At the Billionaire’s Wedding (25 page)

Archer slept late the next morning. After dealing with more outrage from the magazine lawyers—this time over photos of the groom and groomsmen aiming rifles at a cowering paparazzo—he’d had another scotch. When he woke, the sky was dark gray and thunder rumbled in the distance. Normally he would have opened his laptop and spent the morning working; half the wedding party had come home drunk from the bachelor and bachelorette parties the previous night, and the hotel was fairly quiet. But today he pulled on his sneakers and went for a run, finally feeling like a weight had lifted off him. And as he ran, he made a list.

First, he had been working too hard. It hadn’t been a lie when he told Natalie he had no time to meet anyone. Now, however, he had greater motivation than ever to delegate more work, especially work related to Brightball’s new investor.

Second, he did want to have his own specialty practice. It was good to be in a firm, with guys like Tom available when his clients needed something extra, but Archer wanted more independence. Having a client like Duke Austen gave him leverage, and he was ready to use it.

And third, he was going to use his greater autonomy and increased delegation to find more free time. Because he had met someone now, and he was ready to blow off work for her. The avalanche had tumbled him head over heels until he had no idea which way was up anymore. The only thing he knew was that he wanted to know everything about her, every little thing that made her laugh or frown or roll her eyes. He wanted to perfect the art of making her cheeks flush pink and her voice go throaty and he wanted to make her come in his arms. He had two more days here, and he meant to spend both of them with her.

That last line of thought quickened his steps until he was almost flying up the gravel path. He took the stairs two at a time, pausing only for a group of women heading down. The bride was in the center of them, glowing with delight. The wedding was tomorrow, he realized, and when Jane caught his eye he gave her a big grin.
Thank you a hundred thousand times for inviting me
, he silently told her. He headed to his room, took a quick shower, and changed. Then he grabbed his key without a second glance at his laptop or phone. Time to see what delicious something he would get to lick off Natalie’s skin today.

He went out the back of the house, only to almost run into the wedding planner and hotel owner, who seemed to be having an argument.

“It’s completely blown,” Arwen Kilpatrick was saying furiously. “Dead. Who knows how long it’s been out, and now everything is spoiled because
of course
it would be hot these last few days—”

“But it was only one of four,” Harry Compton countered. “It can’t be that bad, darling.”

“Harry, we have
no dessert
! Not even a bride cake!”

Archer, already starting to detour around them, slowed. No dessert? That sounded intrinsically bad, but her voice was frantic, almost shrill with despair. He tried to think what was planned for today that could have caused a lack of dessert to be a major problem…

Oh, right. The formal rehearsal dinner. He hesitated a moment, then turned around.

“Excuse me,” he said to the arguing couple.

The hotelier immediately stepped in front of Arwen. “How can I help you?”

“I might be able to help you,” he said, watching the wedding planner. “It sounds like there was an equipment malfunction in the kitchen.”

“Everything is under control,” Compton tried to say but Arwen was having none of that.

“One of our refrigerators died, Mr. Quinn.” She drew herself up and managed a smile that was remarkably poised. “But don’t worry, I still have almost seven hours to find dessert for nearly a hundred people. I’ve had worse problems.”

“And I have a suggestion.” Archer thought of Natalie’s wine cooler, filled with barely tasted cakes and pies. “Your neighbor is a chef, writing a cookbook. I know she’s been baking desserts for at least a week now. I’ve tasted some of them and everything is otherworldly.”

Arwen’s smile slipped a bit. “I’m sure they are, but my desserts came from a top bakery in London.”

“She’s the deputy chef at Cuisine du Jude, in Wellesley, Massachusetts.” Archer was betting a celebrity wedding planner from New York City would have heard of it. If Jack Harper had trouble getting reservations there, it was exclusive and excellent.

And sure enough, Arwen’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God,” she breathed, turning to Harry Compton. “The most perfect date night restaurant in America! This might work.”

Compton looked disconcerted. “A chef? No, the only neighbor is Amaryllis Sonnier, the artist. She’s not even here; she spends every summer in Portugal.”

“And she’s lent her house to Natalie, who has a walk-in wine cooler filled with cakes.”

“Cuisine du Jude is exquisite,” Arwen babbled. “I ate there last summer to check it out for a client.
Exquisite
. If she can cook half as well as Judith Corcoran…”

“Natalie is her daughter.” Archer grinned.

Arwen looked at Compton, who shrugged. “I have to give it a shot,” she said. “Mr. Quinn, I take it you’ll introduce me?”

“I was on my way over there now.”

“If this works, I will kiss you,” declared Arwen, falling in step beside him. Archer just saw the scowl that crossed Compton’s face before he, too, set off through the garden toward Primrose Cottage with them.

Natalie noticed when Archer didn’t come down to her cottage the next morning. She told herself it was because of the rain, but then the clouds blew away and still the patio was empty, save for Oliver stretched out on the table where Archer usually worked. Natalie tried not to scowl at the cat. It wasn’t his fault Archer hadn’t come.

She hoped it wasn’t her fault.

The day they’d spent together had been … well, pretty nearly perfect. He was funny. He was considerate. He was thoughtful. He bought really good wine for a picnic on the grass. His kisses made her feel like a goddess, and his hands made her think pornographic thoughts. The attraction between them might be roaring along at a breakneck pace, but as Archer said yesterday, she didn’t feel like stopping it.

But then where was he?

No. She refused to make herself crazy wondering why he wasn’t there. He was a grown man and had things to do. Just because he’d kissed her senseless … several times … didn’t mean anything. It was pure coincidence that he hadn’t shown up after they made out like horny teenagers and then had a daylong date. No, she was a mature, independent woman who would not torture herself trying to understand the mind of any man. She spread out her notes on cookies, trying to decide where to start, and told herself to concentrate on her own work.

It didn’t happen. Today, for the first time, she didn’t feel like baking. Not even her go-to classic chocolate chip recipe was enticing, nor her scribbled suggestions about oats and nuts and dried fruits. She flicked through the pages, unable to decide, then took out the handwritten recipe for chocolate pudding cake. It did sound good, and Archer had dared her to make it…

In a huff, she went out onto the patio and dropped into the chair, pushing her legs out straight in front of her. She tipped her head back, letting the sun warm her face. Oliver got to his feet and stretched, then walked across the table and climbed into her lap, purring hard. Natalie ran one hand down his back, smiling up at the sky. At least one male still wanted to get on top of her.

“Maybe I ought to take today off, too,” she said to the cat. “I could walk back to town and look in the shops.” Such few shops as were in town. “Do you need any kitty toys, Oliver?” His big paws, darker than the rest of him, flexed against her knee. “I don’t even know what toys cats like.”

“Jingle bells,” said Archer from somewhere behind her. “And feathers. At least that’s what my mother’s cat likes.”

Natalie started, and Oliver jumped off her lap with an offended meow. “Oh, hi,” she said stupidly, feeling her face turn red. She got up, brushing the cat fur from her skirt.

“Good morning.” His eyes warmed as he smiled. She could only smile back like an idiot as his gaze flicked up and down, hot and brazen. “I have a question to ask—actually a tremendous favor—but before I ask, I want you to know it’s totally fine if you say no.”

“Uh-oh.” She tried to laugh even as her heart stuttered ridiculously. “That sounds ominous.”

“No, it’s just…” He hesitated. “I know you’re not a fan of the wedding chaos, but the bride and groom are actually really decent people. There’s been a malfunction in the kitchen with one of the refrigerators…”

The smile slid off her face. “Okay,” she said tonelessly when Archer paused again.

He ran one hand over his head, ruffling his hair and raising the wave. “One of the refrigerators died, all the desserts for tonight’s rehearsal dinner went bad, and the wedding planner—also a nice person—is in a bind. I know you have a bunch of cakes in the cooler, and I thought maybe you would be willing to help her out.”

So he hadn’t come down today because he’d been busy chatting with the wedding planner. And he hadn’t said one word about yesterday, or asked how she was, or made any sign there was anything at all between them. He wanted her to bail out the same wedding party that had clogged the road, ruined her peace and quiet, and led to random people getting naked on her patio. How did a woman respond to that?

Archer obviously realized he’d gone wrong. “Shit. You’d never know I talk to people for a living. Well—will you just meet her for a minute? I swear to God if you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to, and I’ll send her back up to the hotel.”

Natalie lifted one shoulder. “Fine.”

He gave her a reassuring smile and loped back out of the garden. He’d obviously brought the wedding planner with him—taking things a bit for granted, she thought sourly. But when he came back a moment later, there were two people with him, a woman with thick bangs cut in her shiny dark hair and a tall man with sharply angular features that managed to be handsome despite being so pronounced.

“Thank you,” declared the woman fervently before anyone else could speak. She rushed forward, hand outstretched. “Arwen Kilpatrick. I’m thrilled to meet you—your mother is a visionary and a genius. What she does at Cuisine du Jude is simply amazing.”

This made Natalie smile. She shook the woman’s hand. “She is. I’m Natalie Corcoran.”

The tall man also put out his hand. “Harry Compton,” he said in crisp English tones. “I own Brampton House.”

She shook his hand, too, although with less enthusiasm. He was responsible for all the traffic on the road, after all. “Hi.”

“I hope Archer explained what happened. One of my refrigerators died sometime overnight and everything spoiled—ten cakes from one of the best bakeries in London. The buttercream is in puddles.” Arwen took a deep breath. “If you could help in any way, I would be prostrate with gratitude. Money is no object, either. I am desperate, and Archer said he thought he’d died and gone to heaven when he tasted your baking.” A glimmer of a smile crossed her face. “I expect Judith Corcoran’s daughter must have milk and honey in her veins.”

Natalie’s reserve was thawing. “Not quite.” She glanced at Archer, who looked guarded but hopeful. She remembered it was his client getting married; saving the day would be as much a win for him as it would be for Arwen. “Before you write a blank check, why don’t you taste? I do have a bunch of cakes in the cooler, but they may not be what you want.”

“
Cake
is what I want,” said Arwen. Mr. Compton choked on a laugh.

“I made these this week, but they’ve all been sampled,” Natalie warned as she led the way to the cooler. She hit the switch for the lights and pulled out a tray of chocolate cakes, all missing one thin wedge. “I couldn’t bear to throw them out yet. What’s your pleasure—chocolate?”

“They all look divine.”

No baker could fail to respond to the look of greedy joy on Arwen’s face. Natalie turned to Archer. “Would you mind getting some plates and forks?”

They tasted milk chocolate, dark chocolate, and chocolate with cherry filling. Natalie went deeper into the cooler and got out the vanilla cakes, some with coconut, some with strawberries, and one with marbled chocolate and cream cheese frosting. These were almost frozen, but came to freshness in a few minutes when cut into half-inch slices.

“Oh my God, I can die happy right now,” moaned Arwen, taking another tiny bite.

“I still have lemon cake and two strawberry tortes,” Natalie offered.

Arwen shook her head and put down her plate. “I don’t need to taste any more. I want the lot; will you sell them to me?”

“All right.” She thought the woman would hug her. “And please give a credit to Cuisine du Jude, and maybe mention there’s a forthcoming cookbook with all these recipes.”

Arwen laughed. “Done! You have saved my skin. I’ll send a van down to pick them all up at five o’clock; is that okay? If the Next Gordon Ramsey squawks about giving me a refrigerator then, I will kill him with my bare hands.”

“Which one will be the bride’s cake, darling?” Harry Compton has mostly focused on tasting, but now he reached out—to Natalie’s surprise—and smoothed away a stray bit of frosting from Arwen’s mouth.