly turned to face the handsome stranger, working to keep her composure. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“You’re the one my sister hired to pull together this...this...” He dropped his briefcase and waved both hands wildly, the gesture encompassing the entire lobby. “This.”
“Do not tell me that you’re the family member my unnamed bride has chosen as her surrogate decision maker.”
“Oh, bloody hell. You are her. The event coordinator.” The last few words were enunciated with whip-like consonants and gunshot vowels.
“Yes, I am.”
The stranger downed his champagne in two long swallows then held the empty glass out with one hand while the waiter retrieved it. “You’re Ella Montgomery.”
“Again, yes, I am. You are?”
He watched her through narrowed eyes. “Liam Baggett. The bride’s brother.”
“Baggett.” Her mind raced through the list of starlets she’d compiled as possible brides, but none was named Baggett. In fact, the name didn’t ring any bells at all.
Confusion must have decorated her face, because Liam finally offered, “Half brother. Same father, different mothers. My mother died when I was very young, and my father remarried roughly five years later. My sister was born from that union.”
“Still, Baggett isn’t ringing any bells.” Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, held it for a count of ten and then let it go to a second count of ten. What had she done? How had she let herself invest everything she had, from money to the last of her reputation, in an event she was expected to plan without contact with the bride? Had she been set up to fail? The thought made her stomach lurch, the motion as nauseating as it was violent. “Tell me I’m not being punked. Tell me I haven’t flown more than halfway around the world to be made a fool of. Tell me—”
“What I’ll tell you is that my sister used a different name for the screen to keep some type of separation between her private life and her public persona. It’s a closely guarded secret, hence the reason you’ll be dealing with me, not her.”
The event coordinator had watched the verbal volley with interest. “So you’re arranging your wedding while here, yes?”
“We’re not getting married,” they both said at the same time.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” he said, small beads of sweat dotting his hairline as he glanced from his clipboard to Ella and finally to Liam.
“I’m not the bride,” Ella said through gritted teeth. “I’m the wedding planner for Mr. Baggett’s half sister and her fiancé.”
Arvin’s hands shook as he flipped through the paperwork on his clipboard, crossing out certain things and adding notes to others. “I see.” He looked up, pupils dark in wide eyes. “As I said before, my name is Arvin, and I am—”
“The resort’s event coordinator.” Ella shook Arvin’s hand by rote. “It’s nice to meet you, Arvin. I need to make sure that you understand that I am absolutely not the bride.”
“I’m clear, Ms. Montgomery, and I sincerely apologize for the misunderstanding. My staff took to heart your admonition that all must be perfect. We have two team members plus myself at your disposal around the clock.” He glanced at the last page and paled radically. “Oh, sweet and merciful...”
“Arvin?”
“As a show of our appreciation for choosing the Royal Crescent, your room was upgraded to the honeymoon suite bungalow.”
“I appreciate the gesture, but it certainly wasn’t necessary.” Ella felt her brow furrow and let it do as it would, wrinkles be damned. “But the change doesn’t seem like something that would warrant panic.”
“Normally, it wouldn’t.” Arvin dragged his arm across his forehead to wipe away sweat that only popped right back up. “But there was, as I also previously indicated, the belief that you were the bride.” He began to fan himself with the clipboard. “And that...that... Mr. Baggett was your...”
“Groom,” Ella whispered, throat so tight the word emerged as a strangled wheeze.
Behind her, Liam made a choking sound.
Ella didn’t bother turning around. Surely he couldn’t be any more dumbfounded than she was. “I can’t, Arvin.” And she couldn’t. Proximity to that man would destroy every good intention she had. If she didn’t succumb to his flirtation, he’d likely succumb to hers. What happened after that was precisely what the honeymoon suite had been created for.
This was bad.
The event coordinator touched his earpiece and gave a fractional nod. “Your bags have been tagged and will be delivered within the half hour.”
“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “Rooming with Mr. Baggett is not an option.”
“I... I...” Arvin stood very straight.
Ella closed her eyes. This couldn’t be a portent of what lay ahead. It just...it couldn’t be. “If you’ll simply assign us separate rooms, I’ll retrieve my luggage and get to work on the wedding.”
Arvin tugged at his shirt collar, his face flushing a horrid fuchsia. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Montgomery, but the resort is booked solid. When we upgraded you and Mr. Baggett to the suite, the rooms that you each originally booked were assigned to guests on our waiting list.”
Ella took a second glass of champagne and threw it back, eyes watering with the bubbles’ bite. “Waiting list? How can there be a waiting list when this is supposed to be the beginning of the off-season?”
Arvin shrugged. “It’s our annual carnival.”
“That wasn’t advertised on the resort’s website.” Panic clawed its way up the back of her throat and threatened to choke off her air supply.
“I am sorry, Ms. Montgomery. Our website has been undergoing a complete redesign, and—”
“Surely there’s a neighboring resort. I could get a room there and commute back and forth to the Royal Crescent. A rental house. A house with a room for rent. A yurt. Something,” she muttered, looking around the crowded lobby. “Anything.”
The Brit behind her leaned in close, and the crisp smell of champagne that lay over a hint of tart strawberry wrapped around her as he spoke quietly into her ear. “This is the equivalent of the French Polynesian Mardi Gras, Ms. Montgomery. There won’t be rooms available anywhere on the island for a solid ten days. I’d have thought you, as a professional wedding planner, would have known as much.”
He was right. She should have known. But even her embarrassment wasn’t enough to stop his whispered breath from skating along her jaw and caressing the shape of her ear. Shivers threatened to shatter her composure. Things low