At the Billionaire’s Wedding by Katharine Ashe Miranda Neville Caroline Linden Maya Rodale Page B

profitable. I could use an experienced wedding planner on the staff.” He wore that hopeful, sheepish grin she found so appealing.
    On impulse she tucked her arm into his. “Whatever our relationship is or will be, and at this point I have no idea, I’d like to say I’ve enjoyed working with you. You’ve been great the last few days.” He looked a bit embarrassed, as though unaccustomed to freely expressed praise. “Are you blushing, Harry? You Englishmen are too adorable.”
    He recovered quickly enough. “Thanks, darling. Same to you. Together we are a well-oiled machine. Only one more day and I don’t believe anything else can go wrong.”
    “Bite your tongue.”
    “Um, I think we talked about that phrase before.”

    That afternoon, Arwen stood on the front steps of the mansion, making sure all was as it should be for the official group wedding pictures. A man with a very large camera sauntered around the corner, for all the world as though he had the right to be there. There was something familiar about him, although his face was concealed by the brim of a tweed cap. About to head up the drive, he turned and saw Arwen standing at the foot the front steps.
    “Hello, bonnie lassie,” he said with a cheeky grin. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”
    She knew him.
    She’d been working on her laptop, sitting at the empty bar after lunch at the Next Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant, waiting for His Highness to come out and discuss terms. This man—his name was Angus something—had taken the next stool and struck up a conversation. Charmed by his gingery good looks and mellifluous Scottish tones, she’d chatted for five or ten minutes. Although she had told him about her job when he asked, she was one hundred percent certain she hadn’t mentioned Duke Austen or Brampton House. He must have got the truth out of the Next G.R. or his staff. She was going to kill that randy chef.
    “Ms. Kilpatrick, is it not? I owe you for this gig.”
    Unless.
    With horror Arwen recalled getting up from her seat to ask the maître d’ how long his boss would be. Angus Whatsit could easily have taken a peek and one glance at her spreadsheet would tell him all he wanted to know.
    Crap, crap, crap. It was her fault the paparazzo was here.
    “I’m sure you remember our meeting. I feel we’re friends and friends lend each other a hand. I’d be grateful if you’d give me a little insider tip about the time and location of the ceremony.” He rolled the R in the last word with horrible emphasis. “If it’s indoors I need a little time to find myself a good viewing spot when Duke and Jane tie the knot.”
    “No way.” Arwen found her voice. “Since we’re friends, I would appreciate it if you took your camera away and left the couple to their privacy.”
    “I’d like to oblige you, I truly would, but I have to feed my children.” He handed her a card, which she accepted as though handling a scorpion. “Here’s my number. I’m staying at The Bull’s Head if you’d like to join me for a drink later tonight.”
    “Thanks, but I have too much to do.”
    “As long as you’re employed as the wedding planner you do. I wonder if you’d keep your job if the happy couple knew how I found them.” He shook his head mournfully. “I hope I won’t have to tell, but the kiddies eat a lot. And then there are the school fees. I’ll be getting along now, but I expect I’ll hear from you later. I look forward to our chat.”
    Her stomach churned as she scowled at his cheery parting wave. With the nondisclosure agreement, Duke would be in his rights to fire her without paying a penny, and she wasn’t sure even Jane would stick up for her this time. This was far worse than no Internet. She had screwed up. Big-time.
    She jumped at the sound of the door opening behind her. “Do you know who that was?” Harry asked. He stood on the steps with his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, looking at the retreating figure of the