by Cara Colter
“No. I just wanted to finish it, in case.”
She did not accept his answer, watching him.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Maybe I’m hiding.”
“Why?” she whispered.
He put his hand to his face and pinched his nose at the bridge, as if he could stop the emotion he was feeling. “I don’t want everyone to see how scared I am to have this baby.”
Angie came and tugged his hand away and looked at him in that way of hers that made him feel as if he was the strongest man in the universe.
And just like that, something flared between them, the something that never cooled or grew old. That allowed his wife to wrap him around her finger!
He carefully balanced the paintbrush on the open tin and left his hand in hers.
He heard the noises from downstairs again, and Maggie’s laughter rose, joyous, above the others. She was so happy for him. They all were. It was as if he and Angie’s love had become a part of the house, and it drew people here, into its circle. This is what love did.
It expanded. It gave back. It served.
It made the world better in ways that were too numerous to count, in ways that were as infinite as the stars in the sky.
Suddenly, he didn’t feel afraid of having his own little girl at all.
Suddenly, he knew the biggest truth. His wife, his beautiful, wise, funny wife, could be wrong sometimes.
She had said, on the day she had come back for him, on the day she had refused to sacrifice him to the abyss of loneliness he would have chosen, that there was no love without courage. She had said to choose love, even when it wounded you, was the greatest courage of all.
But now, Jefferson saw a deeper truth.
It wasn’t the greatest kind of courage, after all.
Choosing love was the only kind of courage.
“Are you ready?” Angie said.
She could have meant anything. Was he ready to join the others? Was he ready for Christmas dinner? Was he ready to welcome a baby into their lives?
“Yes,” Jefferson said. He said it to the bigger question, the one that required the only kind of courage.
He said yes, again, just as he had three years ago, to the force that humbled a man completely, that was so much larger than anything he could ever be, that had plans for him that were so much bigger than anything he could have ever planned for himself. Jefferson Stone said yes to love.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from GIFT-WRAPPED IN HER WEDDING DRESS by Kandy Shepherd.
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Gift-Wrapped in Her Wedding Dress
by Kandy Shepherd
CHAPTER ONE
SO HE’D GOT on the wrong side of the media. Again. Dominic’s words, twisted out of all recognition, were all over newspapers, television and social media.
Billionaire businessman Dominic Hunt refuses to sleep out with other CEOs in charity event for homeless.
Dominic slammed his fist on his desk so hard the pain juddered all the way up his arm. He hadn’t refused to support the charity in their Christmas appeal, just refused the invitation to publicly bed down for the night in a cardboard box on the forecourt of the Sydney Opera House. His donation to the worthy cause had been significant—but anonymous. Why wasn’t that enough?
He buried his head in his hands. For a harrowing time in his life there had been no choice for him but to sleep rough for real, a cardboard box his only bed. He couldn’t go there again—not even for a charity stunt, no matter how worthy. There could be no explanation—he would not share the secrets of his past. Ever.
With a sick feeling of dread he continued to read onscreen the highlights of the recent flurry of negative press about him and his company, thoughtfully compiled in a report by his Director of Marketing.
Predictably, the reporters had then gone on to rehash his well-known aversion to Christmas. Again he’d been misquoted. It was true he loathed the whole idea of celebrating Christmas. But not for the reasons the media had so fancifully contrived. Not because he was a Scrooge. How he hated that label and the erroneous aspersions that he didn’t ever give to charity. Despaired that he was included in a round-up of Australia’s Multi-Million-Dollar Misers. It couldn’t be further from the truth.
He strongly believed that giving money to worthy causes should be conducted in private—not for public acclaim. But this time he couldn’t ignore the name-calling and innuendo. He was near to closing a game-changing deal on a joint venture with a family-owned American corporation run by a man with a strict moral code that included obvious displays of philanthropy.
Dominic could not be seen to be a Scrooge. He had to publicly prove that he was not a miser. But he did not want to reveal the extent of his charitable support because to do so would blow away the smokescreen he had carefully constructed over his past.
He’d been in a bind. Until his marketing director had suggested he would attract positive press if he opened his harbourside home for a lavish fund-raising event for charity. ‘Get your name in the newspaper for the right reasons,’ he had been advised.
Dominic hated the idea of his privacy being invaded but he had reluctantly agreed. He wanted the joint venture to happen. If a party was what it took, he was prepared to put his qualms aside and commit to it.
The party would be too big an event for it to be organised in-house. His marketing people had got outside companies involved. Trouble was the three so-called ‘party planners’ he’d been sent so far had been incompetent and he’d shown them the door within minutes of meeting. Now there was a fourth. He glanced down at the eye-catching card on the desk in front of him. Andrea Newman from a company called Party Queens—No party too big or too small the card boasted.
Party Queens. It was an interesting choice for a business name. Not nearly as stitched up as the other companies that had pitched for this business. But did it have the gravitas required? After all, this event could be the deciding factor in a deal that would extend his business interests internationally.
He glanced at his watch. This morning he was working from his home office. Ms Newman was due to meet with him right now, here at his house where the party was to take place. Despite the attention-grabbing name of the business, he had no reason to expect Party Planner Number Four to be any more impressive than the other three he’d sent packing. But he would give her twenty minutes—that was only fair and he made a point of always being fair.
On cue, the doorbell rang. Punctuality, at least, was a point in Andrea Newman’s favour. He headed down the wide marble stairs to the front door.
His first impression of the woman who stood on his porch was that she was attractive, not in a conventionally pretty way but something rather more interesting—an angular face framed by a tangle of streaked blonde hair, a wide generous mouth, unusual green eyes. So attractive he found himself looking at her for a moment longer than was required to sum up a possible contractor. And the almost imperceptible curve of her mouth let him know she’d noticed.
‘Good morning, Mr Hunt—Andie Newman from Party Queens,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the pass code that got me through the gate. Your security is formidable, like an eastern suburb
s fortress.’ Was that a hint of challenge underscoring her warm, husky voice? If so, he wasn’t going to bite.
‘The pass code expires after one use, Ms Newman,’ he said, not attempting to hide a note of warning. The three party planners before her were never going to get a new pass code. But none of them had been remotely like her—in looks or manner.
She was tall and wore a boldly patterned skirt of some silky fine fabric that fell below her knees in uneven layers, topped by a snug-fitting rust-coloured jacket and high heeled shoes that laced all the way up her calf. A soft leather satchel was slung casually across her shoulder. She presented as smart but more unconventional than the corporate dark suits and rigid briefcases of the other three—whose ideas had been as pedestrian as their appearances.
‘Andie,’ she replied and started to say something else about his security system. But, as she did, a sudden gust of balmy spring breeze whipped up her skirt, revealing long slender legs and a tantalising hint of red underwear. Dominic tried to do the gentlemanly thing and look elsewhere—difficult when she was standing so near to him and her legs were so attention-worthy.
‘Oh,’ she gasped, and fought with the skirt to hold it down, but no sooner did she get the front of the skirt in place, the back whipped upwards and she had to twist around to hold it down. The back view of her legs was equally as impressive as the front. He balled his hands into fists by his sides so he did not give into the temptation to help her with the flyaway fabric.
She flushed high on elegant cheekbones, blonde hair tousled around her face, and laughed a husky, uninhibited laugh as she battled to preserve her modesty. The breeze died down as quickly as it had sprung up and her skirt floated back into place. Still, he noticed she continued to keep it in check with a hand on her thigh.
‘That’s made a wonderful first impression, hasn’t it?’ she said, looking up at him with a rueful smile. For a long moment their eyes connected and he was the first to look away. She was beautiful.
As she spoke, the breeze gave a final last sigh that ruffled her hair across her face. Dominic wasn’t a fanciful man, but it seemed as though the wind was ushering her into his house.
‘There are worse ways of making an impression,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m interested to see what you follow up with.’
* * *
Andie wasn’t sure what to reply. She stood at the threshold of Dominic Hunt’s multi-million-dollar mansion and knew for the first time in her career she was in serious danger of losing the professional cool in which she took such pride.
Not because of the incident with the wind and her skirt. Or because she was awestruck by the magnificence of the house and the postcard-worthy panorama of Sydney Harbour that stretched out in front of it. No. It was the man who towered above her who was making her feel so inordinately flustered. Too tongue-tied to come back with a quick quip or clever retort.
‘Th...thank you,’ she managed to stutter as she pushed the breeze-swept hair back from across her face.
During her career as a stylist for both magazines and advertising agencies, and now as a party planner, she had acquired the reputation of being able to manage difficult people. Which was why her two partners in their fledgling business had voted for her to be the one to deal with Dominic Hunt. Party Queens desperately needed a high-profile booking like this to help them get established. Winning it was now on her shoulders.
She had come to his mansion forewarned that he could be a demanding client. The gossip was that he had been scathing to three other planners from other companies much bigger than theirs before giving them the boot. Then there was his wider reputation as a Scrooge—a man who did not share his multitude of money with others less fortunate. He was everything she did not admire in a person.
Despite that, she been blithely confident Dominic Hunt wouldn’t be more than she could handle. Until he had answered that door. Her reaction to him had her stupefied.
She had seen the photos, watched the interviews of the billionaire businessman, had recognised he was good-looking in a dark, brooding way. But no amount of research had prepared her for the pulse-raising reality of this man—tall, broad-shouldered, powerful muscles apparent even in his sleek tailored grey suit. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome. Not with that strong jaw, the crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken by a viciously aimed punch, the full, sensual mouth with the faded white scar on the corner, the spiky black hair. And then there was the almost palpable emanation of power.
She had to call on every bit of her professional savvy to ignore the warm flush that rose up her neck and onto her cheeks, the way her heart thudded into unwilling awareness of Dominic Hunt, not as a client but as a man.
She could not allow that to happen. This job was too important to her and her friends in their new business. Anyway, dark and brooding wasn’t her type. Her ideal man was sensitive and sunny-natured, like her first lost love, for whom she felt she would always grieve.
She extended her hand, willing it to stay steady, and forced a smile. ‘Mr Hunt, let’s start again. Andie Newman from Party Queens.’
His grip in return was firm and warm and he nodded acknowledgement of her greeting. If a mere handshake could send shivers of awareness through her, she could be in trouble here.
Keep it businesslike. She took a deep breath, tilted back her head to meet his gaze full-on. ‘I believe I’m the fourth party planner you’ve seen and I don’t want there to be a fifth. I should be the person to plan your event.’
If he was surprised at her boldness, it didn’t show in his scrutiny; his grey eyes remained cool and assessing.
‘You’d better come inside and convince me why that should be the case,’ he said. Even his voice was attractive—deep and measured and utterly masculine.
‘I welcome the opportunity,’ she said in the most confident voice she could muster.
She followed him into the entrance hall of the restored nineteen-twenties house, all dark stained wood floors and cream marble. A grand central marble staircase with wrought-iron balustrades split into two sides to climb to the next floor. This wasn’t the first grand home she’d been in during the course of her work but it was so impressive she had to suppress an impulse to gawk.
‘Wow,’ she said, looking around her, forgetting all about how disconcerted Dominic Hunt made her feel. ‘The staircase. It’s amazing. I can just see a choir there, with a chorister on each step greeting your guests with Christmas carols as they step into the house.’ Her thoughts raced ahead of her. Choristers’ robes in red and white? Each chorister holding a scrolled parchment printed with the words to the carol? What about the music? A string quartet? A harpsichord?
‘What do you mean?’ he said, breaking into her reverie.
Andie blinked to bring herself back to earth and turned to look up at him. She smiled. ‘Sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. It was just an idea. Of course I realise I still need to convince you I’m the right person for your job.’
‘I meant about the Christmas carols.’
So he would be that kind of pernickety client, pressing her for details before they’d even decided on the bigger picture. Did she need to spell out the message of ‘Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly’?
She shook her head in a don’t-worry-about-it way. ‘It was just a top-of-mind thought. But a choir would be an amazing use of the staircase. Maybe a children’s choir. Get your guests into the Christmas spirit straight away, without being too cheesy about it.’
‘It isn’t going to be a Christmas party.’ He virtually spat the word Christmas.
‘But a party in December? I thought—’
He frowned and she could see where his reputation came from as his thick brows drew together and his eyes darkened. ‘Truth be told, I don’t want a party here at all. But it’s a necessary evil—necessary to my business, that is.’
‘
Really?’ she said, struggling not to jump in and say the wrong thing. A client who didn’t actually want a party? This she hadn’t anticipated. Her certainty that she knew how to handle this situation—this man—started to seep away.
She gritted her teeth, forced her voice to sound as conciliatory as possible. ‘I understood from your brief that you wanted a big event benefiting a charity in the weeks leading up to Christmas on a date that will give you maximum publicity.’
‘All that,’ he said. ‘Except it’s not to be a Christmas party. Just a party that happens to be held around that time.’
Difficult and demanding didn’t begin to describe this. But had she been guilty of assuming December translated into Christmas? Had it actually stated that in the brief? She didn’t think she’d misread it.
She drew in a calming breath. ‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding and I apologise for that,’ she said. ‘I have the official briefing from your marketing department here.’ She patted her satchel. ‘But I’d rather hear your thoughts, your ideas for the event in your own words. A successful party plan comes from the heart. Can we sit down and discuss this?’
He looked pointedly at his watch. Her heart sank to the level of the first lacing on her shoes. She did not want to be the fourth party planner he fired before she’d even started her pitch. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes,’ he said.
He led her into a living room that ran across the entire front of the house and looked out to the blue waters of the harbour and its icons of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. Glass doors opened out to a large terrace. A perfect summer party terrace.
Immediately she recognised the work of one of Sydney’s most fashionable high-end interior designers—a guy who only worked with budgets that started with six zeros after them. The room worked neutral tones and metallics in a nod to the art deco era of the original house. The result was masculine but very, very stylish.
