The C.e.o.'S Unplanned Proposal. Karen Toller Whittenburg

her eyes as she laughed.

      “…and the caterer was fit to be tied,” Ilsa was saying, continuing a conversation that Adam had completely lost the gist of, so absorbed had he been in the imagined scene going on behind him. He brought his attention to heel and made sure he didn’t lose focus again.

      Outside the restaurant, after they’d finished lunch, Adam and Ilsa shook hands and exchanged a thank-you for the meal and the conversation. “I hope to see you at Grandfather’s party,” he said. “I can’t promise it will be the best gathering the Braddocks have ever put together, but if I can get my hands on an events planner, I intend to make sure she orders plenty of that artichoke dip.”

      “In that case, I’ll definitely be there,” Ilsa said with a laugh. “And I will get you the name of that events planner.”

      “That would be a help.” Adam’s thoughts were halfway to the office already. “I’ll ask my secretary to call you for the information.”

      “Or I’ll call you. Thanks, again, for lunch. I loved getting to know you a little in person.”

      “I enjoyed it tremendously. Take care.” He waited for her to turn away, which she did, but before he made his own turn in the opposite direction, she was back, extending her hand toward him.

      “You might need this,” she said.

      He took it without a glance and slipped it into his suit pocket. “I’ll be sure you get an invitation to the party.”

      “Perhaps we’ll run into each other again in the meantime.” Then, she walked off at a brisk clip and Adam didn’t give her—or the business card she’d given him—another thought.

      WHEN THE CARD turned up, Adam barely recalled how he’d come to have it. For nearly two weeks, he’d been immersed in salvaging Braddock Industries’ purchase of The Wallace Company and had thought of little else. The deal teetered on the brink of collapse from one day to the next, coming close to agreement and then falling apart all over again. Adam had spent long hours investigating how a “sure thing” had gone awry, trying unsuccessfully to get Richard Wallace to meet with him, one on one. So far, Wallace was holding firmly in the negotiations-are-over camp and finally, Adam had sent his corporate team home for the weekend, telling them to rest, relax and return with new energy and the enthusiasm to get this buyout completed, one way or another.

      Adam planned to spend the entire weekend in the office, coming up with a compromise. For some months now, Braddock Industries had been quietly buying up a large chunk of Wallace stock as a negotiating tool but, while Adam had issued the buy order, he didn’t want to initiate a hostile takeover. Not if there was any other way to get what he wanted. He admired Richard Wallace tremendously for building a company out of nothing and, it was true, Adam’s one business failing was his soft spot for family-run concerns. After all, where would the Braddock family be if some upstart had decided to take over the construction business back when it was vulnerable to such an unwelcome attack? On the other hand, the offer was a fair one and Adam had a gut feeling that Richard Wallace had dug in his heels only because he wanted to walk away with a little more dignity and considerably more cash than was first offered.

      IF Enterprises, read the raised gold lettering across the pink card stock. Ilsa Fairchild, 555-5683.

      Adam continued to frown at the business card, newly discovered under piles of reports on his desk. He recalled his lunch with Ilsa as pleasant, nothing out of the ordinary, but was still unsure as to why his grandfather had asked him to meet with her in the first place. No request for a contribution had been forthcoming. He hadn’t been asked to head up a new fund-raiser for a worthwhile cause. His father’s wedding plans were going along apace, and Archer hadn’t even asked how the luncheon went or mentioned this old friend of the family since. But then, Adam hadn’t been home in the past week and a half, preferring to stay at the Providence apartment and remain focused on the Wallace deal. But now it was Friday night, the staff had long since left for the weekend, and he was staring at a backlog of paperwork…and a misty pink business card.

      Turning the card over in his hands, he read the name and phone number written in scrunched and scribbled letters of black ink across the back. Kate—or was it Katie? He couldn’t quite make out the letters—Canton. The name meant nothing to him and he wondered why Ilsa Fairchild would have given it to him. But…wait. The birthday party. They’d talked about the birthday party. The one he’d given not a single thought since. Adam vaguely recalled asking Ilsa if she could recommend an events planner. And she’d said…yes? Yes, she did know someone. That must be the reason he’d tucked her card into his pocket and tossed it onto his desk upon his return to the office. She’d written down the name on the back of her business card. He’d intended to give it to Lara, who would have passed it on to Nell, his personal secretary, who would have called this Kate Canton and gotten the party plans underway. But other concerns had pushed the information—and the need for it—out of his mind. Parties were never top priority for him under the best of circumstances.

      And now, it was six weeks and counting until Archer’s birthday. Adam realized he’d better take some action…and quickly. A glance at his watch brought a frown. Nine-thirty. Too late to call? Probably he’d get an answering machine, which would be perfect. He could leave a message to call his office Monday morning. Nell would handle everything from there and he wouldn’t have to give the matter another thought. Good idea. He dialed the number then began going over yet another financial report on the Wallace Company as he waited for Kate Canton’s machine to pick up.

      “Hello?”

      A person. Adam put down the report, momentarily taken aback. “Kate Canton?” he asked.

      “Yes?” Her tone turned cool, cautious.

      “This is Adam Braddock.”

      “Who?”

      “Adam Braddock,” he repeated. “Ilsa Fairchild gave me your name.”

      “Why would she do that?”

      Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have called after office hours. He warmed his tone to compensate for the suspicious note in her voice. “She thought you might be able to help me. I’m sorry to phone so late in the evening, but I’m in desperate need of a party planner.”

      “A what?”

      Maybe Ms. Canton was a trifle hard of hearing. “A party planner. I need someone to put together a party for me.”

      “You have the wrong number.”

      “I don’t think so,” he said, infusing his tone with the old Braddock charm as he repeated the phone number written on the card, waited for her confirmation, then added, “And you are Kate Canton?”

      “Yes, but I’m not a party planner.”

      Women were so touchy about job titles these days. “Coordinator, then,” he said. “Events coordinator. And I mean for this to be quite an event. It’s in honor of my grandfather’s seventy-ninth birthday at the end of June. There’ll be somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred guests, and—”

      “Two hundred,” she repeated. “That’s a lot of party hats.”

      She was already calculating expenses. That was a good sign. “I’m sure you’re up to the challenge, Ms. Canton. You came highly recommended.”

      “Someone recommended me to plan your birthday party?”

      Hard of hearing and a little thick, too, perhaps. Or falsely modest. Or clever enough to string him along, playing hard to get. Of course, it was also just possible she was simply intimidated by the Braddock name. He’d experienced some strange reactions from people when they realized who he was and the powerful family and fortune he represented. He’d had women hang up on him from sheer nervousness. He’d known some men—and women—to pretend not to recognize the name, as if that somehow put them all on a more level playing field. Whatever Ms. Canton was experiencing, Adam was determined not to lose patience with her. He cleared his throat, dispatching any hint of impatience. “Ilsa Fairchild