“Mister—”

“Hey, Pops.” Malcolm’s remarkably cheerful tone matched the quick grin on his face.“You’re going to want to move those hands. How’re you getting home?” Since the man was already unsteady, Malcolm easily peeled him off Parker. “Have you got a ride?”

“I can drive.” Henry swayed, grinned, lifted a thumbs-up sign. “One hundred percent.”

“I think that’s a hundred proof.” Malcolm maneuvered Henry so that the man’s arm slung around his shoulders. “Hey, have you got your keys? I’ll hold on to them for you.”

“Ah . . .”

“Hey, Dad!”A man hurried down the steps, sent a quick, apologetic look toward Parker. “Sorry, he got away from me. Let’s go on out, Dad. Mom and Anna are coming right down. My wife and I are taking him home,” he explained to Malcolm.

“Okay. I’ve got him. I’ll help you out with him.”

“Beautiful wedding!” Henry exclaimed on the way out. “Got to kiss the bride.”

“And any other female under a hundred and twenty he could get his hands on,” Mac commented. “Sorry, I was just heading down, and didn’t move as fast as Mal when you got the DUH treatment.”

“I lived.” Parker blew out a breath, tugged her jacket into proper lines.

“Em and Laurel are helping the stragglers find misplaced whatever. Jack and Del and Carter are doing the security sweep in cleared areas.We did good.”

“We did great. I’ll start sweeping this level if you want to take over here.”

“Good enough.”

Parker moved into the parlor, through to the Great Hall and the Solarium where the subs had already removed and transferred flowers, tulle, lights, candles.

Here, for the moment, it was quiet, shadowy, with the wistful scent of flowers still lingering in the air.They’d dress it all again in the morning for Sunday’s more intimate event, but for now—

“Henry’s poured into the backseat of his son’s Lexus,” Malcolm said from behind her.

She spun around, watched him move in through that shadowed light. Though he moved with hardly a sound, the room no longer seemed quiet. “That’s good.Thanks for the assist.”

“Easy enough.You thought I was going to clock some drunk old guy for wanting a squeeze of a very nicely toned ass.”

“It was a momentary concern.”

“For the future? Clocking happy drunks is a cheap shot. If I’m going to punch somebody, I like it to be worthwhile.”

His voice remained easy, casual, so why, she wondered, did that wistful, flower-scented air suddenly seem electric, suddenly feel dangerous along her skin? “So noted.”

“Plus, as it’s a really great ass, it was hard to blame him.”

“I thought you liked the legs.”

“Baby, there isn’t an inch of you that isn’t prime, and you know it.”

She tilted her head, doing her level best to match his easy tone. “That didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t. It’s just a fact.” He started toward her in the shadowy light, and she had to fight the urge to step back.“What do you do after one of these to wind down?”

“It depends. Sometimes a group after-event debrief. Sometimes we all just limp off to our own corners to—Wait,” she said when his arms locked around her.

“I thought we’d try another kind of winding down.”

He took her mouth in a flash of heat that was more threat than promise. His hands slid down, slid skillfully over her until thrills—yes, dangerous thrills—shot over her skin. Under her skin.

She told herself to break it off, then as that heat sizzled into her bones, wondered why.

“I want my hands on you, Parker.” Not casual now, not easy. Here was the recklessness she’d sensed under the calm. He took his mouth from hers, skimmed his teeth along her jaw.“You know that, too.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Let me.” He slipped a hand between them to flip open the buttons of her jacket.

“I have to—”

“Let me,” he repeated, and swept his thumbs over her breasts.

Her breath snagged as the sizzle shifted to ache, and the ache to raw, stark need.“I can’t do this now. I’m not going to bed with you when—”

“I didn’t ask you to bed. I just want to touch you.” While he did, he watched her face, watched her face until his mouth came to hers again, all fire and demand.

“Come out with me tomorrow.”

“I . . . Yes. No.”Why couldn’t she think? “I have an event.”

“Next night you’re free.” He glided a hand down the outside of her thigh, up again until the muscles went to water.“When is it?”

How was she supposed to form a rational response when he was turning her body inside out? “I think . . . Tuesday.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Say yes.”

“Yes. All right, yes.”

“I’d better go.”

“Yes.”

He smiled, and when he jerked her back against him, she thought oh God before she went under again.

“Good night.”

She nodded, said nothing else as he let himself out the Solarium door.

Then she did something she never did after an event. She sat alone in the dark composing herself while her partners handled the bulk of the work.

AS PART OF HER ROUTINE, PARKER SPENT HER POSTEVENT SUNDAY evening on paperwork, for Vows, for the house, for her personal business. She cleaned up her e-mails, her texts, voice mails, reviewed her calendars—personal and business—for the next two weeks, reviewed the schedules of her partners, made any necessary additions or changes.

She rechecked her list of errands to run the next morning.

She didn’t consider it busywork. She made it a habit, a strict one, to start every Monday with a clean desk.

Satisfied, she opened the file on the book proposal she’d been toying with, did some tweaking. Almost ready, she thought, to show to her partners, get their input, have a serious discussion on moving forward.

By eleven, she was in bed with a book.

By eleven ten, she was staring at the ceiling thinking about an entry on her calendar.

Tues, 7:00: Malcolm.

Why had she said yes that way? Well, she knew exactly why she’d said yes, so it was ridiculous to ask herself the question. She’d been sexually flustered and aroused and interested. No point in pretending otherwise.

So flustered, aroused, and interested, she hadn’t even asked where he planned to go, what he planned to do.

How was she supposed to dress, for God’s sake? How was she supposed to prepare without the smallest detail to go on? Did he plan to take her to dinner, a movie, a play, straight to a motel?

And why would they go to a motel when they both had homes?

And why couldn’t she stop thinking and just read her damn book?

She could just call him and find out. But she didn’t want to call him. Any normal man would’ve said,

I’ll pick you up at seven, we’ll go to dinner. Then she’d know what to expect.

She certainly wasn’t going to dress up when he’d probably pick her up on his motorcycle. She didn’t even know if he had a car.

Why didn’t she know that?

She could ask Del. She’d feel stupid asking Del. She felt stupid thinking about asking Del.

She felt stupid.

She’d let him put his hands all over her, was unquestionably thinking about letting him do it again—and more—and she didn’t even know if he owned a car. Or how he lived, or what he did with his free time, except play poker on poker night with her brother and his friends.

“I could drive,” she murmured. “I could insist we take my car, then . . .”

When her phone rang, she snatched it off the night table, thrilled to get her mind off her own personal insanity and onto a bride.

“Hi, Emily. What can I do for you?”

MONDAY MORNING, DRESSED IN A RUSTY RED JACKET AND BLACK pants, with heels low enough to suit errands, stylish enough to handle appointments, Parker hauled her dry cleaning bag to the stairs.

“Here, I’ll get that.” Heading over from his wing, Del shifted his briefcase to take the bag.“Dry cleaning? If I take this down to your car, will you drop mine off, too?”

“Can do, but make it quick.” She tapped her watch. “I’m on a schedule.”

“There’s breaking news.” He set the bag and briefcase down. “Be there in two. Don’t carry that down.”

“You might as well get Laurel’s while you’re at it,” she called after him.

“Make that five.”

She started to pick up the bag again, shrugged, carried his briefcase down instead. Emma strolled out of the parlor.

“Hey. I copped coffee from Mrs. G, so I thought I’d check the house flowers while I was here. Heading out?”

“Monday morning errands, then a consult at the bridal shop, and so on.”

“Dry cleaning.” Emma waved her hands.“Can you take mine?”

“If you get it here fast.”

“I’m practically back already,” Emma claimed as she dashed out the door.

Parker checked her watch, then walked back to pick up the weekly cleaning from Mrs. Grady.

By the time she’d loaded that in her car, Del came out with two more bags. “I can pick this up when it’s ready,” he told her. “But maybe I need to rent a truck.”

“Not done yet. Emma’s getting hers.”

He tossed the bags in. “You know, with the amount you have, they’d pick up and deliver.”

“Yes, but I’m going right by there anyway.” She took in a deep breath. “Fall’s coming.You can smell it. The leaves are starting to turn already.” Stupid, stupid, she thought, but couldn’t stop herself. “I guess when the weather turns, Malcolm must have to stow his motorcycle.”

“Mostly. He’s got a ’Vette, some vintage deal he restored. Pretty slick. He won’t let anybody else drive it. And he’s got a truck.” He shot her a look. “Worried about your transportation?”

“Not especially.That’s a lot of vehicles for one person.”

“It’s his deal. He picks up vintage cars at auctions, restores them, flips them like houses. Seems there’s a hell of a market for that kind of thing, done right.” He reached around to tug her ponytail. “Maybe he’ll teach you to rebuild an engine.”

“A useful skill, I’m sure, but I don’t think so.” She glanced over to see both Emma and Carter carting laundry bags. “Maybe we could use that truck.”

“Ran into Mac on my way.” Emma puffed out a few breaths. “So we’ve got the whole haul.”

“Are you sure you can manage all this?” Carter asked Parker. Didn’t she always? she thought but only pointed to the car. “Load it in.” And she’d make sure it was labeled on the other end.

“I can pick it up—” Carter began.

“Del’s on return detail. That’ll be Thursday,” Parker told her brother. “After two. Don’t forget. Full consult on the Foster-Ginnero wedding,” she said to Emma as she rounded the car.“Five sharp.”

“All over it. Thanks, Parker.”

She drove out, imagining both Del and Carter would be on their way close behind her. Jack, she knew, had already left for an early meeting on a job site. Emma would shortly begin processing the morning’s flower deliveries while Mac worked through the morning on photos—and handled an afternoon studio shoot, and Laurel baked for an outside job for Wednesday evening.

A full day for all, she mused. Just the way she liked it.

She dropped off the dry cleaning first, personally tagging each bag.

Systematically, she worked down her list. Banking, stationery store, office supplies, stops to replace the supplies she’d been called on to use during the past week’s events. She added to her in-house supply of emergency party favors, thank-you gifts, hostess gifts, loading all carefully in her car, in order.

And paused to take calls, answer texts from clients.

She got her weekly manicure and arrived at her consult fifteen minutes early.

She loved the bridal shop, the soft, female fragrance in the air, the sparkling displays, the flow and sheen of white gowns.

There were elegant or edgy offerings for attendants, lovely choices for mothers of brides or grooms all carefully arranged with pretty and plush seating areas throughout, with roomy and multimirrored dressing rooms.

“Parker.” The owner herself moved around a counter. “We’re all set for your client. First dressing room. Champagne, an assortment of cookies for the bride, her mother, and her two friends. We’ve got four gowns earmarked for the first round. You said ivory, elaborate, full skirted, lots of sparkle.”

“That’s our girl. She won’t want anything sleek or simple, and she’s got the build to carry a big dress. Monica, since I’m early, I want to look for something I think would work for Laurel.”

Monica clapped her hands together.“I was hoping you would.”