The Devil's in the Details (9 page)

And a really big sword, I reminded myself, determined to keep my head and not let my hormones go gaga. Big, effing
sword
. And I wasn’t talking metaphor, though I’d be willing to bet his other, ahem,
sword
was pretty impressive as well.

Solid silver. Sharp. Deadly.

It wasn’t the Legion members themselves who were so deadly to a demon. It was the weapons they used. Magical weapons blessed by the head honcho, Gabriel, himself.

One swift stab and—
poof!
—g’bye, demon.

I tried to conjure several images of such a weapon pressed to my throat, but the only thing I could see was Cutter’s face and those green eyes and, well, have I mentioned that it’s been two long years since I’ve had sex with anyone other than a vibrator named Big Buck?

I pushed open the door to Happily Ever After Events and walked into the modest but tastefully decorated interior. The living room served as the lobby, complete with framed issues of
Southern Bride
magazine lining the walls, two plush white sofas, and a glass coffee table stacked with more wedding mags, along with an eight-by-ten digital photo frame that flashed images of my work.

The main room opened into another area set up with three small tables depicting the latest in tablescape and centerpiece trends. A small hallway led to another room that served as a work hub with two desks, a large bookcase, a ginormous filing cabinet, a small round table covered with invitation books, and an anxious Burke Carmichael.

He looked as hot as ever in fitted jeans, a distressed black T-shirt that fit his P90X bod like a glove, and an expression that said
It’s about freakin’ time
.

“I’ve got good news and not-so-good news.” He pushed up from his desk and handed me a stack of phone messages. “Pick your poison.”

I set the box of doughnuts on a nearby desk and glanced through the slips of paper. Cousin Laura. Cousin Bernice. Cousin Hester. Cousin Mary. Cousin Susanna. Cousin Millicent. Cousin Andromeda. The list went on and on.

With each name my stomach churned and the cryptic threat on my bathroom mirror flashed in my head. It could be any of them.

All of them.

Maybe I didn’t have to worry about just one bad guy. Maybe there was a bona fide conspiracy to kill the wedding planner and put a crimp in my mother’s plans to rule the Underworld.

I clamped my fingers around the slips of paper, stuffed them into my pocket, and forced myself to relax. Conspiracy or not, it didn’t matter. It didn’t change my game plan. It was all about keeping my focus, watching my back, and planning the wedding of my career.

Tamping down on the niggling doubt that told me it wasn’t going to be that easy, I tried to focus on the all-important fact that, as of this moment, I was alive and breathing and neck-deep in wedding nirvana. “I like to start the day off on a positive note,” I said to Burke. “Hit me with the good stuff first.”

“You’ve got two new brides coming in later today. High profile. Three hundred plus guests for each. Impressive budgets.”

Okay, so maybe my immortal life didn’t suck quite that much. I perked up and the smile turned genuine. “That’s awesome.”

“Don’t get too excited. You’ll have to take the plunge into the depths of misery first.
She’s
here”—his voice dropped into the hushed register reserved for the biggest bridezilla in the Bayou
City—“and she’s kicking ass and taking names. She even made Andrew cry.”

As if on cue, a sobbing Andrew appeared in the doorway that led to the adjoining kitchen. “I offered her the usual latte and/or espresso,” he said in between sniffles, “and she told me to take a flying leap.” Andrew, waving his gay-pride banner in a pink polo shirt, white linen shorts, and boat shoes, bit back another sob and cut a path straight to the doughnut box.

“Don’t do it,” Burke warned as his brother flipped open the lid and grabbed with both hands. “No woman is worth ruining a six-pack and some serious guns, bro.” He flexed for emphasis.

“I don’t care.” Andrew devoured half a glazed from one hand, another doughnut poised and ready in hand number two. “I’m upset.” He gulped. “And I need a pick-me-up.”

I knew the feeling.

I debated wrestling the box out of his hands, but I suspected he needed the sugar more than I did. Besides, I’d already had two, and I was armed and ready with the usual roll of Life Savers tucked into my pocket.

“I’ll talk with her, and whatever it is, we’ll work it out.”

“This is Delaney,” Burke reminded me. “
Houston Elite
magazine’s Most Likely to Pitch a Fit and Pop an Aneurysm in Public.”

“I thought she was voted Wealthiest Oil Brat.”

“Same thing.”

“Where is she?”

He pointed to the closed door that led to the one and only bedroom, aka my private office. “I didn’t want to get any blood on the lobby couches. Especially since we’re still paying for them.”

“Your faith in my negotiating skills is overwhelming.” I popped a cherry-flavored Life Savers into my mouth and fought down the sudden urge to turn and run the other way. I wanted normal, and
nothing could be more matter-of-fact than yet another catastrophe à la Delaney Farris.

Delaney had hired me three years ago to plan a huge, extravagant affair befitting the daughter of one of Houston’s top oilmen. But three changes of venue, four different bands, and six wedding dresses later, she still hadn’t managed to get everything perfect enough to walk down the aisle.

We were in the home stretch, however. The big day (rescheduled a record five times) was only three weeks away, which meant that whatever problem had brought her to my office before eight a.m. on a Monday morning had to be taken care of.

And fast.

Grabbing the doorknob, I pasted on a huge smile and walked into the room to find the tall, leggy blonde seated on a small settee, the latest issue of
Houston Brides
open on her lap.

She wore a white poet’s blouse and a pair of Seven for All Mankind jeans stuffed into brown leather boots with three inch-heals. A six-carat emerald-cut diamond ring lined with side baguettes caught the morning sunlight streaming through the windows and temporarily blinded me.

I blinked and held up a hand as I made my way to my desk. “How’s my favorite bride doing this morning?”

“Terrible,” she declared, waving her hand and sending a shower of prismatic light across the soft pink walls. “We need bridesmaids’ dresses.”

“We already have dresses.” I sank down into my chair and set my purse in the bottom drawer. “I was at the final fittings myself on Friday.”

“The color is all wrong.” She shook her head. “They’re orchid and I distinctly requested grape.” She held up a sales slip from a local bridal salon. “See? It says right here.
Orchid.
I was so freaked
when I saw them yesterday that I couldn’t even sleep last night. I had to take a Valium just to calm myself down.”

Easy. Calm. Breathe.

I recited the silent mantra and willed Delaney to pick up my soothing I’ll-handle-everything vibe. Unfortunately, I’m a succubus, so the only vibe that anyone ever picked up from me was
Let’s get naked
. And that only worked on the opposite sex.

Delaney’s eyebrows pinched together. “This is a disaster.”

“I know the paperwork says orchid, but the color is really a much deeper hue.” I reached for the file sitting on the corner of my desk. “I matched the swatches myself.” I found the two scraps of fabric and set them on the tabletop. There. Exactly the same. Even in the bright light of day.

“But I want grape dresses,” she whined, still as stubborn as ever. “I want them to
say
grape. I want them to
be
grape. Not orchid. Or amethyst. Or eggplant. Or aubergine. Or acai.”

Or any of the dozen different purples we’d debated over for months before she’d finally settled on one.

“The groomsmen’s vests are grape,” she went on. “And they even say grape. The dresses have to match them exactly. They just
have
to.”

“I’m sure if we take a look—”

“That’s all I did was look. I stared at the colors all night and I can clearly see a distinction.” She leaned forward and touched the identical swatches. “Can’t you see? It’s wrong.” She shook her head. “All wrong.”

Forget a Valium. She’d obviously been smoking some serious crack.

Not that I was going to point that out. I was here to make her dreams come true.

I fantasized for a nanosecond about pulling an
Exorcist
on her (think head spinning and a pea-soup shooter) and scaring her into submission. Seriously. We were three weeks away from the big day.
No way could I scrounge up a dozen new custom-dyed bridesmaids’ dresses in that short an amount of time.

But I was determined not to mess up my good-girl-searching-for-love aura. Even more, I couldn’t really blame Delaney for being so picky. Not when I knew her heart simply wasn’t in it. Her fantasy man? Vin Diesel. Meanwhile, her groom looked like Zach Galifianakis from
The Hangover
.

I know, right?

Anyhow, Stuffalumpalous was a colleague of her father’s who headed a rival oil company. The marriage was more like a merging of two corporations, with Delaney a perk in the contract.

I didn’t miss the flash of desperation in her gaze. I knew that more than worrying about the dress color, she was really freaked over the notion of spending the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love.

My chest hitched. “If you want new dresses, we’ll get new dresses,” I heard myself say.

I know, I know. I was such a sucker.

“Really?” The desperation faded into hope, and I could almost hear her telling herself that everything would be okay. The dresses. The flowers. The cake. The wedding. The honeymoon. The future.

I smiled. “Whatever you want.”

“Great.” She beamed, and hope faded into determination. “And since we’re changing the color,” she went on, “I’d like to rethink the style too. I want something with more of a
Sex and the City
feel. You know.” She waved a hand. “Something fun and flirty and cocktailish.”

Was
cocktailish
even a word?

“I want short,” she announced, morphing from worried, vulnerable Delaney back into the be-yotch who had traumatized Andrew and landed her on the front page of the local newspaper’s
City Beat
section for punching a waitress who’d served full-fat vinaigrette on her salad instead of low-cal. “And skimpy.”

“But full-length ball gowns are much more appropriate for a black-tie affair,” I reminded her. “You wanted an Audrey Hepburn feel, remember? That’s why we put together a formal ceremony, followed by a grand reception with a full orchestra, an eight-course sit-down dinner, and tableside flambé.”

“About that…” She shrugged. “I’m not really feeling the whole flambé thing. I still want a vintage feel, so I was thinking we could do a
Sex and the City
theme instead.”

Forget vintage. Delaney was going for total cliché.

“I want a salsa band and a buffet,” she rattled on. “Oh, and one of those mashed potato stations with the giant martini glasses so that you can add your own toppings and Cosmos for the signature drink and…”

Anxiety rolled through me and my brain reeled with the magnitude of changes that I was about to face and, even more, with the possibility that we might have to postpone the wedding yet again if I couldn’t pull off said changes in a timely manner.

Which meant I could be dealing with Delaney for another three years.

I went for the Life Savers in my pocket, peeled off four, and stuffed them into my mouth. It was going to be one hell of a long day.

Long
turned out to be an understatement. Since Delaney insisted I tend to her personally, I spent an hour on the phone with her dress designer, who finally agreed to help us find a new look, and another six hours trying on new dresses with Delaney’s twelve bridesmaids, who were already in love with the old dresses. Then another two hours getting the measurements right and the dresses on order. Then several more hours back at the office making phone calls to catch up on all the work I’d missed—namely booking Judge
Landon Parks as the demonic officiant for my mom’s big event and working to secure a venue.

Luckily Burke and Andrew had met with my two prospective brides, otherwise I would have been even more stressed. As it was, I spent a total of twelve excruciating hours hard at work, but I managed it all without a three-sixty head spin or any projectile upchucking.

I was
so
going to find the man of my dreams.

I powered off my computer and popped my last Life Savers into my mouth. I’d been crunching them all day long, and while the sugar had helped, what I really needed was to kick back and savor the sweet treat for a few peaceful moments. I settled into my chair and closed my eyes. And then I heard my mother’s voice.

“Let’s make this quick. I’ve got another meeting and the car is running.”

I gulped. And swallowed.

Bye-bye, my sweet, sugary friend.

My eyes snapped open to find Lillith Damon standing in my office, wearing a tailored navy suit and an impatient expression. “I thought we were meeting at the museum,” I said. My gaze went to Cheryl, who stood next to her. “I left you a voice mail specifically stating that we’re meeting first thing tomorrow for a tour.”