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After the Party
Jackie Braun
You’re cordially invited to…Ella Sanborn loves a good party. Back in her socialite days she used to be the life and soul of them! Now, however, Ella’s on the other side of the invitation – organising parties rather than attending them. But Ella’s no quitter. She’ll become New York’s premier events planner even if it kills her! Which working with strait-laced new client Chase Trumbull might well do…Chase has been too busy saving his family’s business to find much to laugh about recently. He might have agreed to throw a themed party, but that doesn’t mean he’s off duty just yet! Until he meets Ella. Something about her tempts him to loosen his tie, take off his suit jacket and finally have some fun…
Ella’s heart stuttered in her chest. Is he going to kiss me again?
She answered the question herself. “I’m not going to wait to find out.”
“Excuse me?” Chase said.
“Never mind.” She laughed. And then, since the man stood within easy reach, she grabbed the lapels of his suit coat and hauled him closer for a kiss.
He blinked in surprise when her lips met his, but then his hands clamped onto her waist and she felt his fingers dig into her flesh through the suit’s gabardine as he pulled her closer. That, as much as the low groan that emanated from the back of his throat, told her he was as turned on as she was.
Ella closed her eyes and gave herself over to the moment.
Dear Reader
I am sometimes asked if I base my characters—especially my heroines—on myself. While little pieces of my personality can undoubtedly be found in most of my heroines, in Ella Sanborn’s case she is definitely a figment of my imagination. Which, I have to say, is what made her a blast to write.
Oh, to be that free-spirited and fun! I am much more conservative in both dress and personality.
And, while I am certainly not a pessimist by nature, Ella is so optimistic and resilient that I can only hope I would be the same when faced with similar circumstances.
I admire people who, rather than remaining on the mat, get up and keep fighting after life knocks them flat.
My hero, Chase, is a fighter, too. Although he and Ella, of course, approach problems very differently. He is much more analytical and serious, whereas she laughs in the face of adversity.
I hope you enjoy Ella and Chase’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Drop me a line with your comments. You can find me on Twitter, Facebook or through my website, www.jackiebraun.com. I look forward to hearing from you.
Happy reading!
Jackie Braun
After the Party
Jackie Braun
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JACKIE BRAUN is the author of more than two dozen romance novels. She is a three-time RITA
Award finalist, a four-time National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist, the winner of a Rising Star Award in traditional romantic fiction and was nominated for Series Storyteller of the Year by RT Book Reviews in 2008. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com
This and other titles by Jackie Braun are available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk
For Mom. With all my love.
Contents
Prologue (#u7d910e4b-5d87-5dd3-bacf-1c74af52b969)
Chapter One (#uf81887b2-dda9-515d-b286-f83d1c9a6e62)
Chapter Two (#u3691a715-89bb-5ee2-bb06-66f309bb78ef)
Chapter Three (#u3f7ceff0-557e-5fef-ae98-52119a55d28b)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE
“I see a handsome man in your future.”
Ella Sanborn fought the urge to roll her eyes at the older woman reading her palm. Ella could be naive at times. She was too trusting for her own good, or so she had been told on more than one occasion. And she was superstitious, hence today’s visit to a fortune-teller. But she wasn’t a complete fool. She was pretty sure Madame Maroushka told every young, unattached woman who darkened her door the very same thing.
But finding a man wasn’t what had brought Ella here. She leaned over the table and studied the lines that crisscrossed her opened hand, wishing she could make sense of them herself.
“What about a job? Do you see anything on there about a job? Preferably one with decent hours, paid holidays and medical benefits.”
Madame Maroushka’s scarf-wrapped head jerked up. In her heavily accented English, she asked, “You are single, no?”
“Yes.”
“But you are not interested in a man?”
“I’m not.” She said it resolutely, thinking of her ex-boyfriend, Bradley Farmington.
He’d been as loyal as a prostitute, dumping her right after her father’s legal troubles began. So much for true love. After the insider-trading charges leveled against Oscar were dropped, Bradley had sent her a note of apology. He felt bad about the way he’d handled things and claimed that he’d never really believed her father was guilty of anything. He’d been overly worried about his pending membership into an elite Manhattan social club. Ella forgave Bradley for bailing on her. She figured he’d done her a favor. He’d shown his true colors. A lot of her so-called friends had.
But Ella hadn’t dated anyone seriously since.
“He is very good-looking, this one,” the older woman crooned.
Ella shook her head. “I have more pressing problems than my social life right now.”
“But he is rich.” Madame Maroushka’s wily smile revealed a gold front tooth. Hmm, Ella thought, the fortune-telling business must pay pretty well, which reminded her...
“I’d rather have a job.”
“Land a wealthy husband, my dear girl, and you would not have to work ever again.”
“Yeah. So I’ve heard,” Ella replied dryly, thinking of her former stepmother’s snarky advice.
Camilla Sanborn would know a thing or two about landing wealthy husbands. She’d married Ella’s father at the height of his success and then left him to marry another billionaire when Oscar’s fortunes changed. No, thank you, Ella thought. She would pay her own bills, starting with those that were past due, just as soon as she had a job.
She nodded toward her palm again and asked Madame Maroushka, “Are you getting any vibes about the sales position at La Chanteuse on Thirty-Third?”
She’d submitted her résumé more than a week ago and, even though the manager had said the post needed to be filled immediately, Ella had heard nothing. Working in retail wasn’t where she saw herself employed indefinitely, but in the interim, she would take what she could get. Besides, one of the perks of working at the ladies apparel store was a 20 percent discount on merchandise, and there was a leather handbag that was calling Ella’s name.
It was hell being a fashionista on a thrift-store budget.
“My gift does not work that way. It tells me what it tells me while I study your palm. I see a man,” the woman insisted a second time. “He is tall—”
“Dark and handsome,” Ella finished impatiently.
“Hey, you want me to continue or you gonna read your own palm?”
Ella blinked in surprise. Just that quickly, the woman’s accent had relocated from East Europe to North Jersey.
“Uh, sorry. Go on.”
“Very well.” With her accent now back in the Baltic, Madame Maroushka continued. “He is lonely, this man. And not dark, at least not how you meant. I see fair hair and light eyes. He is searching for...someone.”
In spite of the pressing nature of her visit, Ella couldn’t help but be intrigued. “But is he single?”
Jersey made another appearance in Madame Maroushka’s speech. “Whaddaya think? I just said the guy was lonely and searching.”
“Yes, but the two conditions are not mutually exclusive,” Ella felt the need to point out. “Last month, I went on a date with a guy who claimed to be lonely and looking for love. He also happened to be married.”
A detail he’d failed to mention until his wife showed up at the restaurant where they were dining, wielding a set of knitting needles and threatening to pluck out Ella’s eyes.
The corners of the palm reader’s mouth turned down in consideration before she nodded. “Okay. Point taken. But this one is single.” She traced a finger over one of the creases on Ella’s palm again.
“So, is this handsome stranger looking to hire a woman?” Ella asked.
When Madame Maroushka’s eyebrows shot up, Ella squeaked, “Not for that! I’m talking about a legitimate job. I can cook reasonably well, and I know how to scrub a toilet.”
She’d had both a housekeeper and a cook while growing up, but she’d learned as an adult. Neither skill would put her fashion merchandising degree to any better use than the sales gig at La Chanteuse, but Ella couldn’t afford to be picky.
“I do not believe he seeks either a housekeeper or a cook,” the fortune-teller said with a shake of her head. “I see the two of you at a social gathering.”
“Like a party?”
“I believe so. He is wearing a tailored dark suit and the two of you are drinking champagne poured from a bottle with a fancy black label.”
Ooh. It must be some shindig if the host had sprung for Dom Perignon. Momentarily sidetracked, Ella scrutinized her palm.
“Am I wearing the fuchsia cocktail dress with the ruched waist that I got on sale last month?” The tag was still attached to the sleeve and she’d been debating returning it. She really couldn’t afford the designer original, even if she’d gotten it for a steal. But if she had someplace to wear it— “No. Never mind.” She shook her head for emphasis. “I’m not going to be attending any parties. I don’t need to improve my social life. What I need is a job. Better yet, I need a career.”
A sales job in retail was definitely the bottom rung of the ladder when it came to a career in the fashion world, but her well-connected ex-stepmother knew a lot of people in the industry. People whose ears she’d bent with vicious gossip and outright lies. No one wanted to hire Ella if it meant crossing Camilla. Whatever. Ella wasn’t averse to working her way up as long as she was working.
Madame Maroushka frowned, causing the drawn-on mole just above her mouth to dip into one of the lines that feathered out from her lips. “This...this is most unusual.”
“What?”
“I see the party as your career.”
“What? Do you mean I’m like a party planner or something?”
“Could be,” the older woman allowed.
“I like parties. I’ve been to enough of them.” Both the fancy variety in her previous life as the daughter of a high-powered Wall Street wheeler-dealer and the casual, keg-of-beer kind since her father’s fall from grace. She nibbled her lower lip, an idea hatching. “How much do you think people get paid for planning them?”
Madame Maroushka shrugged. She was back in Jersey when she said, “Beats me. It probably depends on the kind of people you plan the parties for and the kind of parties they want you to plan. Know what I mean?”
In other words, the deeper their pockets, the more they would be willing to pay. That made sense.
“I know a lot of people with deep pockets,” Ella murmured half to herself. Until her father filed bankruptcy, she’d even called some of them her friends.
Madame Maroushka glanced at her watch, her tone brisk and all business when she said, “Time’s up. Thanks for coming. Here.” She handed Ella a coupon.
“What’s this for?”
“The printing place two blocks up on the opposite side of the street. My nephew owns it. He is handsome and single,” she said with a smile. When Ella just stared at her, Madame Maroushka said flatly, “He’s running a special on business cards. You get five hundred for the price of four with this coupon. If you want to be a party planner, you’ll need cards and lots of them.”
Why not? Ella thought. What did she have to lose? She paid Madame Maroushka and headed to the print shop where she blew the last of her meager savings on business cards and promotional fliers, which she then spent the following two days distributing all over Manhattan.
Two weeks later, her efforts appeared to have paid off. She had a meeting with a client, and a very deep-pocketed one, too. There was only one downside to the job and it was a doozy. The party she was being asked to plan was a wake.
ONE
Chase Trumbull’s mood was in the toilet when he strode through the main doors of the New York skyscraper that housed Trumbull Toys’ corporate offices. It was a gloriously sunny Friday in June, just four hours shy of quitting time for those who punched a clock, with the weekend weather forecast calling for clear skies and highs in the eighties. But it felt like a cold and cloudy Monday given the rumors that were circulating and the grim financial news he’d just received.
Even so, he wasn’t blind, much less dead. So, in spite of his foul mood, his steps slowed and his gaze detoured south to take in the view.
As backsides went, the one on the woman who’d stopped midstride in front of him was one of the finest he’d seen in a long time. It was firm, nicely curved and packaged in a narrow zebra-print skirt that clung to its contours like a glove to the proverbial hand. The legs that extended from the skirt’s meager hemline were the perfect complement to a first-class ass. And the shoes—black with red soles that ended in daggerlike four-inch heels... Well, it was all he could do to hold back his groan. And that was before she bent over to retrieve something from the lobby floor.
Of course, this was neither the time nor the place to indulge base instincts, even if a toned butt, killer legs, animal-print miniskirt and stilettos ticked all of the boxes on his libido’s wish list. He concentrated on the company’s projected second-quarter profits. Those certainly were dismal enough to banish the triple-X fantasy that had started to play in his mind like the featured film at a bachelor party.
