The Rented Bride (Highland Billionaires Book 1) Read online

  Cassie nodded. “You bet.”

  “Good,” she said on a sigh. “I have the number for the supplier we usually use.”

  That would be Cassie’s first call. Followed by the floral designer, the orchestra, party supply for table clothes and linen. Vail was a small, elite community with limited resources. But Denver was close enough to accommodate even the most obscure request.

  An hour later, Cassie had spoken to Mr. Calhoun at Calhoun Seafood who promised her lobsters by early afternoon. Cassie also confirmed with the orchestra, then went a step further and hired a bagpiper to play during the cake cutting and birthday song.

  The morning trickled away and the afternoon progressed when she made her way back to the kitchen. Ace, the sous chef, and three other chefs chopped, mixed and cooked in preparation for tomorrow as delivery men carted in supplies and food. Finally, the seafood arrived.

  While the Calhoun Seafood deliveryman waited, Cassie grabbed a small paring knife from the chef’s station and slit open the first of the dozen boxes of fresh frozen lobster tails he’d brought. She set the knife on the chef’s station, yanked the first flap free of the remaining tape, then the second flap, and stared down at the lobster tails. She picked one up and didn’t have to turn it over to know they weren’t the Maine lobster tails she’d ordered.

  She looked at the deliveryman. “These aren’t what I ordered.”

  He shrugged. “I’m just the delivery man.”

  He was right. “Do Calhoun deliverymen put the fish they deliver in the walk-in?” she asked.

  “I’ll put it anywhere you like,” he said.

  She pointed right, to the walk-in refrigerator toward the back of the kitchen. “Back there, the sea bass, please.”

  He approached the boxes of sea bass set in two stacks of five, picked up two boxes and walked past her. Cassie watched his progress for a few seconds. He could easily have carried three or four of the boxes instead of two.

  She dug into her back jeans’ pocket for her phone, then caught sight of another man standing in the delivery entrance doorway. A rip in his jeans revealed steely muscle above the right knee and his white tennis shoes looked as if they were hand-me -downs from Methuselah. But the working man’s clothes didn’t distract from the hint of stubble on his jaw, which gave him a slightly dangerous look, and the intense dark eyes that focused on her. The man was gorgeous. She thought of Terri Gallagher and grimaced inwardly. Brettonwood was clearly a place filled with temptation.

  Cassie tapped the phone screen and hit speed dial number twelve for Calhoun Seafood. Bless Meg for putting all the vendors on her cell. The phone rang and she shifted the mouthpiece away from her mouth and said to the deliveryman, “Could you please help get this fish into the walk-in?”

  He lifted a brow and pointed at himself. “Me?”

  The receptionist’s voice at Calhoun came over the line. “Calhoun Seafood.”

  You, Cassie mouthed to the guy, then said into the phone, “May I speak with Mr. Calhoun, please?”

  “Mr. Calhoun is in a meeting,” the girl said. “Can I take a message?”

  Cassie began pacing, the frozen lobster tail still in hand. “Please tell him this is Cassandra Adams.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Adams, but Mr. Calhoun is unavailable. Can I take a message and have him return your call?”

  She reached the edge of the nearest stainless steel work station and set the lobster on the table. “He assured me he would be available for me at any time. I’m handling the party for Mr. Weston.”

  “As I said, he’s in a meeting,” the receptionist said.

  “Get him on the phone because, if I have to, I’ll drive the hundred miles into Denver to dump these lobster tails on his desk. If you think I’m upset now, wait until I have to waste half a day because you wouldn’t put my phone call through.”

  “Hold on,” the receptionist replied in a crisp voice, and Cassie turned as soft music began playing on the line.

  The deliveryman stood at the boxes of lobster tails and was bending to grab the open box.

  “Not those,” Cassie said.

  He twisted and looked at her over his shoulder.

  She pointed at the eight remaining boxes of seabass to the right of the lobsters. “Those.”

  That brow arched again, but Cassie didn’t have time to respond. Mr. Calhoun’s voice came over the line, “Miss. Adams, what can I do for you?”

  “What you can do, Mr. Calhoun, is explain why I didn’t get the Maine lobster tails I ordered.”

  “What do you mean? I loaded the boxes onto the truck myself.”

  “Did you look at the lobsters?” she asked.

  “Inspected them before the guys packed them up.”

  “Then you know these aren’t Maine lobsters.”

  “Are you sure you know Maine lobsters?” he asked. “Many people don’t realize there are two varieties of cold water lobsters. It’s easy to mix them up.”

  “Actually, Mr. Calhoun, it isn’t that easy to mix them up. Homarus americanus—that’s American cold water lobsters, Maine lobsters to you—are red. The lobsters you sent me, however, are a distinct green. They’re North Australian lobsters.”

  “Miss Adams—”

  “Now, North Australian lobsters are quite good,” she cut in, “and I might have been willing to accept them in place of Maine lobsters. But I hate being lied to.”

  “Why would I lie?” he said. “Many consider North Australian lobsters to be superior to Maine lobsters.”

  “That’s true,” she replied. “Which is why they’re also about twice the price.”

  He gave a condescending laugh. “Maybe you aren’t aware that Mr. Weston isn’t a man who needs to quibble over a twenty-dollar difference on a lobster tail.”

  “You are right on that point,” she said. “And the reason he doesn’t quibble over twenty dollar discrepancies is because he has people like me to do it for him. I notice there’re no prices on this invoice.” She placed her hand on the itemized invoice on the counter.

  “Well, Miss Adams, you clearly haven’t worked with Mr. Weston before. I have. Prices aren’t listed on delivery invoices per his instructions. Mr. Weston doesn’t like the help to know how much he pays for things.”

  Cassie didn’t miss the way Calhoun emphasized the word help. “So, you’re telling me that the prices are included on the quote you gave Ms. Nelson?”

  “Of course.”

  “When I spoke to you earlier and ordered the tails, you quoted me twenty dollars per Maine lobster tail. When I go to Ms. Nelson, I’ll make sure she’s aware of the quoted price. If the invoice you send specifies anything but Maine lobster tails at twenty dollars per tail, we’re going to have a problem.”

  “What are you accusing me of?” he demanded.

  “Of taking advantage of a client. As you’ve said, I haven’t worked with you before,” she said. “But I’m not about to let you charge my client for North Australian lobsters when that isn’t what I ordered.”

  “I didn’t send North Australian tails,” he snapped.

  “Good, then I’ll serve what you sent because, as you stated, they are good lobsters. But we’ll be paying for Maine lobsters.”

  “You can’t do that,” he shouted so loudly that Cassie winced and yanked the phone a few inches from her ear. “I did send North Australian because I know that Mr. Weston only wants the best. That’s what he’s always been ordered in the past. If you ever work for him again, you’ll know what to order next time.”

  “What I know, Mr. Calhoun, is that I’m in charge of this party. In case you don’t understand what that means, let me clarify. I’m God.” Muffled laughter emanated from somewhere behind her. Cassie looked over her shoulder to see the freezer door shut as she said, “Remember what I said. Maine lobster price. Next time don’t assume you know what the customer wants.” She tapped the end call icon, cutting off a bluster of words Cassie felt certain she didn’t want to decipher.

  She set her
phone on the prep table and leaned on the table, palms flat against the surface. She released a slow breath. Once her heart rate slowed, she would let Meg know about her disagreement with Calhoun, then she would call Maryanne and let her know that she’d made her first enemy—all on her first day on the job.

  “I take it you want these stored in the freezer?”

  Cassie whirled at the sound of the deep voice. The second deliveryman stood beside the lobster tails. She stared at him for an instant, wondering if he would come to the defense of his boss. But the guy waited, his expression neutral.

  “The lobsters?” he repeated.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said. “I would appreciate it.”

  He nodded and picked up several boxes, then turned and started toward the freezer. Good. She didn’t need any more aggravation from assholes who thought they could intimidate her.

  Cassie walked to the refrigerator, opened the door and took a can of soda from the rack. If this was how the day was going to go, she was going to need something stronger than caffeine.

  The deliveryman returned from the freezer. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” she said. Just what she needed, a deliveryman running back to his boss to say he’d frustrated the event planner. If she’d learned anything in this business, it was to never let anyone see weakness. “Please thank Mr. Calhoun for the rush on the delivery.”

  “Not really my job,” he said, his mouth tilting into a small smile.

  So he must think Mr. Calhoun an ass too. She returned the smile. “Well, I’m sure he knows.” She grabbed the invoice to take to Meg. “If he wants to do future business with Mr. Weston, he’ll figure out how to treat his clients.” She snapped her gaze up to the deliveryman. “No need to tell him that, I already clearly expressed that sentiment to him. So thank you for the help. You can go.”

  “You’re dismissing me?” He cocked a brow.

  “Yes, see yourself out.” She stepped away before he could start a conversation. He was better looking than a man had a right to be, but getting kicked off the job for fraternizing with the help wasn’t going to be her sin—at least not today.

  Chapter Three

  Trent ducked into the rear stairs and climbed to the third floor to Brettonwood’s private wing, and strode down the hallway to his grandfather’s room. Carefully, he opened the door and slipped inside. The heavy curtains had been drawn back. Sheer curtains filtered the bright sunlight.

  Instead of sleeping as Trent had expected, his grandfather lay in bed reading. Annie, his private nurse, sat facing a small television in the corner, the sound low. Trent didn’t need to ask what she was watching. Two thirty. Her favorite soap.

  James Weston looked up from the book. Despite his illness, his grandfather’s blue eyes remained lucid and intelligent. In the two months since he’d been diagnosed with stage IV heart failure, he’d spent more and more time in bed, but Trent couldn’t accept that the vigorous man who’d raised him since his parents’ death when he was four was the weak man who now spent most of his time resting.

  “People just get old,” his grandfather had told him, but even now, his shoulders were as straight as they’d always been. His dark hair had long ago turned gray, but like all the men in their family, the gray only added to the Weston charm.

  Tomorrow night, they would celebrate his seventy-fourth birthday. Young by twenty-first century standards. When he’d been diagnosed with heart failure, a piece of Trent died along with the dream of his own son going on a world cruise with his great-grandfather just as Trent had done with his grandfather when he was seventeen. His chest tightened. He’d spent too much time in the boardroom and not enough time in the bedroom.

  His grandfather glanced at the clock. “It’s only 2:30. I don’t usually see you this early.”

  Even after fifty years living in the U.S., a hint of his grandfather’s Highland brogue slipped through. You sounded like yeou.

  Trent crossed to the wing-backed chair near the window and carried it to the bedside. He sat down and stretched out his legs. “The house is abuzz with preparations for the party. My head isn’t in the game today.”

  Truthfully, he was nervous as hell. Tomorrow, he would introduce his grandfather to Lindsey. Trent and Lindsey had managed to keep their relationship out of the media for eight months. After the party, that would change, but not because of his wealth or status. Few people actually knew the identities of the world’s billionaires. They could, however, name the top movie stars, along with their birthdates, astrological signs, and even what they liked to eat. Actress Lindsey Fremont was tabloid gold.

  Trent would have a bit of hell to pay, and probably a case of tequila, for not giving his best friend, Tomas Fierros, the scoop on his relationship with Lindsey. Along with owning Broken Leg media, Tomas slummed it by as the owner of After Hours, a Hollywood rag.

  The paparazzi had nearly caught he and Lindsey on film a month ago when they’d met in the Caribbean after she slipped away from the film she was working on in Miami.

  Trent fully expected to return home to discover his grandfather had seen the picture and had already called Lindsey to set a wedding date. Instead, he’d arrived home to find a home nurse attending to his grandfather.

  Now, Trent regretted the childish impulse that had prompted him to hide his relationship with Lindsey from his grandfather. Maybe he hadn’t been ready for marriage, but time had run out. He knew himself well enough to know that he might never truly feel ready. So why was he dragging his feet? Cold feet wasn’t the problem. Lindsey was everything he wanted in a life partner. Of course, she was beautiful. But she was sweet and sexy. They enjoyed the same leisure time activities. He had to admit, he found her success a turn on. She was driven, yet she had made it clear that love and family would always come first. She was ready for both. And wasn’t he?

  He met his grandfather’s gaze. He had to be ready. As it was, he’d be lucky if his grandfather lived long enough to attend the wedding, much less see the birth of their first child. Just thinking the words wife and family sent a shiver of uncertainty down his spine. He didn’t like unknown scenarios. This was something he couldn’t plan, couldn’t control. He released a breath and crossed ankle over ankle. Always a first for everything.

  “I thought you’d thrown away those old tennis shoes,” his grandfather said.

  Trent glanced at the shoes. “They fit me better than the shoes I wear in the office.”

  His grandfather’s intense gaze bore into him. “You look like a man with something on his mind.”

  “I’m tired. Looking forward to tomorrow. It’s going to be a big night,” Trent said.

  “I get to meet your sweetheart. You sure you don’t want to give me a hint who she is?”

  Trent laughed. “You’ll meet her at the party. Don’t worry, Granddad, you’re going to love her.”

  “You’ve been damned close-mouthed about her identity. She’s got to be someone important.”

  “She is,” he replied. “She’s the woman I’m going to marry.”

  His grandfather nodded. “Yeah, that makes her pretty damned special. So, who is she?”

  “No way, we both know you can’t keep a secret.”

  “You wouldn’t be running one of the most successful companies in the world if I didn’t know how to keep a secret.”

  Trent angled his head. “True. In business, you’re the soul of discretion. But we both know that in a case like this you’d start with Meg and work your way through the staff until everyone knew. No way.” He shook his head. “Unless you think the anticipation is too much for your heart.” He regarded his grandfather. “Are you sure you’re up to this party? We can have our own private get together here while the rest of the guests do their thing downstairs.”

  His grandfather shook his head. “You’re not getting out of this one.”

  “Granddad—”

  “Lad, I stand when a lady enters the room, and so long as I can get out of this bed
, I will continue to do so. I plan to be downstairs when you introduce me to your future wife. Not to mention, I want to make the first toast when you announce your engagement.” He regarded Trent. “You really sure she’s the one?”

  Trent snorted. “Don’t pretend to give me an out. If I hadn’t found her, you would have married me to the granddaughter of one of your cronies back in Scotland—and she’d probably be a tavern wench.

  His grandfather grunted. “Some tavern wenches can be very entertaining.” His expression sobered. “My pushing you to settle down never meant I wanted you to marry just any lass. I only wanted you to realize that you need more than business. Contracts and million dollar deals don’t warm your bed or give you babes.”

  Trent lifted a brow. “That’s easy to say now that I have someone.”

  His grandfather’s gaze clouded over. “I know you don’t remember her very well, but your grandmother…” He released the same slow sigh he did every time he spoke of his wife.

  “I know,” Trent said, “she was something special.”

  He nodded. “I want the same for you—and you want it, too.”

  It was a nice dream. Grandfather’s marriage had been a love match, as had been his parents’. But they’d faded in memory, and Trent’s focus had become the company.

  “You don’t want to be alone,” his grandfather said.

  Trent started. He’d always known his grandfather missed his wife. She died at fifty-four. Far too young. But despite his grandfather’s devotion to her memory, Trent had never considered the possibility that he was lonely. He’d had women. No one serious enough to marry, but Trent had attributed that to his grandfather’s round-the-clock work hours as he built the empire that Trent now governed. When James Weston had left Scotland, he’d left with a sizeable piece of the family fortune, but in America he’d found unmatched success. And when Granddad passed the torch, Trent took the helm with the same dedication—which left little time for romance. He’d been damned lucky to meet Lindsey at a party hosted by a business associate, and even luckier that she was as dedicated to her career as he was to his.