Page 13 of The Rented Bride

“Please, ma’am. I’m just the delivery guy,” the man said.

She shook her head. “No. Load it back into your truck and move your vehicle…now.”

Headlights cut into the darkness beyond the yard and a large sedan appeared on the road ahead.

“See,” the guy said, “you still have guests arriving. The sculpture can be seen as your guests leave, too.”

Cassie whirled on him. “I’m not arguing with you.” She didn’t have time. Dinner was scheduled for eight-thirty. “Take it or leave it but I’m not paying for it.” Ugh, another catastrophe.

She started at a quick pace back to the house, then remembered her near fall and slowed. A silver Bentley passed on her left and disappeared through the far arch into the inner court where guests were entering through the courtyard door. Behind her, truck doors slammed. She glanced over her shoulder at the deliverymen who had gotten into their truck. The engine turned over and the truck lurched into motion and started around the circular drive where the sculpture now sat in the center of the circle.

The ground lights she’d had set up to surround the ice replica of Brettonwood illuminated the sculpture to perfection. Guests were sure to notice that the sculpture hadn’t been there when they arrived. In all her years as an event planner, she’d never had so many issues. One mix up, she expected. But to have problem after problem was more than coincidence. She hated to think she was paranoid, but what other explanation made sense than sabotage? Was she the target or Trent Weston?

Cassie climbed the steps to the porch and reentered the foyer. Warmth bathed her cold cheeks and nose. She hurried across the foyer and by the time she turned down the hallway she was stripping off the down coat. She turned left down another corridor, then right. In the two days since she’d been at Brettonwood she’d seen about a quarter of the massive structure and had been forced to keep her bearings or end up lost for what surely would have been a week.

She turned down another hallway and hurried down half a dozen steps to the hallway on the level with the kitchen and ballroom. She wondered if Mr. Bernard of Frozen Accents was still in his office. No, she decided. He would—Cassie collided with a large figure. She caught the familiar scent of cologne and registered the memory of the good looking waiter, Sam, as she felt herself falling.

She seized his jacket lapels and tensed in anticipation of them crashing to the floor, him on top of her. He hugged her to him and she buried her face in his shirt. It took two heartbeats to realize they hadn’t fallen.

“Are you all right, Ms. Adams?”

Cassie snapped her head up and stared into intense dark eyes. His grip tightened on her arms and she jarred from the stupor.

“I’m fine. You can let go,” she said.

That damn brow lifted again, but he released her, and said, “Excuse me,” then started past her.

“Whoa, hold on there,” she said.

He stopped and looked at her.

“The kitchen is that way.” She pointed the way she’d been headed.

“I know where the kitchen is,” he said. “I’m headed that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction, toward the private section of the castle, and started to turn.

Cassie grabbed his arm. “Hey. I need your help. Dinner is about to be served. So no, this is not the time to wander around the castle. Let’s get back to the kitchen.”

“Ms. Adams, it’s time you understood that you’ve made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Cassie narrowed her eyes. “Catering staff, whether employed by Mr. Weston or hired in, is limited to the kitchen and ballroom. So please,” she held her arm toward the kitchen, “I need you to do your job.” Her mind registered the jacket he now wore. “And I specifically asked for black pants and white shirts. Lose the jacket. I don’t want you mistaken for one of the guests.” Her gaze narrowed. “Or are you up to something?”

Could this be yet another strange coincidence? Dressed like one of the guests? Of course. “You—look here, you can go back and tell Teri Gallagher that this little game is over. If she has a problem with me, come to me directly. Don’t sabotage this party. And if the problem is with Mr. Weston, tell her she’s not going to use my event to settle the score. I won’t have it. So whatever you’re planning, forget it.” She lowered her voice. “Do you want to make this ugly? If you don’t get your well-dressed ass out of here, I’ll have security throw you out.”

“Security?” he repeated.

“That’s right.” She poked him in the chest. “I’ll sue for damages. So tell Teri that we can settle this in litigation, or you can leave now. If this goes viral, I’ll make sure she doesn’t host a five-year-old’s birthday party. She’ll be lucky if she serves hot dogs and potato chips at a tractor pull.”

“Ms. Adams, I don’t have time for this. I—”

“I just bet you don’t,” she cut in.

His expression darkened. “Look, it was funny when you mistook me for the delivery guy, and I went along with being a waiter. But this has gone far enough.”

“You’re damn right it’s gone far enough,” she snapped. “Another thing, you can tell your boss she’s going to compensate me and Mr. Weston for the damages already done.”

“Believe me, I know who pays the bills.”

“I’m glad we understand each other. You can leave through the delivery entrance in the kitchen.”