Prelude to a Wedding

PRELUDE TO A WEDDING

Patricia McLinn

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Published by Patricia McLinn at
Smashwords

Copyright 2010 Patricia McLinn

First published 1991 by Silhouette

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Discover other titles by Patricia McLinn at
Smashwords:

Hoops

A New World

Rodeo Nights

Not a Family Man

Prelude to a Wedding

A Stranger in the Family

A Stranger to Love

The Rancher Meets His Match

Widow Woman

Lost and Found Groom

The Games

Principal of Love

~

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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the hard work of this author.

The Wedding Series:
~

Prelude to a Wedding

Wedding Party

Grady's Wedding

The Runaway Bride

~

~

GRW Maggie Finalist

"Wonderful emotional turmoil and growth with
a great 'last-minute-save' ending." ~ Rendezvous

~

~

To Ginni,
Who believed,
even when there were no endings,
and who gave the best advice of all:
Just Get It Done

~

Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or
errors in this book, please send them to me at:

Patricia (at) PatriciaMcLinn (dot) com .

Even with many layers of editing, mistakes
can slip through, alas. But, together, we can erradicate the nasty
nuisances. Thank you! - Patricia McLinn

Chapter One

"Paul, I'm having the baby."

Paul Monroe stared in disbelief at the woman
standing at the far side of his old-fashioned desk. A ripple of
panic swept through him, but he swallowed and tried a chuckle. It
sounded feeble. "You gotta be kidding, right?"

"No. I'm not kidding."

He saw the strain in Jan's young face,
backing up her words, but still he hoped for a reprieve.

"I mean, you told me all along that this
would happen sometime—"

"I told you it would happen today."

He'd heard that exasperated tone enough to
ignore it.

"And I've seen it coming for a while, so I
knew you'd have the baby someday—"

"Not someday. Today. And not sometime.
Now."

Paul stared at Jan and wished he'd had an
urge to make calls outside the office this morning, or an impulse
to play hooky. The day had sure been tempting enough, with Indian
summer casting sparkling October light across Chicago. Surely he
could have found something he had to do outside the office. Maybe
an appraisal in the country, down winding lanes between half-bare
trees revealing bites of blue sky.

Not that he minded coming to his office most
days. Building and office alike held an ambience Sam Spade would
have recognized immediately. Paul liked that.

But some days he just didn't feel like being
confined by four walls, and he was lucky enough and good enough in
his field so that on those days he could find something else to do.
He wished he had today, because then he wouldn't be here facing his
very pregnant and soon-to-be-beyond-pregnant-and-into-motherhood
secretary, wondering what in the hell he was supposed to do
next.

Hospital. That's what he was supposed to do.
Get her to the hospital. Damn, this should have been Ed's job.
Fathers-to-be had a moral responsibility to make this panicked
drive to the hospital—not bosses.

"Are you—?"

"I'm sure. I've been timing the contractions
for a while and they're getting close now. Plus my water
broke."

He might not know much about women having
babies, but anybody who'd ever watched TV knew that phrase meant
business. "Have you called—?"

"I've called the hospital," Jan informed him,
still efficient even when her skin went pale and her breath came
hard with a contraction. Contraction—that seemed a mighty polite
word for what appeared to be just plain agony. "They're expecting
us." With a smile that shone even through the pain, she patted her
protruding stomach. "And I've called Ed's office. They're trying to
track him down and he'll meet us there."

Paul should have known she'd have everything
taken care of. On the other hand, she scheduled everything so darn
efficiently, why couldn't she have scheduled this moment for about
three hours earlier or six hours later so she'd be at home? Then he
wouldn't have to be the one saying, "Okay, I'll dri—"

"I appreciate your driving to the hospital."
He also should have known her ability to anticipate his sentences
wouldn't abate even in the throes of childbirth. Jan Robson might
be only twenty-five, but sometimes she awed him. What awed him most
was how she ran his office to her own exacting standards without
impinging on his freedom. She was amazing. She never let up.

Nearly before the thought finished forming in
his mind, she spoke. "But before we leave for the hospital, you
have a phone call to make."

"Aw, Jan."

"You've been putting it off and putting it
off, and there's no more putting it off now. It's exactly the way
you're dealing with the proposal from the Smithsonian, too.
Eventually you won't be able to ignore that, either."

He ignored her second statement. "This wasn't
supposed to happen until Halloween."

"No. I've told you all along that the due
date was October 7. And I'm right on time—"

Of course she was, Paul thought. Jan was
always right on time.

"— but you chose to pretend it would happen
until Halloween because you'll be out of town then. You wouldn't
make the call before, so you have to make it now."

"But Jan—"

"You promised, Paul."

"I know, but this isn't the time—"

"This is the time."

"After I get you to the hospital—"

"No. Now, while I can make sure you do
it."

"I'll talk Centurian into giving me somebody
on loan like they did when you had flu two years ago and for your
honeymoon and—"

"Disasters, every time. Besides, no secretary
from Centurian will work for you now that they know better
and—"

"But they all like me," he protested with a
faint satisfaction at, for once, getting to interrupt her.

It would be easiest if he could use one of
the Centurian Insurance secretaries. Even as an independent
contractor, he did enough work for them that they'd rented him this
cubbyhole office. A Centurian secretary would have at least a basic
understanding of what he did, besides knowing where to find the
copying machine.

"Of course they like you. Everybody likes
you, but they all know what you're like to work for and they won't
do it. You'd run wild with a regular temporary, and I won't have
you— Ah!"

The way she broke off and clutched her hand
to her stomach propelled him out of his chair and to her side in
record time. Then there was nothing to do but give her the support
of an arm around her shoulders until he felt the tension ease out
of her.

"Jan, we need to get you to the
hospital."

She looked up at him through eyes glazed with
pain, joy and determination. "You promised."

Hell! Hell and damnation! He pivoted and
reached the phone in one stride. "You don't play fair, woman."

"That's the only way to win with you."

"What's the number?" he grumbled, a grin
fighting against the churning in his stomach. She did know him
well.

She gave it to him. "And the person you want
to talk to is Bette Wharton." She pronounced the first name as one
syllable.

He repeated the name when the voice on the
other end of the line identified herself as Top-Line Temporaries
and asked how she could help him.

He heard the click of the phone as he was
transferred, then a new voice answered, "Bette Wharton."

This voice sounded crisp and cool on the
surface with the hint of something smooth and hot inside, and it
made him think inexplicably of a spicy cheese concoction his mother
used to stuff celery. Despite his tension over Jan, he almost
grinned. How might this unknown woman on the other end of the
telephone line react to being compared to stuffed celery?

"This is Paul Monroe. I'm calling
because—"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Monroe. I've been expecting
your call."

"You have?" He looked up, prepared to skewer
his secretary with a look. She
would
have him call somebody
with the same trick as hers of not needing him to finish sentences.
And why in the world did he have to make this call if Jan had
already lined things up?

"Yes. I have a list of candidates."

But Paul wasn't listening. His dirty look had
changed to one of worry.

"Tell her," Jan ordered. She exhaled with a
breath he supposed she'd learned at that birthing class she and Ed
had attended.

"I need a secretary," he blurted out.

"I know. As I said, I have several
candidates. But I think you should make the final choice. If you'd
like to stop by our office, or I could come by your office—"

"I'll come there . . . sometime. Maybe today
or—I don't know— We have to get to the hospital. Now! We're having
a baby!"

Bette Wharton held the receiver long after
the fumbling click had severed the connection, as if the instrument
in her hand could reveal to her the scene on the other end. Only
when the dial tone pierced her fog did she hang up.

So Jan Robson was having her baby. And Paul
Monroe needed a temporary secretary. Which meant she'd finally meet
him.

She'd been intrigued ever since the brisk
young secretary first came to her office five months ago and
explained that she would be going on maternity leave eventually and
needed a very special temporary secretary for her very special
boss. Bette had regarded the news as propitious. For two years, she
had been steadfastly guiding Top-Line toward just that niche in the
marketplace—matching special needs with special service. Providing
a replacement for Jan Robson could be the perfect gauge of how well
she and Top-Line were doing.

Bette had wondered at first if there was more
between secretary and boss than dictation, but Jan Robson saw Paul
Monroe's faults far too clearly to be romantically involved with
him. It had been Bette's observation that women in love lost the
ability to reason when it came to the men involved.

No, Jan simply had a very high regard for her
boss of six years. Bette wondered why, when the man Jan described
sounded so little like a businesslike adult, but she couldn't doubt
the secretary's feelings.

In deference to those feelings and with an
eye to her company's future, she had conducted the search for Paul
Monroe's temporary secretary personally. The results pleased her.
All the employees at Top-Line were just that, but the ones she had
selected for Mr. Monroe's approval were the top of the top.

Now all she had to do was wait for the
enigmatic Paul Monroe to make his appearance so he could make his
selection.

* * * *

Darla Clarence closed Bette's office door
behind her.

"There's a Paul Monroe out front asking for
you. I can tell him you've left for the day."

Bette recognized the offer as part of Darla's
long-running campaign to get her to work less. And that meant it
must be nearing six, since that was when Darla usually started
encouraging her to go home; most nights Bette didn't follow the
advice until two or three hours later.

"That's all right, Darla. I'll see him now.
He could turn out to be a very important client for us."

"Just a one-man office," Darla said with a
hint of a sniff.

"True, but he has pull with Centurian. He's
our first contact with them, and you know what a prestigious
account that would be. That could open a lot of doors."

In her overall plan, Bette had targeted such
large corporate clients for her fifth year in business. Having the
opportunity this soon felt like winning the lottery. Even so, she
wouldn't trust to luck to make the most of it. She'd already
drafted a proposal of what she could offer Centurian. But first
Top-Line had to impress Paul Monroe enough that he'd recommend her
company.

Darla gave an almost silent click of
disapproval, but started to open the door.

"He doesn't look like any important client
I've ever seen. At least not for our kind of business." She
hesitated with her hand on the doorknob and glanced back at Bette,
a glint in her dark eyes. "Funny business is what he looks like
he's best suited for."