Jaclyn squared her shoulders and turned the door handle. She didn’t have a chance to step into the room before Carrie turned, an expression of dissatisfaction on her beautiful face. She was truly stunning: a curvy, perfectly proportioned figure, golden blond hair, smooth skin, clear green eyes. Her personality, though, ran the gamut from nasty to mean. “What kind of coffee is this? Surely you can afford a better brand. This is too bitter. And I have to say, your secretary—”

“Diedra isn’t my secretary, she’s my assistant,” Jaclyn interrupted as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She ignored the comment about the coffee, which she personally liked very much. No one was holding Carrie down and pouring the coffee down her throat, so she was free not to drink it if she didn’t like it. After all, she could have chosen from a variety of flavored teas, or even soft drinks.

“Well, she was rude.” Carrie didn’t like being interrupted. She also didn’t like not getting her way in all things. She was still carrying a grudge because Jaclyn hadn’t been able to book Michael Buble for the reception. Get real. Jaclyn hadn’t embarrassed herself by even trying.

“In what way, dear?” She made her tone soothing, and tacked on the “dear” even though her tongue almost shriveled with distaste when she forced herself to say it. Sometimes a comforting “dear” or “honey” could soothe the most fractious of clients—then again, some clients would have required a tranquilizer dart. Carrie would probably need the same dosage one would use on a mad rhino.

“She tried to make me wait outside, instead of in here.”

“That’s because I don’t like people in my office unless I’m also here,” Jaclyn said calmly. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Don’t be silly. Why should you care?”

“Because I keep confidential information in here. I suppose I’ll simply start locking the door. I should have been doing that anyway.” The confidential information wasn’t anything relating to security or credit card numbers, but rather the details of weddings—and, yes, some clients would pay dearly to find out what so-and-so was planning, or how much someone else paid. Weddings were a cutthroat business.

Carrie gave her a hard, cold look, but evidently realized she wasn’t going to get any traction on this issue, so she moved on to her next complaint. “I’ve changed my mind about the bridesmaids’ dresses,” Carrie said. “The shade of the fabric is too plain, all of them in gray like a line at West Point or something. I think it would look better if the one closest to me was in black, then the next dress would be a shade lighter, the next one a shade lighter than that, and so on. That would be really dramatic, don’t you think? And instead of having the sashes in pink, I think I’d like teal. Pink is too Paris Hilton. I want something more sophisticated, like teal. But not a greenish teal, I want something more on the blue side. You can take care of the problem, can’t you?”

Jaclyn bit her tongue. The poor bridesmaids had already paid for the hideous dresses, and Carrie, of course, hadn’t chosen an inexpensive fabric. The color wasn’t hideous, but the design certainly was. She’d tried to steer Carrie away from flounces and bows, but if Carrie ran into anything even remotely resembling good advice, so far she’d invariably run in the opposite direction. When the unfortunate bridesmaids found out about this change—when they found out they were going to have to pay for another dress, and this time a hefty charge for a rush order would be included—they’d probably all storm out. The girl who’d let Carrie have it and quit the wedding party was apparently the smart one.

“Carrie,” Jaclyn said in a purposely soothing voice, “it’s really too late to make this change. I think you’ll be very happy with the look of the bridesmaids’ dresses, when you see them with the flowers you’ve chosen.”

“I’m thinking of changing the flowers, too,” Carrie said, a gleam in her eye telling Jaclyn she was actually enjoying being difficult. “They’re just not right. I was studying the sample pictures last night, and they look like someone vomited Pepto Bismol. I saw the most wonderful arrangement in a magazine. If I change the flowers, then I also need to completely redo the bridesmaids’ look.”

“This will be quite an expense for your friends.”

Carrie’s lips pursed, her eyes narrowed. “They won’t mind. This is my special day, and they’ll do whatever I want them to do.” In her tone was an unspoken or else.

“If you insist, you can call the dressmaker and—”

“I want you to do it,” Carrie said carelessly. “I don’t have time.” She opened her expensive, oversized handbag, withdrew a fabric sample, and slapped it onto the desk. Jaclyn could tell at a glance it was a fine, heavy silk—another expensive choice, something that would set each bridesmaid back several hundred dollars, perhaps even more than a thousand. “Besides, when I called her this morning to discuss the matter, she was hateful and unreasonable.”

Dealing with the dressmaker technically wasn’t in Jaclyn’s job description; she handled the details of the event itself. But she knew Gretchen pretty well; they ran in the same circles, they very often worked the same weddings. Gretchen was never hateful or unreasonable, but then again, Carrie Edwards had the ability to bring out the worst in everyone.

“I’ll see what I can do, but I won’t make any promises. We’re running out of time, to the point there literally may not be anything you can do other than buying the bridesmaids’ dresses off the rack—”

“No. Never.”

“Then you may have to go with your original choice. Now, as far as the flowers are concerned, the floral designer has already put in a lot of time making sure every aspect of the wedding and reception are well coordinated and original, as you requested,” she reminded Carrie. “If you change your mind about the bridesmaids’ bouquets it will affect the bridal arrangement and the boutonnieres, as well as the arrangements for the reception.” Bishop Delaney was a genius. He also had a very low bullshit threshold, and if he walked it would be difficult to find someone reputable at this late date. “If you insist on making changes, be prepared to pay quite a bit more than you were originally quoted.”

“Why?” Carrie demanded. “If I don’t use the other flowers, why should I pay for them?”

“Because the designer has already spent a considerable amount of time making arrangements, and he shouldn’t have to take a loss because you changed your mind. His initial order has already been placed, I’m sure, but I’m not sure that he’ll be able to cancel.” Tomorrow was supposed to be about Bishop showing photos and drawings of his grand plans, not a point to start from scratch. Jaclyn did not want to be between Bishop and Carrie if they butted heads.

Sometimes she felt as if she was instructing a wayward, willful child in manners, but the gleam that was still in Carrie’s eyes was too calculating. She was so demanding because, all too often, she’d gotten away with it. Probably a lot of people finally gave up and took the loss rather than keep dealing with Carrie, which meant she’d learned to double-down whenever anyone called her on her behavior. Acting badly usually got her what she wanted.

Now she wrinkled her nose and sniffed, before waving away Jaclyn’s point, petulantly. “We’ll discuss it with the florist tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be reasonable. At the moment, my main concern is fixing the problem with the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

Jaclyn took a deep breath. In. Out. She was not going to let this spoiled, nasty little twit get the best of her. “Why don’t we meet with the dressmaker tomorrow and discuss our options?” Maybe together, she and Gretchen could convince Carrie that it was much too late to make this change, that there simply wasn’t time to order the fabric and get the dresses made—not that reason and the bridezilla were well-acquainted. Jaclyn wasn’t sure they’d ever even met. In order to save Gretchen from another phone call, she said, “I’ll call this afternoon and make the arrangements.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. “Well, duh. That’s your job.”

Jaclyn had dealt with difficult brides in the past, but Carrie was a one-in-a-million pain in the ass. One of the advantages of being her own boss, however, was that she could decide when enough was enough. She very slowly stood, planted her hands on her desk, and said, “It’s also a job I can walk away from. I won’t take any abuse, and my assistant won’t take any abuse. Are we clear on that?”

Carrie gave her an affronted glare. “Abuse? I haven’t abused anyone. I simply want my wedding to be spectacular, and I don’t see why—”

“Instead of spectacular, it’s going to be a disaster if you don’t stop changing your mind,” Jaclyn said bluntly. “I’m saying this because it’s my job to make things run smoothly, which means pointing out when you’re about to go off a cliff. I’m not saying the floral designer absolutely won’t be able to change the flowers at this late date, I’m saying that doing so might cost you quite a bit more, and you should really find out from Gretchen if it’s physically possible to have new bridesmaids’ dresses made before you do anything about the flowers. You might also check with your bridesmaids, because no matter what color you’ve decided you prefer, one or more might drop out rather than pay for another dress they’ll never wear again. Now, if you want to pick up the expense for new dresses, I’m sure none of them would mind—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carrie snapped. “The bride doesn’t pay for the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

“Under certain circumstances, she most certainly does. Changing her mind at the last minute is one of those certain circumstances.” Maybe, Jaclyn thought optimistically, if she started playing hardball with Carrie, the young woman would either stop being such a pain in the ass or fire Premier. Jaclyn could heave a sigh of relief, and Carrie would set her sights on some other poor event planner who would let the promise of a big paycheck blind her to the true situation.

“I know my friends,” Carrie said. “None of them would be that petty.” She tossed her long blond hair, then reached into her handbag and pulled out the sample menu she’d already decided on for the reception—if she could only make up her mind about the kabobs. Beef or lamb. How freakin’ hard could it be? “And another thing …”

Jaclyn kept her expression calm, but as Carrie went on and on about what was acceptable and what wasn’t, she mentally checked out and made one very firm decision: before this day was over, she was going to need a good, stiff drink.


Chapter Two

DETECTIVE ERIC WILDER SAT AT THE BAR IN HIS FAVORITE watering hole, Sadie’s, which was his favorite because it was the closest to city hall and the police department, therefore the most convenient. For most of the other cops in the long, dim, narrow room, that was the main attraction for them, too.

Over time, business and clientele had adjusted to each other, so now Sadie’s made allowances for the cops, and the cops made allowances for “Sadie,” who happened to be the scrawny redneck bartender. “Sadie” obviously wasn’t his name—that was Will Aster—and whatever ambience he’d been trying to project by choosing a woman’s name for his bar had long since been swamped under a tide of uniforms, weaponry, and testosterone. Sure, some of the female cops came in, and sometimes one of the guys would bring in a wife or girlfriend, or civilians would wander in, but Sadie’s was now solidly a cop bar.

If Will had ever intended his bar to be more sophisticated, he’d long since given up on the effort. The drinks served were mainly beer and bourbon, and the food offerings didn’t have much variety but tended toward the hefty side. You could get a basket of fried chicken fingers and fries in Sadie’s, but you couldn’t get a salad; peanuts were available, but not popcorn. Occasionally, if Will was in the mood, there would be “Wing Night,” and nothing was served except hot wings. The limited menu was fine with Eric, because he didn’t come to Sadie’s to eat.

He liked the place, liked the way he could relax here. The atmosphere was almost cavelike, with dim lighting, dark redbrick walls, rough tile flooring, and a row of small black tables along the wall. An aisle about six feet wide separated the long bar from the tables, giving the two waitresses room to maneuver. A jukebox stood in one corner, and that was Sadie’s nod to the idea of entertainment. There wasn’t a dance floor, but if enough people were in the mood they’d shove the tables to the back of the bar and make themselves a space for gyrating. The bar was usually noisy with loud laughter and sick jokes, which was how cops unwound after a rough day. Whenever Eric stepped through that door, he could almost feel the tension begin to ease from his neck and shoulders. By the time he’d made it to the bar, Will would have pulled him a Bud and was ready to slide the foamy glass to him. You couldn’t beat service like that.