Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series)

Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or errors in this book, please send them to me at:
[email protected].
Even with many layers of editing, mistakes can slip through, alas. But, together, we can eradicate the nasty nuisances. Thank you! - Patricia McLinn

"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 this would happen sometime -"

"I told you it would happen today."

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

"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 assistant, 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 be 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, and they're getting close. 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 added, "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. And she never let up on him.

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. Now there's no more putting it off. It's exactly the way you're dealing with the proposal from the Smithsonian. 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. I'm right on time -"

Of course she was, Paul thought.

" -but you chose to pretend it wouldn't happen until Halloween because you were hoping to be out of town then. So, you wouldn't make the call before. 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 and for your honeymoon and -"

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

"What do you mean? They all like me," he protested with some satisfaction at, for once, getting to interrupt her.

Even as an independent contractor, he did enough work for Centurian Insurance that they'd rented him this cubbyhole office. A Centurian assistant would have some 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. 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 concern for 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 assistant 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 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 an assistant," 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 a fumbling click 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 assistant. Which meant she'd finally meet him.

She'd been intrigued ever since the brisk young assistant came to her office five months ago and explained she would need a very special temporary assistant for her very special boss when she went on maternity leave.

For two years, Bette 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 assistant and boss than dictation, but Jan Robson saw Paul Monroe's faults far too clearly to be romantically involved with him. Bette had observed that women in love lost the ability to reason when it came to the man in question.

No, Jan simply had a high regard for her boss of six years, even though the man she described didn't sound very businesslike. But Bette couldn't doubt the assistant'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 assistant 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 a 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."